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LiveJournal for Wanderer.
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| Thursday, March 11th, 2004 |
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| One thing that surprises people -- for no reason I can tell -- is that I have a great love of Japanese anime. The two series I'm really enjoying on TV right now are "Inuyasha" and "Witch Hunter Robin". Of the two, "Witch Hunter Robin" is the most demanding in terms of your patience since the first eight episodes are essentially building the character development and laying the groundwork for the complicated plot that is springboarded when the title character is herself suddenly hunted as a witch. Now that the real action has started, I can't wait to see how it ends up. It's worth staying up late on weekdays to catch it. :-) One of my favorite anime is also considered possibly the weirdest and coolest anime ever made: FLCL or Fooly Cooly, a series impossible to describe. You have to see it to believe it. Again, what strikes me is the emphasis not only on cool visuals, but story (no matter how fractured or non-linear by Western standards) and character as well. It makes me wish that here in the U.S. the occasional filmmaker could break out of the Disney mold to make something as daring or adult as some of the better anime shows. | ||||
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| Wednesday, November 26th, 2003 |
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Someone asked me today what five books would you take if stranded on a desert island. At that moment I was rushed (a very common feeling the past month) and told them I'd answer later. This is what I came up with: 1. The Bible (King James Version) 2. Moby Dick 3. Anna Karenina by Tolstoy 4. The Histories by Herodotus 5. The Metamorphosis by Ovid If I could bring one more book, it must be my one volume edition of the complete works of Shakespeare. So I wonder what would you bring to a desert island to read? |
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| Thursday, September 4th, 2003 |
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Of states of mind two sets of poems both directly and indirectly suggests what is hard to explain. It's something more felt than sensed, if that makes it any more clear, things better said in metaphor or rhyme than sensible word. "The fading autumn almost none admires, Yet, reader, I am fond of her, I own, Fond of her muted glow of half-banked fires. Like a poor child unloved among her own She calls to me. If anyone enquires, Her, of all seasons, I hold dear alone. There is much good in her. A frugal wooer, My whim finds some appeal quite special to her." -Alexander Pushkin. "Tis to create, and in creating live A being more intense, that we endow With form our fancy, gaining as we give The life we image, even as I do now. What am I? Nothing: but not so art thou, Soul of my thought! with whom I traverse earth, Invisible but gazing, as I glow Mixed with thy spirit, blended with thy birth, And feeling still with thee in my crushed feelings' death. Yet I must think less wildly--I have thought Too long and darkly, till my brain became, In its own eddy boiling and o'erwrought, A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame: And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame, My springs of life were poisoned. 'Tis too late! Yet I am changed; though still enough the same In strength to bear what time can not abate, And feed on bitter fruits without accusing Fate." -George Gordon, Lord Byron. |
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| Friday, August 8th, 2003 |
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I have a habit of tackling rather daunting projects from time to time. Last night, I rebuilt my old computer from the ground up. I had never done anything like it before so it took me the better part of 5 hours. I took the hard drive, CD-ROM, floppy disk drive, and modem from my old computer and installed it in a new case. After I had installed a new motherboard, processor, fan, heatsink, power supply, and the necessary cables. Then I got it all together and installed the latest version of SuSE Linux. After having my last computer go down for almost a full month until I found someone to repair it, I've decided to always have a spare. To my elated surprise and satisfaction, the revised computer cheerfully booted up without a problem and, save for some instability running GNOME, it's been happy as a lark. Now, if only I can get WINE to work... The other good news is that I enrolled in classes at Lamar University in Texas. It was something I've needed to do for myself for a very long time. |
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| Tuesday, July 8th, 2003 |
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Dumb laws still on the books throughout the world: China Women are prohibited from walking around a hotel room in the nude. A woman may be naked only while in the bathroom. Doha, Qatar If a naked Muslim woman is surprised by a man while bathing or dressing, she must first cover her face, not her body. England Any boy under the age of 10 may not see a naked manequin. Saudi Arabia Male doctors may not examine women, and women doctors cannot examine men. Women may not become doctors. Singapore You may not walk around naked while in your home. It is considered to be pornography. Thailand You must wear a shirt while driving a car. It is illegal to leave your house if you are not wearing underwear. USA Florida It is considered an offense to shower naked. Stage nudity is banned, with the exception of "bona fide" theatrical performances. Violating this ordinance results in a $100 fine. Illinois It is legal to protest naked in front of city hall as long as you are under seventeen years of age and have legal permits. It is unlawful to change clothes in an automobile with the curtains drawn, except in case of fire. A law from the early 1900's prohibits men from going topless on the Boardwalk. (Repealed) Minnesota It is illegal to sleep naked. All men driving motorcycles must wear shirts. Maryland It is a violation to be in a public park with a sleeveless shirt. $10 fine. Nebraska It is illegal to sleep naked in a hotel/ motel room. North Carolina Women must have their bodies covered by at least 16 yards of cloth at all times. Oklahoma Women may not gamble in the nude, in lingerie, or while wearing a towel. Wisconsin It is illegal to display an unclothed mannequin in a store window. |
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| Monday, June 23rd, 2003 |
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| Week before last I read an interesting and disturbing book. Anyone who cares about libraries and books should take a look at it. The title is "Double Fold" by Nicholson Baker. While his biases are quite clear, his logic and the anecdotes he tells are highly compelling, even worrisome. As a collector of rare books and comics, I speak from experience. I think his conclusions are right. Try this one day. Take an old book or newspaper. Now fold the corner. Do it about three or four times. Now tug on the corner. If it comes free, most libraries take it as a sign to discard the book because it's too "brittle" to be in circulation. Doesn't matter the age or condition or rarity. If they can get a microfilm or microfiche copy (and you won't believe how much those things cost), the book is gone. Deaccessioned they call it. Getting pulped is another. Think about it logically, though. The corner may break, but if the book or newspaper is treated with care, doesn't that mean it can still be read and used? Let me tell you about an experience I had years ago which underscores the subject of the book and its consequences. While working on my master's thesis, I put in for a ton of books I could only get through the interlibrary loan program. Most of the time, I got it on microfilm, which I hated. But some libraries sent me the original book itself. It was striking to hold in my hands books dating from the 1700s (I'm not kidding) that had not been in print for three hundred years or more. Some of the books I found were ones not even my professors knew existed. But the gem, sent to me by Harvard, was a book no one knew existed. I had asked for the 1896 French Library Office Archives edition of the letters of Madame de Maintenon, Louis XIV's last lover and probably his unofficial wife. It got instead, whether by error or not, a book compiled in 1730 with an extended printed foreplate and, bound into the volume, the original letters themselves. Let me say again. All of the original letters. Not printed, but the actual handwritten documents combined with transcripts of related official documents. Letters in the hand of Louis XIV, Madame de Maintenon, and several others, including Fouquet and Colbert, stretching from 1665 to 1714. Letters I since discovered have never been printed, recorded, or otherwise notated. If I had had an ounce of sense I would have photocopied the whole thing. None of the material was useful for my thesis so I copied only a few interesting letters. It was fun to learn the real reason why Fouquet was imprisoned and why Louis XIV issued the Edict of Nantes... but none of it was relevent. Years later I told a friend of mine, working on his PHd. He eagerly attempted to get the book. He realized it was a goldmine and perfect for his needs. To his horror, and mine, he learned that the book had been replaced with microfilm of the 1896 Archive edition, which was supposed to be a complete publication of all the letters but I can assure you was not. The book I had obtained was "deaccessioned" in 1995 and, from what my friend told me, sold to a lumber mill for pulp. To this day Harvard claims the book was never part of its collection. Go figure. Because I remember the Harvard bookplate inside the front cover. | ||||
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| Monday, March 24th, 2003 |
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I have always had a particular affinity for Shakespeare. The reasons are complex, but the truth is sometimes his works speak to me directly. Last week, while reading "The Tempest", the last of his plays and the most personal to me, the closing words struck home becaue it touched the soreness of an old unhealed pain. "Now my charms are all o'erthrown And what strength I have's mine own, Which is most faint. Now 'tis true I must be here confined by you, Or sent to Naples. Let me not, Since I have my dukedom got And pardoned the deceiver, dwell In this bare island by your spell; But release me from my bands With the help of your good hands. Gentle breath of yours my sails Must fill, or else my project fails, Which was to please. Now I want Spirits to enforce, art to enchant; And my ending is despair Unless I be relieved by prayer, Which pierces so that it assaults Mercy itself and frees all faults, As you from crimes would pardoned be, Let your indulgence set me free." |
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| Sunday, September 15th, 2002 |
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I've had a rough week. It's been bad enough to make me think I'm paying off karma at some vastly accelerated rate. First, a toothache. There is a tooth that needs to come out, but I will get that done the week after next. The pain comes and goes so it isn't a vital thing to do just yet. But it has to come out soon because it's loose and is abraiding a nerve. Secondly, I got a sinus infection or some form of the flu that has me down. I am still ill, in fact. Feels as if my head will implode. Then, getting bit by a snake on my right hand sort of set the cap on the whole thing. The bite left two wicked puncture marks on my right hand about an inch apart. I was clearing some debris from the pump for my koi pond when I felt something slimy brush against my hand. I thought it was one of the fish, though I did feel a little jab. Some minutes later, when reaching for the koi food, I noticed the blood on my hand. I never did find the snake that did it. I hope that next week will be better. One bit of good news. I have been told by a friend that he plans to perform some of my short works in a recital sometime in November. He will come by later this week to go over the scores. |
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| Sunday, August 11th, 2002 |
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I’m coming to the conclusion that people do not always know each other. They can understand one another, but understanding isn’t a guarantee of knowledge. In the past couple of months, I’ve encountered one too many instances of not just miscommunication, but something deeper and more troubling: a basic misunderstanding or misinterpretation of the nature of another. It has led me to question and consider a few key philosophical and logical issues. I think too many people fall prey to what Sir Francis Bacon called the Idols of the Cave. We tend to see ourselves as the center of the world and stress our own limited outlook, interpreting everyone and everything around us through that lens. It’s easy to understand the attraction of an egocentric perspective. Our perceptions, our self, is the thing we know most immediately and intimately. We are always caught in a struggle between experiencing the self as awareness and the outside world as objects, observation, measurement, and sensation. It can be more comforting to trust that inner awareness, because we can be more certain of it, than what our senses tell us. And so the values we put on others and the world around us become subjective, a thing to be experienced, dependent upon the relationship between the observer and the evaluated. And thus flexible and easily colored. I find it surprising that the inverse can also be true: we can see everything around us except ourselves. The world is highlighted in brilliant, dramatic colors, but we remain mysteries to ourselves. Someone once said that all real life is meeting. All relationships, all contacts, are actually states of negotiation and reciprocity. Every time we see and talk to someone, just to say “hello”, there is a moment where we recognize the other person as a person and invite them into a dialogue. The stronger the trust and the relationship, the deeper the encounter and the more likely each side will disclose something of the very depth of their being and soul to the other. However, sometimes that process becomes skewed and one sided. I think because at some point they no longer see the other person as a person but an IT. An object. It is always easy to impute the values we wish onto something that is an object. Consider a pot or a chair or a flower. It has an existence and a set of values and attributes independent of our observation of it, yet we often describe it in terms of the values we assign to it. We label everyone and everything. It’s human nature. Consider Adam’s first task in Eden: he named all the animals. Often, we do that with people. We impute labels or judgements on them as a shorthand to describe what may be too complex for such simplistic metaphors. Yes, we run the risk of seeing only the label and not the person. That thought strikes me because in the past months I have encountered ad hominen attacks and, more disturbing, projection, where we see in others characteristics and/or motives that cause stress in ourselves. Projection is where we take our own most negative thoughts, motives, or characteristics and impose them on another. Instead of thinking through how that individual would act or react in reality, we project the subjective impression of ourselves upon the other person. It’s a convenient way to avoid really seeing a person for who they truly are, especially if doing so would mean we would have to give up our dearly held prejudices or beliefs. It’s one of the reasons I’ve always had serious problems with the doctrines of subjectivism or relativism. My encyclopedia defines relativism as “Any view which maintains that the truth of statements about a specified subject matter is not determinable by a universally valid method but varies depending on the person or society considering the statements or the circumstances in which the statements are made.” Thus, what is right or wrong and good or bad is not absolute but variable and relative, depending on the person, circumstances, or social situation. Relativism is seductive and hard to counter (because if all things are subjective and relative, then you cannot appeal to outside, objective standards such as logic or reason). So much so that few are aware of the treacherous, slippery slope that can leave you stranded in an abyss of shadows. Both doctrines deny that there can be any shared experience or observation, much less shared values of truth or reality or feeling. The only thing that matters is the individual viewpoint and experience, which wouldn’t be so bad if some didn’t take that as an excuse to deny the validity of viewpoints different from their own. They would claim that any one person only sees a situation or the truth from their own point of view, implying that no one can rise above their limited perspective. Unfortunately, this logically allows only two mutually exclusive options: all viewpoints are equally valid or none can be trusted, including our own. You can’t have it both ways. You cannot assume that your viewpoint is the only true and right and unbiased one while discounting all others. Okay, so I am old-fashioned enough to believe in deontological ethics. Yet when I wrap my mind around the relativist viewpoint, it is like descending into a maze. A self-contained maze where the greatest threat is anything that disrupts the pattern of what is perceived to be “right” and “true”. Curiously, the relativist and subjectivist viewpoints seem tailored for a black and white, “us” vs.”them” perspective. With regards to ethics, relativists and subjectivists take slightly different stances. A relativist would claim that not only would what some people think is right in one place or time be thought wrong in another time or place, but that what is right or wrong varies because there are no objective or universal standards. The problem is that ethics, laws, and morals are in constant historical change has been a sore point for them because if moral judgements change they do not have any objective validity in the subjectivist canon. Subjectivists would hold that what a person or a group feels or thinks is good is good. Ethical principles, they claim, relate to people’s feelings and emotions, not any permanent or objective standards. Taken to extremes, either perspective can distort. But, from the viewpoint of the relativist or subjectivist, such an external judgement by someone else lacks authority because it is only their opinion and thus invalid. A relativist or subjectivist would find it altogether too easy, if taking an extreme stance, to deny that the views, judgement, or opinions of another are accurate or right. It can become a wonderful insulator. Of course that leads one directly into the classic argument of how do we know what we know and how can we discern illusion from reality (which is beyond the scope of this essay). Human perception is variable, made up of both subjective and objective features. We can fall prey to illusion. But we can also see things clearly as if under the noonday sun. At such times, nothing can be as destructive as doubt or as cruel as a lie. We should always ask questions and encourage others to seek answers. Akin to Diogenes and his lamp, we look for Truth. Oh yes, truth and honesty exists. But will we recognize it when we find it? Will we defend and accept it or fight it? Will we understand it or misinterpret it? Just because we don’t like the questions doesn’t mean the answers are not true. We should never discourage the seekers and searchers, no matter how uncomfortable it might make us. Unfortunately, while searching with my own feeble light, I have found truth too often. I am left to wonder if Plato wasn’t talking in more than simple metaphor when he described man as creatures shackled in a cave mistaking the shadows cast by the fire as reality? It certainly feels that way sometimes, as if we are lost in reflections and shadows. Even when we do see beyond, to the light and the reality beyond, we are hard pressed to be certain it is real or just more shadows. That is part of the problem. We can get lost in shadows, lose our way, and become uncertain. Once cast on shifting sands, it becomes hard to trust what the next step will bring. Is there a cure for such blindness? I don’t know. I am still searching myself, aware that I can transcend the shadows from time to time and step into the light, but it is an uncomfortable, cold world; we may long for the warmth and security of the cave with its darkness. Shadows, while they confuse, can also be comforting because they are familiar. A friend, after reading an early draft of this essay, quoted to me an old Funkadelic song that goes “The fish don’t know he’s wet.” The reason the fish don’t know he’s wet is that the fish doesn’t have any other frame of reference. When we are caught in the cave, in the shadows, we have no other frame of reference except the cave. Consider the fish. If he could talk and we asked him “is the water wet?” the fish would reply “what do you mean ‘wet’?” That makes finding our way to the light and the truth incredibly difficult; if someone tries to show it to us, they are liable to be attacked. If I had to describe myself, I would say that I am a humanist (in the old sense) who believes in objective idealism. Despite that, I know I have a bad tendency, in the heat of emotion, to rash judgements. Judgements that I nearly always regret. I am as guilty of mistaking motive and action as well as anyone else. That said, I do try to listen to the other person’s side as objectively as I can. No matter how strongly I feel or believe something, I will set aside my own doubts or thoughts to give the benefit of a doubt. I have always found it a curious contradiction that while I can see the other person’s point of view, sometimes far too easily, I can, when under stress or great emotion, act irrationally and stupidly. Yet, even then, if the other person corrects me, I will listen, give the benefit of a doubt, and if wrong, which is often enough, admit my error and try to make amends. I have the silly idea that people should extend to me the same courtesy or respect, but I seem to be alone in clinging to such old-fashioned ideals. Someone once claimed that I was born in the wrong century, that I have ideals of justice and truth and reason that belong more to the Enlightenment than the 21st century. I admit that, philosophically, I am more attuned to the spirit of Pascal, Descartes, Locke, Kant, and Hume than Sartre or Kierkegaard. No, I have no illusions about either my virtues or my vices. I know who and what I am. And yes, my views of right and wrong tend to be more Old Testament than New, though I do believe wholeheartedly in the beliefs and truths of redemption, salvation, mercy, forgiveness, and kindness. I am only human. Mistakes come with the territory. Since I am neither saint nor angel, I will continue to make mistakes in fact, judgement, belief, and motive. All one can do is learn from the past before it becomes habit. To do that, you must be open to the manifold possibilities this is life, both the positive and the negative. And you must be willing to accept people on their own terms and not your own. |
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| Sunday, June 30th, 2002 |
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Now this is genuinely scary. Read it and let me know if you think the same. Little wonder I am already planning to make my next computer Linux-based. http://newsforge.com/newsforge/02/0 On a personal note, the funeral for my grandfather will be on Tuesday. |
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| Saturday, June 29th, 2002 |
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| Today, after a long illness, my grandfather passed away this morning in the hospital. We've been expecting this for over a week, but it's finally happened, against our best hopes. He has always been something of a fighter. He served as a marine in WWII and saw action at Guadacanal and Iwo Jima, earning both a purple heart and a commendation for a bronze star. At least he managed to get transferred to a VA hospital in Houston where his daughter, an RN, could regularly visit him and I think that helped. The funeral will be Monday. | ||||
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| Wednesday, June 26th, 2002 |
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Anyone concerned about what will happen to music file sharing in the wake of Napster should take a look at this link. The scary part is, I think Hollywood and the RIAA will actually get away with it unless a lot of people start screaming and making a fuss. http://www.mp3newswire.net/stories/2 |
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| Tuesday, June 25th, 2002 |
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While cleaning out some old boxes, I found a diskette that must have been twelve years old if it was a day. On it were some early stories I wrote back in high school. I've since lost the manuscripts, but when I got my first computer in 1990, I typed the stories and saved them on diskette. Below is one of them. I wrote this circa 1984 or 1985. Inspired by the tone poem by Jean Sibelius, I've always felt this story never achieved the effect I wished so I put it aside once finished. Molten copper from the morning sun filled the valley, turning snow into golden lakes ribboned among trees dark with shadow in the dawn. The warmth of the new sun contrasted with the cold wind and it was the wind that snatched his purple robes which Vainamöinen felt as he guided his copper boat through the sky over mantled hills of pine and fir. The sun seemed far away, distant as evening, when the laughing wind teased the ends of his long white beard, heckling him with malicious fingers. The wind's mockery suited the years he wore on his heart, which were just as cold and bitter as the wind on his face and in his hair, matching the long ache felt deep inside. Vainamöinen was the greatest Singer and Sorceror of the Lapps. Entire cycles of songs chronicled his feats. It was said that he knew every tree by name and every Song known to the birds. He could Sing water to ice and make the earth dance like bones. Kings showered him with gifts and many sought him for knowledge or advice. In many ways it was a life filled with more than most could dream. Yet he felt empty. Despite the pleasure of princes and the renown of storytellers, he lacked the warmth no magic could give. He had never found a bride. The summer of his life now waned to a long winter, turning his beard silver and his bronzed face the texture of leather. Although dressed in luxurious furs and bright clothes decorated with gold and silver rings and bracelets, the gifts of kings, he was a poor man in his own estimation. His dream of companionship and family had melted with the years as summer to the leaves of autumn and the ice of the first frost. Bitterness made the years long, leaving him stiff as an old hollow tree. Now, returning home from another quest for a wife in the Land of the Midnight Sun, despair settled around his thoughts. Absently he wondered if he was fated to be always lonely. Loneliness had ever haunted him, that one state which breeds discontentment in the most steady of persons. Solitude can shape a man in many forms, not all of them to the good. For Vanamöinen, the lack of family wasted away his dream of sons and daughters to teach his arts and knowledge; of a wife to delight in and share the wonders of the world. The ordinary magic mere mortals enjoy and enrich themselves seemed alien, out of grasp like a distant star. If he ever saw the irony in his yearning, it had been erased by the slow erosion of time. As the magic boat slid over the trees, Vainamöinen spied a rainbow spanning a corner of the sky fragile as butterfly wings, brilliant as shimmering jewels. He angled the boat to see it better. His sharp eyes, keen as any hawk's, noticed something riding the back of the rainbow like a droplet of color on a pane of glass. The irregularity resolved itself into the figure of a beautiful maiden, slim-waisted, dressed in white and red, her long coal black hair tied in long braids by silver cords, busy spinning wool. The sight of her face made his heart leap, for her oval face was perfect, from dimpled chin and cherry red lips to eyes as blue as Lake Laholm and hair like black silk, made darker by ribbons of white and gold. Long fingers moving beneath the folds of her red shawl danced over the humming spinning wheel in a flutter of dove wings, rendering that magic which turned flax and wool into thread and linen. Vainamöinen trimmed the sails as his boat gently rested at the foot of the rainbow. He watched the maiden, who took no notice of him as she turned her spinning wheel, singing to herself in a voice of amber honey, accompanied by the clacking whir of the wheel. Her simple repetitive gestures were quick and elegant, without any hint of delicacy or affection. Unable to move, entranced by the voice, which was soft as the summer winds and glowing as newly minted sunlight, he listened to her song; enraptured by her smooth ice-white complexion, he could not tear his gaze from that pale face or those deep crystal blue eyes. The silver necklace chased with swans which encircled her slender throat accented the lines of her curved jaw and arched neck. A thin line of concentration marred the ivory forehead as her eyes never left the dancing fingers or the moving thread. At last the maiden looked up and met his eyes. Without a flicker of expression she stopped spinning and pursed her lips, inclining her head to one side, hands folded in her lap. The empty look in her eyes surprised Vainamöinen, as if she was bored--or perhaps annoyed. He was not sure . . . "Who, sir, might you be?" she asked in a delicate warble which seemed curiously flat. Vainamöinen recovered at once. "I am the Singer and Sorceror Vainamöinen," he declared in his best tone, bowing gravely. "When I saw you sitting on this rainbow, I could not help but stop. I trust I am not intruding?" She smiled, whether from politeness or humor, he could not tell. The face seemed to hold her thoughts under an ivory mask and only her chiselled ice flake eyes mirrored the reflections of her mind. "No, not at all. In truth, it is sometimes lonely here, although I have my spinning and weaving to keep me busy." "Fair maiden, may I ask who are you?" "I am Kata, Pohjola's daughter." "Why are you ontop this rainbow--" Kata shrugged gracefully. "No one disturbs me. Besides, the view is beautiful, particularly at sunrise." Vainamöinen nodded at the logic. Struck by her wistful quality, he asked if she was sad. The maiden frowned, as if puzzled or annoyed by the question, but replied that she was happy enough. Her smile, too quick, faded as her long fingers toyed with the thread as if anxious to work. "May I sit beside you for a time?" he asked. The maiden shrugged again. Vainamöinen took the shrug as permission and climbed onto the rainbow, which was warm to the touch. The maiden began to spin, feeding wool to be turned to thread as they talked. The sun turned from molten copper to bright gold, traveling the sky while they traded stories, poems, and songs. Sometimes, through one of his songs or poems or sly observations, Vainamöinen caused her to flash open with a laugh or a smile bright and ringing as a harp. Other times, Kata's words or voice reached down to his soul and found where traces of joy still slept. Vainamöinen slowly realized that he had fallen in love with the maiden. Everytime his eyes glimpsed her form, silhouetted by her red and white cloak, or touched the mirthful lights in her eyes, a warm happiness invaded his limbs. At last, over lunch, which they shared as they sat on the rainbow, Vainamöinen found the words which had deserted him all morning to say what he had only hinted at in his songs. A part of him, so used to rejection, lent his tone a defensive quality. "Fairest maiden," he began hesitantly, "in all my travels I have never come across a woman more beautiful than you. From the land far to the north, where the sun never sets, to the vast plains of the east, to the ocean rim of the world to the west, to the warm lands of the south, in all the Land of Heroes I have found none to compare to you." Kata frowned and peered at him, arms folded under her breasts. "Long years have I crossed the Land of Heroes," he continued. "Now, at the summit of my life, I wish to find one with whom I can share all that I am and all that I have. You, of all the maidens I have known, have the power to touch my heart and give me youth." Her frown deepened. "Daughter of Pohjola, will you be my bride?" he finished, eyes sparkling, and bowed respectfully, as one might to a princess, hiding his sudden fear. He wondered if he had sounded too boastful, filling the air with empty words like the young warriors who shouted and clashed swords or spears before a hunt or a battle to impress the women as well as themselves with their courage, concealing that core of doubt from the mockery of other cowards. Kata chuckled while her eyes flitted toward the horizon. "Oh my dear sorceror, you do me much honor, but I fear I have other plans for my life. For all your honeyed words, it cannot change that you are no longer young. If we are to be married and have children, I must know you can support them. And I find the crag of your face--plain." Vainamöinen drew back and blinked. "My body may have seen a hard life, but my spirit and heart will always be young in your care. For all the seeming of my age, I have strength enough--" Like the babble of a brook, her laugh floated in the air. She tossed her black hair coquettishly and regarded him through half-drawn eyelids. "Grandfather, I am of the dawn so I seek those still drawing the first breath of life; I am not interested in the barren winter you bring. Perhaps if I had the same years you bear I might consider; until then I prefer those I can age with rather than be a caretaker as they descend to death." "Do you yearn for riches?" hissed Vainamöinen, stung by words he did not fully understand. "I can sing down mountains if you should wish it! All the treasures and comforts of life I can provide. What more could you ask?" "Love," she replied coolly, turning to string wool on her spindle. "A family, with children, and a hearth to call home. I wish a life that is my own, with a man I can enjoy and respect. Above all, I wish a man who would love me as his first love, a man who has all the qualities to make me feel alive--" "In my eyes, you will always be my first love and my last, for no other has shared my bed or my life." She glanced at Vainamöinen in surprise. "As for children, I am not that ancient or feeble," he said, indignant. "Will you not marry me?" Lips red as a morning rose curled in a mocking smile. Brushing aside a stray lock of ebony hair that hung over her forehead as a raven's wing on snow, her eyes, dark now with some undefined emotion, drilled into his as if to pluck some secret from his heart. Throwing back her shoulders, which emphasized the curve of her gracious neck, she stared at him, then sighed, shaking her head sadly. "I want a husband, not a father or a monk." She picked up her spindle and threaded the wheel to spin once more. "Will you give me a chance to prove my love?" snapped Vainamöinen, angered by the rejection. "I will do whatever it takes to have you as my bride, for having seen you, no other woman can ever hope to capture my heart as you have done." The anger he felt surprised some part of himself, but he did not stop to consider it. Nor the simple realization that he had claimed the same thing many times before to many others with the same degree of desperate sincerity. "I doubt that," Kata murmured. "Men give their love too easily and oft at too high a price. You buy us as brides and sell us as daughters. Men roam as stallions while we must sit at home and weave or look after our children. Woman are caged by responsibility as men are free of it. No, if I love it is to be my choice and not because I was won or bought." Vainamöinen scowled, but his anger vanished at the sight of her perfect face. Something in her words gave him pause but he had never learned the skill of listening to women, so their meaning escaped him. Gathering his legs and folding his arms, he switched to his most reasonable and plaintive voice soft as new leather or cat's fur. "Do you deny the possibility that we might be happy as a pair? That both of us might have something to give and to share? I believe that we could have a good life, if you will take me. If you do, I will make you the happiest bride in all the Kalevala, the Land of Heroes. May the gods witness my promise! All my strength and wisdom is yours." Gently, he inclined his head in another bow of respect. He did not glance up, unwilling just yet to see if his words found a home. The silence between them lay as the calm surface of a lake, smooth in appearance yet filled with currents and ripples. The maiden, her face blank with an abstracted expression made pretty by the slight twist of her lips, tapped her fingers on her wheel and gazed at the glassy rainbow beneath her feet. Not daring to breathe, Vainamöinen, motionless as a mouse when an owl passes, watched her with wide hazel eyes filled with hope. With the future an open question mark, he admired her beauty and quiet composure, wishing that no answer would come so he could stay by her side, forever lodged in a moment of epiphany, trapped in exquisite agony. Her face brightened and she turned to him, smiling calmly. "I will be your bride--" Vainamöinen forced himself not shout in joy. "However," she added, "you fulfill three tasks for me. If you are to win me, I must be sure you are truly a hero." Vainamöinen blinked, not quite understanding her. He had been too wrapped up in his own fantasies to pay attention. Laughing sweetly, she repeated her words, her smile crooked as if enjoying some rare jest. For a moment, he felt a stir of alarm. Then anger. Was she laughing at him? He was not sure. Quelling his feelings, he asked: "Very well, what are the tasks?" The maiden reached into her basket and selected a boiled hen's egg, which she dropped into his palm. Confused, unable to stop smiling foolishly, he wondered aloud what she had in mind. "It is a test of your magic," Kata explained. "Tie this egg into invisible knots." Tossing the egg aloft, he seized it in midair with a song and began to fold it. The egg inverted, the yolk on the outside, and the shell melted away. Vainamöinen clucked in dismay and tried again, causing the egg to lengthen and twist then flatten. Sweat glistened on his brow as he worked his song. At last the egg returned to its original shape. Scowling blackly, silver eyebrows furrowed in a straight line across his burning eyes, Vainamöinen contemplated the shining hen's egg spinning in the air before him like an ivory top. Singing softly in a simple tune, he formed his solution. A golden sheen enveloped the egg for a glittering instant. Smiling, he extended the egg. The maiden turned it over in her fingers. "It feels the same." "Break it open," he advised. She cracked the shell with her fingernail. Wonder lit her face as her fingers told her the egg inside the shell was now a ribbon tied in a complicated knot. "Good," she said. Her smile was hard, without humor. She picked up her spindle and dashed it against the rainbow, breaking it into four pieces. "Now, turn these pieces into a boat the size of your own." Wordlessly Vainamöinen scooped up the fragments and walked to the edge of the rainbow, tossing them into the sky. The shards danced in the air like brown snowflakes. From the tiny pieces grew shoots of leaves and branches which laced themselves into some vast wooden basket. Yet the weaving was slow and the strain was great. Once or twice his voice faltered and the half-formed boat threatened to fly apart like a tapistry when a string is pulled. Each time he saved the fragile creation with a song which cost him pain. His clothes became damp with sweat and his eyes burned dim with the effort. His strong, dark voice grew harsh from the Singing as he spun materials from the air itself. The maiden's face grew more anxious as the boat took shape. For a sharp instant, he felt the boat start to come together. One hard push would join the magic into a whole pattern. He glanced at Kata and was struck by her pinched face so full of dread. It startled him, splitting his concentration long enough to stumble over a phrase, splintering the magic boat. When Vainamöinen collapsed to his knee, the maiden leaped to her feet, relief in her eyes when she saw the boat unravel before her eyes and fall to the ground like so many shed leaves. Vainamöinen saw the look, but did not stop to puzzle over it. He bowed his head and moaned in frustration. Below him, the remains of the boat fluttered and divided like his heart, shook apart by cold winds. Stiffly he faced the maiden, who stood beside her spinning wheel wearing a noncommittal expression which did not hide the delight in her eyes and tugged at the corners of her mouth. In an empty voice he asked: "Was there another task?" She nodded once in the sharp jerk of a bird's head. "Just one. What is my first name?" He frowned at her in surprise. "What?" he exclaimed, even as a vague memory pushed the back panes of his thoughts like a muffled shout. "No, wait. You are Pohjola's daughter..." A crooked smile appeared almost in spite of itself, a sly delicate thing shining as a new flower. "Exactly," whispered Kata. Dismissing him with a shrug, she sat down, inserted another spindle, and began spinning wool. The clacking of the wheel grated on his nerves. Her fingers, long and smooth as if living ivory, nimbly fed the wool. A tuneless song, like that of a bird, accompanied the wheel's tired hum. Vainamöinen stared at her, uncomprehending. After a long moment, as the wisp of memory came clear, his confusion gave way to understanding. Sadness as merciless as the grind of glaciers closed his heart when he boarded his copper boat shinning like bronze in the noon sun and cast off. The sails caught the wind in a crack of canvas. Only once did he look behind him. The rainbow receeded like an old memory and there, in a dance of light, he glimpsed the image of a beautiful woman merrily spinning wool in perfect contentment. |
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| Saturday, June 1st, 2002 |
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| This has been fractured week. I have been playing babysitter to a pair of visiting cousins plus dealing with a week long bout of the flu, which still has me down. I just learned today that my cousins will stay a week longer than planned. And I discovered yesterday that an unknown water leak in my closet wiped out a quarter of my rare comic book collection. I thought the plastic sheaths around the comics would keep them safe. I never thought that, with age, the plastic would crack. So, all my Thor comics, my Amazing Spider-Man (including my dearly prized issues #1-24), my complete set of Iron Man #50-300... all gone. And my grandfather is in the hospital, doing badly now. I would go visit him, but I don't want to risk transmitting my flu. Yes, this has been a bad week. | ||||
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| Wednesday, May 1st, 2002 |
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| It has been a battle and a half, but I finally have my new computer. I've just spent the last five hour configuring settings and transferring files. Also downloading programs. I have two major downloads left, which I'll leave to tomorrow, and a half dozen assorted minor ones. Sigh. It's tedious and depressing all at once to realize both how much junk accumulates and how little space the really important stuff takes up. Anyway, I will be back in business very shortly. Then I can begin to catch up on LJ. I couldn't read LJ often because loading the pages would cause my old computer to crash. All I can say is, I'm glad to be back. :-) | ||||
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| Saturday, April 6th, 2002 |
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| For almost a month now I've been without a computer following a major crash. While I'm still able to check my mail now and then, I have to use the computers of others, which has been a pain. I finally heard back on my computer Friday. The hard drive may have died, taking with it all my programs, files, music, stories, photos, e-mails, etc. To all those I haven't written to lately, I apologize. I didn't expect to be without a computer this long and I certainly didn't expect the news that all may be lost. However, I will seek a second opinion, just in case. It may be another 2 weeks before I am back online. | ||||
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| Wednesday, February 20th, 2002 |
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 Which tarot card are you? It's curious, but I tried the test twice because I was split on a single item on the list. My second choice came up "strength". This is what I've found about both cards: THE EMPEROR Fathering establishing a family line setting direction and tone protecting and defending guiding growth bringing security and comfort offering explanations emphasizing structure creating order out of chaos categorizing being systematic providing shape and form being organized applying reason coordinating sticking to a plan exercising authority taking a leadership role commanding exerting control representing the establishment being in a position of strength coming in contact with officials setting direction regulating establishing law and order operating from sound principles applying rules or guidelines working within the legal system setting standards of behavior following a regimen OPPOSING CARDS: Some Possibilities * Empress - mothering, free-flowing abundance * Seven of Cups - dissipation, lack of order * Five of Swords - bending the rules, breaking the law REINFORCING CARDS: Some Possibilities * Hierophant - conforming to rules * Justice - concerns of justice and legality * Two of Wands - having authority * Three of Wands - assuming leadership * Four of Pentacles - control, structure, order The figure of the Emperor says much about the essential qualities of this card. We see a stern, commanding figure seated on a stone-slab throne. His back is straight, and his eyes meet ours directly. He is confident of his complete authority to rule. The Emperor represents structure, order and regulation - forces to balance the free-flowing, lavish abundance of the Empress . He advocates a four-square world where trains are on time, games are played by rules, and commanding officers are respected. In chaotic situations, the Emperor can indicate the need for organization. Loose ends should be tied up, and wayward elements, harnessed. In situations that are already over-controlled, he suggests the confining effect of those constraints. The Emperor can represent an encounter with authority or the assumption of power and control. As the regulator, he is often associated with legal matters, disciplinary actions, and officialdom in all its forms. He can also stand for an individual father or archetypal Father in his role as guide, protector and provider. STRENGTH showing strength knowing you can endure having a gallant spirit feeling an unshakable resolve taking heart despite setbacks having stamina being a rock being patient dealing calmly with frustration accepting others taking time maintaining composure refusing to get angry showing forbearance being compassionate giving others lots of space tolerating understanding what others are feeling accepting forgiving imperfection being kind achieving soft control persuading working with guiding indirectly being able to influence tempering force with benevolence demonstrating the strength of love OPPOSING CARDS: Some Possibilities * Chariot - hard control * Eight of Cups - weariness, lack of strength * Six of Swords - being listless, lacking heart * Five of Pentacles - ill-health, weakness REINFORCING CARDS: Some Possibilities * Hanged Man - taking time, patience * Nine of Wands - stamina, strength to endure DESCRIPTION Usually we think of strength in physical terms - big arms, powerful legs - but there is also inner strength. Inner strength comes from an exercise of the heart muscle. It is perseverance, courage, resolve and composure - qualities that help us endure when times are tough. In the past, a person with inner strength was commonly said to have character; he or she could be counted on in the darkest moments. Card 8 represents this energy of quiet determination. Strength is not a flashy card, but one that is solid and reliable. Card 8 also represents patience and compassion. Getting angry is easy when events turn sour, but dealing calmly with frustration takes great strength. So does accepting others and forgiving mistakes. We need strength to mold situations softly. The Chariot controls through mastery and authority. Card 8 is more subtle, even loving. Notice how the lion (itself a symbol of strength) is being guided and tamed by the woman's gentle hands. Card 8 will appear in a reading when its qualities are needed. It can be a reminder not to despair or give up. You have the inner strength to endure and triumph. If you are pushing too hard, you need to withdraw for the moment and be patient. If other people or circumstances are driving you crazy, remember the strength that comes with love and forbearance. These will see you through the hardest moments. |
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| Thursday, January 31st, 2002 |
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| Have you ever wanted someone so much you can taste their skin on your lips all day long? Have you ever wanted the touch and feel of someone so much that you feel their phantom caresses like a little electric current from morning to night? That your palms itch and there is a wrenching in the gut because that person is not there and you want/need them? That you feel miserable because you are there and they are somewhere else? | ||||
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| Friday, November 23rd, 2001 |
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SPEAK, MEMORY The soul finds reflections in odd things. I found mine in a jaguar pacing a narrow cage. I watched a moment, then moved on, but the jaguar continued with the secret, unvarying paces that measured the time and space of its captivity. I no longer could see the jaguar, but my mind could recreate the stride of the jaguar as it walked the circumscribed world of concrete and steel it knew as home. What did the jaguar see? Large eyes could look upon only a few scraggly transplanted grasses and bushes, vertical iron bars, masses of concrete, and hordes of varying men and women and children who would come, point, cry like the apes next door, and move on. The jaguar did not know, could not know, that it yearned for love and cruelty and the hot pleasure of tearing flesh and a breeze with the scent of deer, but something inside of it was suffocating and howling in rebellion. Perhaps in the night, when a jaguar becomes a fellow shadow, God might speak to it in a dream: You shall live and die in this prison so that a man might see you and glimpse a refraction of Me. From that glimpse, he shall create an image, which has its exact place in the weft of the universe. You suffer captivity, but you shall have given a dream to the poem. For the man will see dreamtigers and hear your cries. In the dream, God illuminated the animal?s rude understanding and the animal grasped the reasons and accepted its fate, but when it awoke there was only an obscure resignation in it, a powerful ignorance, because the machine of the world is exceedingly complex for the simplicity of a savage beast. Now I walk by the side of ruins. Old they are, made from the bones of the earth, great monoliths reared when the stars walked different paths. I remembered the pacing jaguar and now, at the candle end of my life, wondered if I, too, have been a jaguar pacing a cage I could not see. I look deep between the shadows of the ancient rocks, to the forest beyond, where light cannot reach, and glimpse shapes human eyes were not meant to see. But the shapes flit away and I shrug, convinced I felt only the soft touch of a dream. I sit and look at the ruins. Old they were and beautiful when man reared them. The tall, proud, imperious monuments are now only whispers of their former grandeur. As the moon rose, I felt the touch of an angel. Without turning to look at her, I ask ?Tell me the deeds and aspect and name of them who built these things of stone.? The angel said, in words so sad they seemed made of crystal, ?I am Memory, older than these stones, and remember them not, for they were of a moment only and now are Forgotten?. Then, dreaming, I felt God?s steady voice, telling me the secret purpose of my life and work. Of the jaguar pacing the little cell in the monastery of a Houston zoo. Astonished, I awoke, only to find Memory gone. The dew was wet beneath me as I sat up and peered, not seeing, the vast stones reared up around me. In the forest, shapes human eyes were not meant to see stirred and watched me with pity. I sensed I had received and lost an infinite thing, something I would never be able to recover, because the machine of the world is exceedingly complex for the simplicity of men. |
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| Monday, November 5th, 2001 |
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I got this link from an LJ friend and took the test. Below are my results. And here is the link: http://www.colorgenics.com/ You have always been on the move seeking affectionate, satisfying and harmonious relationships. Your ultimate goal has been the realisation of an intimate union in which there could be love, self-sacrifice and mutual trust. It has often been said that "True love is just around the corner"...and maybe... if you haven't found it as yet - you possibly soon will. You are working extremely hard - perhaps even over and beyond the call of duty. You are preparing for the future and therefore trying to build a firm trouble free foundation upon which you may base all of your dreams and aspirations. In spite of the fact that you believe that your hopes and ideas are realistic, It is hard for you to accept that your needs and desires are misunderstood by almost everyone within your sphere of influence...and there is no-one to turn to or rely on. Your pent-up emotions and inherent egocentricity make you quick to take offence, but as matters stand you realise that you will have to make the best of things as they are. You are being unduly influenced by the situation that is all around you. You do not like the feeling of loneliness and whatever it is that seems to separate you from others. You know that life can be wonderful and you are anxious to experience life in all its aspects, to live it to the full. You therefore resent any restriction or limitations that are being imposed on you and you insist on going it alone. You wish to be left in peace... no more conflict and no more differences of opinion ... In fact you just don't want to be involved in any arguments of any shape or form ... All you want is for "them" to get on with it - and to leave you alone.. |
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LiveJournal for Wanderer.
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tired.
thoughtful.