Have you got a lot of time on your hands?

Because what I'm about to talk about has the ability to steal away five hours of your life.  And another four hours if you watch the sequel.  :)

What am I talking about?

Why, Dune of course! 

And I don't mean the really really bad 80's movie version where they got everything wrong--not only did they get everything wrong, but they made you watch them getting it wrong three times: once in a prescient vision of the future, once as it was actually happening, and once in a flashback to it happening.  Seriously.  You think I'm joking?  Have fun proving me wrong.  I can guarantee I'll have more fun laughing at your horrified face.  Sorry.  (but if you absolutely insist on watching it, I can also guarantee you two awesome moments: Patrick Stewart as Gurney Halleck, and Sting as Feyd Rautha)

The Dune I'm talking about was made in 2000 as a miniseries and boo-yeah is it awesome!  I speak as both a reader of the book (by Frank Herbert), and as someone who likes a good tv-show.  They hit all the important plot points and include all the necessary characters--and!  It's understandable to someone who's never read the book.  Actually, this is one of the only times where I'd say it's better to watch the 'movie' before reading the book. 

Frank Herbert might have been a semi-genius, but he was a very long winded and confusing genius.  He loved politics.  'Nuff said right there, but I'll explain further.  Most of his book of Dune is talking on and on about the politics of the situation and the ramifications of every single act of every single person.  It's a bit much.  So when I read it, I found myself skimming most of the dense political stuff (I have it on fellow authority that most other people--even dedicated scifi readers--do the same) and when you do that, you end up with one awesome storyline.  It still can be a bit confusing, though, so if you're at all interested, watch the mini-series first.

It had a decent budget for its time, which means the special effects are laughable now, but the acting is pretty solid and catches you up from the get-go.  My personal favorite is Alec Newman as Paul Atreides.  He has to transition from moody privileged kid to war leader and messiah, and he does it all with an intensity that's so much fun to watch.

I'm not saying it doesn't have it's flaws (oh, the flaws).  The strange obsession the Baron Harkonnen has with rhyming phrases.  The really bad special effects.  The sometimes hilarious costume choices (although not as bad as they could have been, I suppose).  And some truly strange acting/director choices.  'The spice must flow!'  (is it possible not to laugh at the spacing guild?)

But the mini-series does what it's supposed to do: it tells a story remarkably well and is entertaining from start to finish.  :)  What else do you want?

Ah, you heard me mention the sequel earlier?  That's Children of Dune, and we'll talk more about that later.  :)

Friday Free-write: Eternity

In a hollow world there waits a hollow key.  Their hollow quality is prized by connoisseurs who are full of nothing full, and therefore are too empty to eat any more.  They've grown fat on the emptiness of ages where nothing happens because why bother?  All loose skin now and tight stomachs craving just another bit of ennuitic desperation.  Because why not?  What else not to live for? 

I had a dream where I lost my ring and when I found it again it was only a twisted wisp of wire--nothing like I knew it was.  A small loss, except when you account for the fact that I'm always losing rings for one reason or another.  A broken chain, a broken promise, a broken ring.  I break them all and forfeit surety of mind but it's just a dream, isn't it?  I haven't lost it all, have I? 

Duality requires function. 

I'm afraid of endings where the ending means I won't be coming back at all and then one day I'll look at me and wonder where I came from.

Thursday Apology

I am so sorry that I didn't post today.  And by today I mean Thursday, even though I'm now posting very early Friday morning.  I didn't have time to post this morning (Thursday morning) and I was gone all day and couldn't post until I got home.  (which is just now).

Please accept my apology.

And because you are all such wonderful people and deserve a laugh at my expense, I'll show you some of the truly appallingly strange things I've said over the years.

'It's times like this I wish I could levitate.'

'How did the weather feel today?'

'Aliens are people too!'
-No, they're not.

'You're not crazy, I just see things.'

'It's not a cd, it's mental.'

'I wouldn't hit you that hard with a hammer.'

'Oh!  So that's what is sounds like when you electrify a cello!'

'If you look up at the clouds, it looks like they're falling down instead of sideways.'

'An alligator ate my amigdala.  I want to be afraid, but I can't.'



Enjoy.  And for all you who know me, feel free to remind me of any I've missed.  :)

Wednesday Word: Illegal

(I wish to insert a small note and say that something should really be done about the capital I.  In many print forms it looks just like the letter l.  This could be confusing.  That is all)

All right, all right you know the drill by now.  Say Illegal.

Illegal.

Illegal.

Once you get into a rhythm, the word Illegal starts sounding an awful lot like a submarine klaxon.  'Owooga.  Owooga.  Illegal.  Illegal.'

I personally believe that shops etc. should be outfitted with klaxons that say Illegal, that go off whenever a crime is committed.  We can even install it as a car alarm: far more fitting to have your car shouting 'Illegal!  Illegal!' when someone is trying to break into it. 

This would make the world a better place.  

Or at least more interesting.

But, you know, better.

My childhood is crying in a corner

There's been a bit of talk recently about how much Michael Bay has been or is about to destroy people's childhoods.  What with the utter ruination that the Transformer movies became--and with the upcoming Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles reboot--Bay's got fans of all ages up in arms and in a rage. 

Personally my feeling was always, 'What's that got to do with me?'  I never watched either series growing up, but as a fan of other things I felt their pain.  It's a hard day when Hollywood takes an interest in your nostalgia and tries to make it 'better.'

I've got news for you, Hollywood.  You can't make nostalgia better.  That's why it's nostalgia.

'a wistful desire to return in thought or in fact to a former time in one's life; a sentimental yearning for the happiness of a former place or time.' (thank you dictionary.com)

You can't make that better.  Nostalgia is a longing for the way things were, not the new and improved revised editions. 

But why should I care about what Michael Bay is doing, right?  It's no skin off my childhood's nose.  Right?

Wrong.

Very wrong.

Lets rewind my life by a few hours.  I've just had a whim.  I know it's a whim I'll likely regret--I know where it'll lead--but I also know I'll enjoy it in a shiny 'ooh the pretty lights' sort of way.

I made the decision to watch Transformers 3: Dark of the Moon.

I know, I know, bad decision.  I'll admit that.  I knew it was going to be bad.  Everyone around the world has said how bad it was.  But I'm a bit of a completionist and I'd watched the other two, so....

It was bad.  That's nothing new.  It was bad from the first thirty seconds.  All right, it takes a special bit of bad to ruin a movie in the first thirty seconds, but all right.  I knew it would be bad.  Time passes.  Robots explode.  Buildings explode.  A world explodes.  There's bad acting.  More bad acting.  Bad plot devices.  Bad slo-mo.  Bad everything. 

But in the middle of all that, there's a ray of happy fun.  I suddenly hear the voice of Leonard Nimoy out of Sentinel Prime.  I'd probably known that he was in this ages ago, but I'd forgotten that fact so it was a happy discovery.  I love Leonard Nimoy.  Leonard Nimoy was part of my childhood.  I can do the Vulcan salute.  I'm a born Trekkie.  Leonard Nimoy deserves to take over the world!  Well, what do you know?  He is!  All right, it's a bit of a bummer he's the bad guy, but still.  Leonard Nimoy!

And then it hits.  Then Michael Bay does something so unforgivable that I will now join in with the legions of outraged fans around the world and place his name on my hate-pedestal.  He joins Mosquitoes, Fox (curse you!), and Jar-Jar Binks.  Things I will hate in perpetuity till the end of time. 

Because do you know what Michael Bay did?  He wasn't content with ruining only one strata of childhood nostalgia at a time, oh no.  He went for the big leagues: he went for the big double. 

He made Leonard Nimoy say one line too many.  And I'm betting he did it for a lark, because it was so funny, because it was Leonard Nimoy! and it's a famous line after all.  Into Sentinel Prime's mouth and with Leonard Nimoy's voice Michael Bay ruined my childhood with one line:

'The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.'

Or the one.  (what trekkie can allow that line to go unfinished?)

What that line stands for--what that line means--is a great big ball of epic that can't be contained by any one movie or person or galaxy.  That line is everything!  Everything!

And Michael Bay put it in Transformer's 3 in the mouth of a traitor.

Weep, humanity.  Weep. 

And while you're at it break out your torches and pitchforks.  We've got a visit to pay.  Because there's nothing scarier than a bunch of crazed weeping geeks waving torches and pitchforks.  In Michael Bay's bed room.




(and Happy Birthday Nathan Fillion!  You're alive!  I think this is something we can all celebrate!)

Monday Musings: Love

What is love?  How do you define it?  I dare you to try: it’s ridiculously hard.  Before you read any further, just sit for a moment and imagine that you’re trying to explain love to someone who’s never heard of it or experienced it. 

And when I said try, I meant right now.

What did you come up with?

Mine went something like,

‘Well, love is an emotion, you just feel it inside and you know you love someone.’

: That’s it?  You just feel it?  How do you know you’re really feeling love and not something else?

‘Ah, good question, umm, well, love feels different from other emotions, although technically you can feel all sorts of emotion when you love someone, and it all jumbles together.’

: Wait, so it’s not just one emotion?  It’s a big jumble?  That sounds really confusing and messy.

‘Sort of.  But it’s really nice too.’

: So love is a positive emotion.

‘Oh.  Umm, sometimes.’

: Sometimes?

‘It can be kinda hard and painful too.  Especially when you love someone and they don’t love you back, or when you want something good for them but they want what’s bad and you can’t help them, or when someone’s hurting physically or emotionally you feel bad too and want to fix what’s wrong.’

: Ugh.  And people do this to themselves on purpose?

‘Not really, it just sort of happens.  You care about someone, so you love them.’

: So love is caring about someone.

‘Yeah, that’s it.’

: But can’t you care about someone without loving them?

‘Um, sort of?  There’re different degrees of love.’

: What?  I thought love was just love.  End of story.  One thing only. 

‘Nope.  You can love different people in different ways, and vice versa.  And people don’t all express love the same ways.’

: How many ways are there?

‘A lot?  Umm, some people are physically affectionate and like hugging etc.  Other people buy gifts.  Some people want to spend time doing things, and other people like spending time even when they’re not doing anything.  Some people share ideas and talk a lot about what they want and what they feel.  Other people think words take up too much space.’

: If people have that many ways of showing that they love someone, how on earth can you tell if someone actually loves you, or if they’re just buying you a birthday present or saying hello?

‘Oh.’

: There is a way to tell, right?

‘Sort of.’

: You’re making all this up, there’s no way this can actually be true.

‘No no, I swear, this is all true.  This is what love is.’

: Fine, go on.

‘Umm, how to tell if someone loves you…well, they’ll do something or they’ll spend time with you, or sometimes they’ll just tell you straight out, or maybe they’ll do all of that—‘

: You really have no idea, do you?

‘It’s just really hard to explain from the outside.  It’s really confusing—‘

: I thought you said it was simple.

‘It is!  It’s love!’

: You’re not making any sense at all.

‘Oh, bother.’

That’s where I ended up.  Ridiculous, isn’t it?  How is it this hard to explain something we feel inside ourselves that has been talked about and written about and expressed in songs and poetry and words words words all throughout human history?  Yet if asked to personally explain, we give the blank stare or the deer in the headlights look. 

Part of our problem is that we only have one word for love so it has to cover a lot of ground and mean a whole lot of different things to different people.  The Greeks were more sensible about it—or just wordier—because they had four words for love. 

Storge: The love you feel for a family member, and not necessarily a close one.  A tolerating sort of love, like putting up with family members on vacation and not complaining about them because they’re family and you love them.  In that loose sort of way.

Philia: You love baseball.  You love movies.  You love chocolate.  You also love your family, your friends, and the time you spend together.  An affectionate love.

Eros: The kind of love movies are about.  Its passion and fire and obsession—but, surprisingly, it can also be non-sexual love, a sort of inspiring passion that leads to further appreciation of truth, beauty, and other ideals. 

Agape: What we mean when we say ‘I love you.’  It is a deep love, often referred to as unconditional or sacrificial love.  The true ideal of love.

Interesting division of love, right?  But what does that last one mean?  It sounds so vague—unconditional love, sacrificial love, the ideal of love.  I mean, that’s great and all, but I keep feeling like I’m hearing a whooshing noise as it sweeps over my head.

Why is it so difficult to explain what agape love is?  Well, if the large vague words aren’t working, maybe smaller ones will help.  Let’s try to break it down:

From the inside you know you love someone when you want the best things to happen to them: ie, you care about what happens to them. 

So you have to care about someone in order to really love them.

You also know you love someone when you care about them more than you care about yourself, because you’re willing to put what you need on hold in order to help them out. 

So love is self-sacrificing.

But sometimes you know that for someone to mature or become a better person they’re going to have to endure something painful to get them there.  And it’s awful and horrible and we don’t want them to be in pain, but we care more about their entire life than just that brief moment.

So in loving someone, you’re sometimes loving the person they could become, and not the person they are right now.

But love isn’t just about loving other people.  Loving yourself is necessary too.  If you love someone else but they treat you badly, they don’t truly love you.  So the love you bear for yourself has to be at least equal to the love you feel for someone else, otherwise you’re the person who needs saving/looking after/love. 

Love requires balance.

Okay, that was helpful, but all that seems to only be addressing part of the meaning of love.  You can feel an emotion inside you all you want—but what’s to say it’s really love, or just something else? 

Try this on for size:

Love without actions is not love; it is only the feeling of love without any of the depth.

But actions without love are not love either; they are only make-believe and pretend.

If you feel something for someone and you call it love, but every time they need something or you see a way you can help them but don’t do it, you don’t truly love them, because actions are naturally born out of love.  When you truly love someone, you want to help them, so you do, even when it’s an inconvenience to yourself.  This is love.

But going through the motions of love without feeling anything is equally as false.  Just because everything you do is correct doesn’t make what you do love: the action alone is not enough.  This is not love.

These two ideas are a good quick test if we’re really wondering if our love for someone is truly love, or just lust or fellow-feeling.  If we’re obsessed with someone and love them but know nothing about them and have no urge to actually get to know them and what they need out of life; it’s not love.  On the other hand, if we are continually helping someone out but feel nothing other than boredom or a sort of distant caring; that’s not really love either.  At least—not the strong sort of lasting love.  As we know, there are all kinds of love.

Interestingly enough, this is rather reminding me of the old debate about God: Faith or works?  God says, (in a loose way) ‘Have faith in me and that alone will save you.’  But he also says ‘Faith without works is nothing.’  Which is right?  Throughout history people have argued it both ways.  But I believe the answer lies in our definition of love. 

If we truly love God we’ll be driven to action because our actions are born out of our love for him, just as we help those whom we love here on earth.  When God told us the things he wants us to do, he was giving us a way to express the inexpressible: how we can show that we love him.  We can’t give God chocolate or flowers.  We can’t give him a hug or cook him dinner when he’s tired.  But he knows that, so he told us the things we can do to express our love for him. 

We can spend time with him.

We can trust him with our thoughts and secret emotions.

We can help the people he cares about.

And according to our own abilities and ways we express love, we do our best to show God we love him.  Because there is no question in my mind that God love us and has already shown it in so many ways we can’t even begin to count. 

But for a lark, let’s try to count the obvious ones.

He made the universe, and it is pretty and able to sustain our lives.

He made us and gave us life and limbs and thoughts and emotions.

No matter how frustrating we are as offspring he hasn’t killed us all yet/rejected us.

He gave us free will.  (a whole ‘nother huge topic to tackle another day)

He made chocolate.

Personally I think the last one is enough to qualify as love.  :)  But the other ones are nice too.

So have I done it?  Have I described love? 

Probably not.  It’s really too big a topic for me to understand enough to write about.  But I hope that maybe some of these thoughts will help you figure out what Love is to you.

I feel myself losing Geek-Cred as I type...

I just saw something that made me happy.  Happy in a hopeful this is really going to be pretty good sort of way.  If that made any sense.

You see, I just saw a trailer for something.  Well, a movie.  And somehow I didn't know it was getting made, I had no idea who was starring in it, and I didn't have a clue who was directing it. 

Now that I know all these things, I've got the happy stomach flip of anticipation going on. 

'Just get on with it!'   I hear all the members of Monty Python saying.  But as soon as I tell you the title, I may lose all my geek-cred in one fell blow.  I don't think I should--in fact, I've got very good reasons why I shouldn't.  So just please continue reading to the end of the post instead of writing me off completely as a worthless brainless sell-out.

Thank you.

The movie is called The Host.  It is based on a book by Stephanie Meyer.  (wait for it, wait for it) The lady who wrote Twilight.

'crickets chirping.'

Yup.  I just lost a lot of people right there.

But for those of you still tuning in, let me explain.  For one, I will freely admit I've read all the Twilight books.  And guess what?  They were bad.  Bad in the sort of two-dimensional characters in teenage angsty love sort of bad.  So what?  Books like that get written all the time for teens.  They were fluff books, with the only difference being there were elements of the supernatural in them (vampires, werewolves etc).  The books are what I call Black Fluff.  (instead of the normal girly pink fluff)  Everyone needs a bit of fluff in their lives occasionally, so no harm done.  The really bad part is how famous they became.  Because they didn't deserve it.  They certainly weren't good enough.  But fame is fickle yada yada yada etc etc etc, and we ended up with legions of Twihard fans.  Yuck.

Point number two: years ago, out of curiosity, I was willing to pick up Stephanie Meyer's 'second book'  that was entitled 'The Host.'  It had a scifi premise and I was curious to see if it was as middle quality as the Twilight series.

To my very very great surprise, it was blow your socks off amazing.  Every flaw that people lambasted Stephanie Meyer with in the Twilight books was gone.  Her characters were all three-dimensional.  Her worldbuilding had serious depth--in fact, this book showed every sign of being written by someone who could actually write.  If you hadn't told me it was Stephanie Meyer, I would never have guessed it.

Let's think about that for a minute.  Meyer writes Twilight.  It's her first novel.  It's not that great, but for a first novel, it's not all that bad either.  Fast forward a couple years during which she probably receives every sort of criticism imaginable for her 'awful' books.  She's ridiculously famous now, but any one who matters in literature doesn't think very well of her.  Now, instead of sitting back on her laurels and just raking in money what does she do?  She writes another book.  One that takes into account all the nasty things said about her writing, and improves on it all.  What happens?  Not much.  Unfortunately, she's been branded as the creator of Twilight which means that anything she makes must be horrible.  Not true, world.  Not true.

I've been reading for a long time.  Not only that, but I read a lot.  Most of my first adult fiction books were scifi so I've got a decent handle on the genre.  So when I tell you The Host is actually a good book, I mean it.  It is a good book.  It deserves to be read by people who actually care about things like cohesive plot and character development.  It's still a bit more towards the teen end of things, but that hardly matters when you're reading a good book.  It's still good.

Now we come back to my original point.  I just a teaser trailer for The Host.  Not bad.  I just found out who was directing/writing it: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


Andrew Niccol!!!!!!!

I have to say that again.  And with more exclamation points.

Andrew Niccol!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Okay, to 'splain quickly, Adrew Niccol is one of the most amazing writer/directors for sci fi out there.  He's responsible for The Truman Show.  Gattaca.  Simone.  (and a couple other not so great things, but he's at a 50/50 success rate, so that's pretty good). 

This man knows how to portray good characters on screen while making the world around them believable and understandable even though it's a topsy turvy world.  What more could you want for a good scifi book that deserves a wider audience?  Not much, I should think.

And the actress who's playing the lead?  Saoirse Ronan.  She of the already impressive ouvre and acting ability. 

This is no Twilight people.  This is a genuinely good book with a genuinely good chance to be a genuinely good movie.  (genuinely!)

So take a chance.  Go to the library.  Find The Host.  Read it. 

And do try your hardest to ignore the author's name on the cover.


Oh, and watch the trailer here.      :)

Hunger Games

Yes, even I have caught a little bit of the fever that seems to have consumed most of the media for the past few months.  But only a little bit.

In the past two days I managed to read all three of Suzanne Collins' Hunger Games trilogy, and overall I'm pretty pleased.  She's a decent author who came up with a wonderfully detailed world with a great lead character.  I was enthralled while reading it and it was no difficulty to dive into each book after I finished the others.  (eternal thanks to my friend Kyrie for lending them to me before the movie came out)  I'll now be greatly interested to see how well the story transitions from book to movie, as it seemed ideal to adaptation (in its pacing and story line etc.).

But may I--for one moment--rail against the weakest link in an otherwise decent story?  (spoilers ahead for those who care)

I'm talking about the love triangle thingy.  And I use thingy with great seriousness because whatever is going on in that story, it hardly deserves to be called anything more profound.  (for once, will modern teen lit stop with the love triangle thingies?  The best love triangle in literary history has already happened, so very sorry, none of you can compete with King Arthur, Guinevere, and Lancelot.  Poor Arthur.  By the way, why is it always two men and one girl?  Is this some commentary on how women are wishy-washy and can't make up their minds?  Or do men never run into this problem, which I find hard to believe) 

Number 1.  We are introduced to Gale in the first chapter of Hunger Games.  He seems nice.  Has a connection with lead character.  Seems steady and dependable and loyal etc etc etc.  But we are only given a total of five pages with him (hardly enough to establish a character, let alone enough to really prolong a love story) before Katniss is whisked off to the Hunger Games with Peeta.  (did anyone else wonder if his name is a joke?  Peeta the baker.  Pita bread....my mind winces with the possibility that this was intentional)  Now, compared with Gale, Peeta receives oodles and oodles of page time.  We hear stories about how wonderful Peeta is.  We see first hand evidence that he's a good guy.  We also know Katniss is going to have to kill him, so we--like her--try not to get too attached.  So the entire time Katniss is all,  'ooh, Peeta seems great, but I'll have to kill him anyway--and what would Gale think?'  Well Katniss, since we've only known Gale for a fraction of the time that we've known Peeta, and we don't even have a clear idea of if he likes you, there's really no competition.  It's all Peeta Peeta Peeta.  But you've got this hangup about the whole situation, and it only gets worse in the other books.

In fact, we get very little to work with for a lot of the characters.  Some of them do wonderfully well with limited time (Cinna, Rue) but others are mostly just cardboard caricatures of stereotypes.  A lot of that I'm fine with, because we're inside Katniss' head and it's clear that she's not interested in trying to see people around her as people, because she knows she's just going to have to kill them all.  (or they're trying to kill her or just watch avidly as she dies)  Not exactly a situation where you search for a deep understanding of the people around you.

But as time goes on, we still get very little time with Gale.  He's a silent background participant to the story, even when he's there and talking.  We never get to know him like we do Peeta, and yet somehow he's supposed to be equal to him in Katniss' mind and ours.  How?  I personally kept rooting for him because we saw him first and he's Katniss' old friend so he should have some influence--but no.  We've been given so little to work with in really identifying with Gale that I'm just plain miffed.  And what is up with the end of the third book?  Katniss admittedly goes a little strange after killing Coin, but why does Gale never come to see her?  She's hardly done something so horribly unforgivable--at least, not in any way we know.  So why does he just take a job in District 2 and seems to forget all about her?  He was in angsty love with her only thirty pages ago: what happened?  Who knows.

And speaking of the end of the trilogy--really?  Lots and lots of character death?  And people I liked too!  It was like the end of Harry Potter all over again, only I didn't feel like they'd earned it.  Oops, we have too many people still--lets just kill them off!  That'll take care of it!  No!  I don't agree.  It should have added gravity and depth and sorrow to the story, but to me it felt like a cheap melodramatic shot at our emotions.  And what was the point of dragging Peeta all the way through the sewers and keeping him alive/sane so he can 'help,' but he has absolutely no point at all in the resolution of the story?  Wasted plot arc.  In fact, the only thing I really liked about the end of the story was how shattered Katniss was.  That made sense to me.  She was so altered by what had happened to her that she could never be normal again.  (that's one thing I wish JK Rowling had done with Harry Potter, but ah well.  In almost every other respect HP was better)

Katniss is by far the most believable character in the whole story.  She's loves her family but she's selfish enough to want to ignore the big picture and just stay alive no matter what it takes.  She's entirely human and easy to relate to and that's just wonderful.  The story would have completely fallen apart without her.  She is easily the reason why the books succeeded like they did.  Well, that and the very good world building.

And from what early movie reviews are saying, that's holding true with the actors.  The girl playing Katniss completely blows everyone else out of the water and I suspect she's got the character spot on.  But I can't help but feel bad for most of the other actors, because they really weren't given much to work with.

Reverse Fall and Car Games

Wonder of wonders, spring is here already!  I mean, I know I predicted it would be early (here), and I already talked about how wimpy March was this year (here)--but really!  We've got flowers and trees budding and the forsythias in my back yard look like the fourth of July in yellow. 

But the best part (at least I think so) is that it almost looks like Fall again.  Since all the trees are starting to bud, there are all these fat red buds and when you look at a bunch of trees together, it almost looks like Fall has returned.  'sigh.'  I like Fall.  Fall is nice.  Fall is cool.  Fall is the refreshing break after summer with way awesomer colors everywhere.  And since this semi-Fall is coming after winter instead of before: Reverse Fall!

This should be a new thing.  :)

Random segue time!

Cars!  Driving! 

When I was a small child, we seemed to spend most of the day in the car.  My mom was always driving us somewhere, and it seemed to take all day no matter where we went.  Of course, we do live in the middle of nowhere and it does take at least 30-45 minutes to get anywhere, and that's an absolute eternity when you're a kid.

So like most bored children, I tried to make up games to keep myself amused.  (do most kids actually do this?  I need a random sampling)

There was We Are In A Race And We Always Win.  Very easy to play.  You narrate the movements of the cars around your car as if you are a race announcer.  Whenever you pass someone else: you win!  When someone else passes you: they lose!  I suspect this game would have been far less interesting to play if my mom had been a slow driver.  (not that she was a speed demon or anything.  :) love you mom)  This could occupy me for very very long stretches of time.  But if that failed, there was always:

Do Your Tires Need Air?  Also very easy to play.  You stare out the window at other cars and estimate whether or not their tires need more air.  Yup.  And since there were always some cars around, this game could go practically forever.

And the fun hasn't stopped now that I've grown up and started driving on my own!  Oh no!  I have invented new games to play. 

There's Whoever Reaches The Center Of The Intersection First Wins.  If you're the first person at a light, and there's someone opposite you and you are both going straight, whoever gets to the middle of the intersection first wins!  So easy!  And you really shouldn't cheat by trying to drive faster than normal just to beat them.  It's better if it's just natural reflexes and car pep.  :)

And my latest game is Yes Officer, The Car Was Green--Or Maybe Blue--Of Course It Could Have Been Black.  You try to notice the cars around you and imagine that they are up to something suspicious and you might be called upon to remember the color make and model and who was driving it.  This is surprisingly hard.  We really don't notice the cars around us when we drive (at least I don't) and I have a feeling that if anyone asked me to testify about something that happened, I'd remember diddly-squat.  So this might help me remember things better.  Sort of.  Maybe. 

Do any of you have any original car games you play? 

Wednesday Word: Zolf

First off, I do apologize to everyone for today's word.  You see, it's not really a word: it's a name.

A last name, to be precise.

What is the first name of this interestingly named person you ask?

'shame' I don't remember.

You see, a few years ago I worked at a book store in the fiction section, and one of the ways I kept myself amused was by finding interesting author's names. 

Like Wasserstein.  (water-cup!)

Or Vivian Vande Velde.  (can someone say pen-name?  Pen-name!)

And my eternal favorite: Zolf.

Whatever their first name was, it certainly wasn't as memorable as their last name which I proceeded to say over and over again in a croaking voice as I walked around the store.

Why a croaking voice?  Well, because 'Zolf' sounds like something a crow would croak out: Zolf!  Zolf!  Zolf  Zolf!

Isn't it fun?  Zolf!

No?  You don't think so?  Well, maybe it's the sort of thing that's only terribly amusing when you're bored out of your skull from stacking books on a shelf. 

Zolf.  Zolf!

Nope, still fun.  :)

But I do feel slightly embarrassed that I can't recall their first name.  I mean, I wrote a post about them and everything.  A quick Google search reveals a few possibilities.

Rachel Zolf: a published poet from Canada.


Larry Zolf: a journalist from Canada--and incidentally Rachel Zolf's father.

It would help immensely if I could remember anything about the book itself, but alas, I have only the fading recollection that it was either black, dark green, or dark blue.

And the fact that the author's name was Zolf.

Zolf!  Zolf!

Have you got HIADSD?

Oh no.  Oh no no no.  This is bad.  This is very very bad.  You--you just touched my skin.  I'm sorry.  I'm so very very sorry.  But you're going to die now. 

What?  No, no--you don't understand.  That wasn't a threat.  Please listen to me!  You've been infected with a Horribly Infectious And Deadly Skin Disease. 

No!  This isn't some sort of joke!  You're going to die!  And unless you're all alone in this world I suggest you get on your cell phone and call the people you love and tell them that you've only got a few hours to live. 

That's what I said: a few hours. 

No, no you can't!  Weren't you listening?  I said it was a Horribly Infectious and Deadly Skin Disease!  If you go see your family you'll probably infect them too.  One touch, that's all it takes.  And in a few hours you'll rapidly develop bloody boils and explosive pustules full of pus--and then you'll die. 

Why aren't I dead yet?  I'm immune.  I'm just the carrier. 

Hold on now, there's no need for that sort of language.  Why should I be the one wearing gloves?  How was I supposed to know you were going to reach for the last bottle of chocolate syrup at the same time as me?

By the way, now that you've got HIADSD and are about to die, do you really need that?  'Cause I was just at a party and we ran out of chocolate syrup, and we could really use--

Oh, thanks, thanks very much!  Have a nice day!

Monday Musing: Review

So it's been a while since our regularly scheduled Monday Musing.  I hope you haven't minded that Tabitha was taking up all the space. 

On that remark, any thoughts?  I know I've got to start my second round of edits to tighten it up some more, but after that I'll be starting to seriously consider sending it out into the publishing world.  I know I have several options.

1.  Typical: get an agent and have them shop the book around.
     -Pros: the agent does all the marketing and things I hate to do and am really bad at.  They get a real publisher to look at my book and possibly publish it.
     -Cons: I have to pay the agent and the publisher a large amount of whatever I make off my book.  So unless I sell thousands of copies, I make next to nothing.

2.  I publish online all by myself.
     -Pros: I don't have to spend very much to get it out into the world, and other people can buy it for cheap, which will lead to more people buying it.
     -Cons: I have to do all the marketing myself.   Brrgh. 

3.  I try to shop the book around to real publishers all by myself.
    -Pros: not paying for an agent.
    -Cons: real publishers don't read unsolicited manuscripts, and if a publisher picks me up (somehow) then I have to pay for an agent anyway.

So far option number 2 (do it all myself) is the likeliest one I'll pick.  Because even though it might not work all that well, I won't lose any money by trying. 

But if I were to try option 3 (look for a publisher myself) I'd likely send Tabitha overseas.  I've got a hunch it might do slightly better over there, at least at first.  Of course I could be horribly wrong.  That's always possible.

It's just all so incredibly frustrating!  I know it's a stereotype that artists are horrible at business and selling their art etc, but I seem to be falling straight into that--do not pass go, do not collect $200.  (ooh, $200.  Please?)

My sister gave me some wonderful advice about how to connect with other people online and really get into the blogging community so that I can self-promote.  My sister is amazingly smart and good at that sort of thing. 

I, on the other hand, wiggle and squirm and make faces and pout horribly whenever I'm told I have to interact with other living beings--ones I don't know, that is.  Somehow it feels so much worse to bother someone I don't know at all, as opposed to bothering my friends and family relentlessly.  (how many of you have actually finished reading my book?  Hmm?? :)  ) 

I feel like as soon as I say anything to promote myself, I'll sound like an arrogant self-obsessed moron. 

I hate arrogant self-obsessed morons.  I don't wanna be an arrogant self-obsessed moron!

'pout.'

Instead I now just sound like a whiny self-obsessed moron.  Grr.

But when I think about shoving myself into other people's blogs just in the hope that someone will notice me and read my stuff, I get all panicky and I find myself breathing really fast and the only thing I can think to do is crank some music and play another 50 rounds of spider solitaire.

It's not the rejection I'm afraid of: I've been ready for my writing to be rejected since I was 12.  (lots of people with bad taste out there, donchaknow.  :)  )  I'm okay with that part.  You don't like what I write?  Okay.  Your opinion. 

The thing I'm really afraid of is ruining someone else's day.  No, really. 

The smallest of actions can have the largest of impacts, and I'm afraid that my self-aggrandizing actions could have a seriously negative effect on someone, which leads to their having a bad morning, which leads to a bad day where they yell at their co-workers who all have a bad day who all go home and kick their dogs and are mean to their spouses and kids--etc etc etc, the cycle keeps going on.  And it's all my fault.

Wow, I just reread that and I came to the conclusion that not only am I an arrogant self-obsessed moron, I'm giving myself way too much credit.  I mean, it is possible that one of my actions could adversely effect someone which leads to a negative chain of events---but!  That also precludes the idea that no one out there is able to shrug off a bad day and control their own emotional state of mind. 

Oh, wait, I live in a very insecure society where no one is taught how to do things like that...drat it, I was feeling better for a moment--

No!  I will not give in!  As much as I might have the potential to ruin someone's life, I cannot take sole responsibility for it!  It is not my fault if they have a bad day, and their actions are a result of their behavior: not mine. 

Don't give yourself too much credit.  Don't give yourself too much credit.  The world is a wide and wondrous place.  Don't give yourself too much credit.  Don't give yourself too much credit.

This shall become my new mantra whenever I'm panicking about ruining people's lives because I made a slightly self-promoting comment somewhere.  Maybe it'll work.  :)

Thanks for listening.  I'm sorry it was such a mess, but I really needed to work through that.

The Improbable Adventures of Tabitha Anne King, Chapter 10

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Chapter 10

A New Adventure

            She didn’t really care what direction she was headed in: eventually, she knew she would turn south to make her way back home, but for now all she wanted to see was what was over the horizon that she hadn’t seen before.  A cool wind blew in her face, wisping her hair from its braid and blowing away all Tabitha’s heated emotions that had sustained her through her climactic exit of her Great-Aunt’s house.  She supposed—vaguely—that her Great-Aunt Hilsida might write to her parents and tell them that Tabitha had run off, but Tabitha didn’t much care about what might happen after that.  Her parents had shown themselves to be careless individuals when it came to their only child (sending her away to live with their most horrid relation definitely qualified in Tabitha’s mind as not caring about her at all), and their only child had decided to even the score and stop caring about how they felt about her actions.  They could call out the police for all Tabitha cared, raise a manhunt, get Great-Aunt Hilsida committed into an Asylum (Tabitha did rather like that idea), or even not do a single thing—Tabitha was content to let them do what they wished, now that she was able to do as she wished. 

            Right at that very moment, that included racing Wulafric across various wide stretches of moor and laughing terribly hard when he won every time. 

            Feeling a bit tired and more than a little thirsty, Tabitha rummaged around in her bag for the canteen of water she knew to be in there.  Taking a long swig of water she nearly choked when a loud cry not unlike a trumpet blast sounded right behind her.  Whirling quickly Tabitha scanned her eyes over the moor (which had humped itself up into a hill-like protrusion behind her) and was greatly surprised when she didn’t see anything.  She looked at Wulafric, who stared at the hill with great interest, then turned to her and cocked his head as if to say, ‘Well, there’s certainly something over there, if you wanted to know.  Shall we go see what it is?’  Tabitha smiled.  Yes, she would like to go see what it was.  Stuffing the canteen back in the sack, Tabitha hoisted it over a shoulder and sprinted up the hill with Wulafric bounding by her side (Tabitha didn’t usually mind it when Wulafric outraced her, but when going up a hill it seemed distinctly unfair).  They topped the crest of the hill and the most astonishing sight was revealed to their eyes: at the bottom of the other side of the hill, its bulk defying Tabitha’s powers of description, was a large grey elephant.

            Tabitha had never seen one in person before (her mother had attempted to take her to the zoo one day when Tabitha had been about four, but that had been the day Tabitha had broken a particularly hideous vase that her mother absolutely adored, so there was no visit to the zoo.  Although young Tabitha had wished to go to the zoo, she had realized that living without that vase was much better than going to a fun place for one day) but having read many travel journals and seen several pictures she could confidently say to herself, “That’s an elephant!”  It was a bit out of its natural habitat, but Tabitha was never one to let a thing like that diminish her excitement at seeing it.  Exchanging a look of wild delight with Wulafric she proceeded to run as fast as she could down the hill only to stop abruptly about ten feet away from the elephant, perhaps remembering that it is a bad idea to run up to a strange animal, especially one that is so very large.  It only regarded her calmly, however, and Tabitha’s courage being what it was, she very soon was patting it all over and giggling when it sniffed about her with its long trunk.  It didn’t even take too badly to Wulafric, who was quite intrigued by this, the largest animal he had ever seen that clearly wasn’t human.  They all happily went through the introductory period but Tabitha didn’t waste any time before asking it all sorts of questions such as, ‘where did you come from,’ and ‘how did you get here,’ and so on and so forth.  The elephant didn’t answer and only looked at her with its calm wise eyes. 

(If it had been inclined to answer—which is unlikely, as elephants aren’t the most chatty of creatures, certainly nothing like birds who chatter all the time, or even most dogs who just repeat everything they think five times—the elephant may have remarked that it was a bit soon to be getting into things like that, but since Tabitha was clearly a calf, a certain inquisitiveness was permissible.  And then it would have gone on to say that it really didn’t feel like saying anything yet until a better time presented itself.  Elephants are like that).

            Smiling broadly Tabitha gazed up at the elephant’s tall back and wondered, “I wonder if I could get up there,” and she pointed.  Then she sighed from the realization of the improbability of the wish, and patted the elephant three times on the shoulder as high as she could reach.  To her great astonishment, the elephant kneeled down and Tabitha realized that if she stood on its bent leg like this, and hoisted her other leg up like this, and pulled herself up like that, and there!  She was up on top of the elephant!  Tabitha patted it (rather possessively) on the shoulder, and apparently this was also the command to rise for it did rise and Tabitha now felt like a queen on top of the world she was so high up.  Down on the ground Wulafric whined a little but he stopped when Tabitha leaned over and shushed him, then reassured him.  This was a much more splendid way to travel then by foot and Tabitha meant to make the most of it.  Settling herself back on the elephant’s broad shoulders, she slapped it once on the side and the great beast lurched into motion.  Tabitha didn’t concern herself with details such as steering—she was willing to go wherever the elephant would take her.

            And so the three of them—girl, dog, and elephant—journeyed across the empty moors while the sun shone overhead, and the day was filled with laughter for it was a grand way to begin an adventure.

Separation Anxiety

~(singsong tone) She's being lazy, she's being lazy.
--I believe the correct term is uninspired.
~Lazy.
!Are we talking about something?!  What is it?!  I want to talk!
~Save us all.  It wants to talk.
--I believe you assigned Enthusiasm to the female gender.
~Who cares?  I can say anything I want.  It's not like She's going to do anything about it.  Lazy bum.  Do you know what she really wants to be doing right now?
--Her thoughts seem to incline towards watching Star Trek: Voyager.
~I told you so.  Lazy!
!Lazy!
~Thank you.
!Lazy!  Lazy!
~I already said thank you, you're not getting thanked twice.  I've already used up this year's quota.
!Lazy!  Lazy!  Lazy!
~Will you cut it out already?
!Lazy!  Lazy!
~When you say it that many times it doesn't even sound like anything, you're completely losing the point--
!Lazy!  Lazy!  It's fun to say!
>You do realize that this is the signal of the decline of life as we know it?  If She can't even be bothered to write her own posts about interesting--
~Ha!
>or uninteresting things, what's going to happen?  It can't be anything good.  She's probably deathly ill and too weak to write, or maybe she just doesn't care about life anymore and she's giving up on the whole shebang--
!Lazy!  Lazy!  Lazy!  Lazy!
~Or she's lazy.
>Oh no, it has to be something worse than that.  She's abandoning us, you see.  She's making us do her work for her and she'll go off and find better things to do than spend time with us and we'll be left here endlessly talking about nothing and nothing and nothing...
~You are far too depressing.  Get a life.
>But I can't!  None of us can.  Don't you understand?  We're completely dependent on her for everything.  Without her we're nothing!
!Nothing!
~Oh no.
!Nothing!
>Why does she keep saying that?
!Nothing!
>Tell her to stop, she's upsetting me.
~Everything upsets you.  Breathing upsets you.
>Breathing is upsetting!  What if it stops?  We'll all die!
!Die!  Nothing!  Die!
>Make her stop.
~Heh.  You ever try to get Enthusiasm to stop anything?
>Well maybe if you explained the state of my nerves--
~Seriously?  You think explaining will mean anything to her?  She's got a terminal case of goldfish syndrome.
--That is not a real syndrome.
~Shove off.
>Goldfish syndrome?
!Die!  Die!  Nothing!  Lazy!
~It would take far to long to explain.
--This is not a real syndrome.  How could it take a long time to explain?
~I'll cut it short for you by telling you the only thing you can do if someone has goldfish syndrome is either wait them out, or change the tune to something you like.
>I don't understand.
!Die!  Lazy!  Lazy!  Nothing!
~Step right this way for an astounding demonstration of skill and derring-do.
--It is impossible for us to step anywhere as we are merely--
~Hey Enthusiasm!
!Enthusiasm!  That's me!  Lazy!  Lazy!
~What do you think of spoons?
!Spoons?!  I like spoons!  Spoon!  Spoon!  Spoon!
>Aaarrghggghhh!  You made it worse!
~Heheheheh.

Poem: Bite

Although I enjoy owning an iTouch, I have to admit that the feature I most appreciate on it (aside from holding all my music--correction, holding some of my music, grr 16 gigs) is the notepad.  Not only do I use it for writing down songs I hear on the radio I want to remember, or fabrics I might want to buy at the store, or random thoughts and words I don't want to forget--but I adore using it for spontaneous poetry. 

I've already featured a couple poems that I wrote using my iTouch.  There's just something about it that makes writing poems easy and fun.  You can write one while waiting in line at the DMV, doctor's office, mechanic's, and on and on and on.  Poetry for everyone!

This one is especially the product of my having taken poetry classes with Mark Stevick that amazing professor I had in college.  The rhythmic qualities, the repeated words and word sounds: all are things I learned from him.  Yay good teachers!

Bite

Gnashing hairs in an itching reaction
Disatisfaction attendant on
Ease
Easing into unease
Please
I'm really not as calm as I appear
It's only a not-so-latent fear of being
Misplaced
By those who swore they'd never lose me
Every time that four letter word--
you know the one,
Begins with l and ends in safe--
Was said.
Tell me if you can feel a hovering
Where my heart lived

Cursed with an infatuation residing
In points all around,
I'm fed up with calm--
I guess you could say I've reached saturation
Been water-logged to the point
I'm considering suffocation as inevitability
Instead of possibility
It's really impossible to say how much
My lungs ache knowing
Doom Wyrd Fate
Stuck a needle in my soul
Long ago
Sewing prick-pin stitches 
In the shape of a fool who happens
(Very much)
To look like me

Wednesday Words: Haiku

Instead of the usual single word post, I have decided to write haikus in honor of several of today's famous birthdays.

Congrats Michael Caine

On your distinguished career.

Please don’t ever die.

To Billie Crystal

On his 64^th birthday:

The Oscars were fun.

Jamie Bell, so young,

I wish you the very best

And a long career.

Michael Caine is 79 this year.  I think we all need to start putting in a bid for his immortality.  I don't know what we'll do without him.

And just how bad were those haikus?  Pretty bad, I'm thinking.  I don't have much practice with them, so I guess it's normal that they're not very good.  I just felt like I had to really express my happy birthday wishes.  :)

And to everyone trying to remember what Haikus are all about, here's the wiki page. 

The rest of you may now argue over whether or not I should have attempted to cite a real definitive website, or if a wiki is good enough.    Enjoy.

Cuteness!

Prepare for your new favorite cute animal! 

And if you are very lucky, I may one day post my baby sloth imitation.  :)

The Improbable Adventures of Tabitha Anne King, Chapter 9

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Chapter 9

Defiance and Departure

            Tabitha lay on the floor. 

            The house slowly quieted as the servants left it, astonished at the turn of events that had taken place that night.  None dared approach Roger the Butler and ask him the true account of why John the stable-boy had been banished from the house and grounds, for Roger stood near the door with a stern face and empty eyes (‘Like you was looking over the bottomless edge of th’ world,’ said one of the gardeners), an entirely forbidding presence that suppressed all curiosity.  His back was straight and his posture as rigid as the Butler’s Guide to Butlery proscribed, and if one didn’t notice his clothes, one would have taken him for the grandest Butler that ever lived, a truly perfect servant of his Mistress.  There were no more doubts in his heart, there was no regret for what had passed, it couldn’t even be said that there was any Roger left.  Just The Butler.  (It is a strange and sad fact that after this day, no one seemed to remember that The Butler had ever been called Roger.  This day had broken him, shattered him like the bottle of laudanum in the attic room, leaving only one surviving piece—and that was The Butler)

            All was quiet now.  It seemed appropriate to Tabitha that the echoing emptiness of her heart was mimicked by the house around her.  But although she felt empty, she was at the same time filled with the profoundest sorrow that ever touched man’s heart, a sorrow so deep and so great that it froze her limbs and forbade any movement—as if to move would break the last dam that held back the wild emotions that now lay frozen within her, as she lay frozen on the floor. 

            Cold seeped into her body, numbing her fingers and her arms, her feet and her legs, her side where it pressed against the floor, and her cheek as well.  The only part of her that still felt warm was where Wulafric curled against her, trying to comfort her the only way he knew how.  The memory of how Roger the Butler had kicked him replayed in Tabitha’s mind, and without thinking, she reached out to run her hand over Wulafric’s shoulder.  He uncurled, whining a little at the discomfort of what was sure to be a magnificent bruise, and licked her face.

            “Good dog,” she said softly.  “Good Wulafric.  Good—“ It was too much.  Tabitha threw herself over Wulafric and sobbed her heartbreak into his fur.  It had all gone so wrong, she told him between shudders.  They had never meant for it to end this way.  Destroying the laudanum had been the only thing to do, they couldn’t have left things as they were.  They just couldn’t.  And now John was gone, driven off by the man he had almost viewed as a father, a man who had become a petty tyrant.  Where would John go?  How would he live?  With no family and no references and no money (John had five copper pence, but that wouldn’t get him more than a loaf of bread) and no way to get anywhere except by walking, Tabitha knew—she knew—she couldn’t continue thinking about it and instead gave herself up to the tears that wouldn’t stop and the gasping breaths that never seemed to give her enough air.

            Months ago Tabitha had calculated the perils of running away and the likelihood of her survival.  She hadn’t given herself very long, and she knew that John might not do much better even though he was a boy and a few years older.  Death would come for him.  Tabitha tried to tell herself it wouldn’t, but she couldn’t deceive herself.  Death would come for him.  And it was all her fault. 

If only she hadn’t dropped that bottle.  If only she hadn’t asked John to join her in her quest to find the laudanum.  If only Great-Aunt Hilsida had never started drinking it.  If only her parents had never sent her here.  If only…

            If onlys are perhaps the worst sort of comfort one can give oneself.  They trap a mind in the past and blind it to all else, forcing it to live through its mistakes over and over and over again until you hate yourself and everyone around you for not stopping what has already happened.  But the past is immutable and the passage of time unable to be reversed, and no amount of wishing will ever make it otherwise.

            Tabitha did a lot of wishing, that long cold night.  No servant came to light her fire, and she made no move to the tinderbox herself.  Like their first night in this house, Tabitha and Wulafric slept on the floor, one curled around the other, choked with tears for what had been and what should be. 

            Dawn came slowly and reluctantly, guarded behind grey banks of clouds that jealously hid the light until it fell upon the land in pale patches.  Tabitha’s tear-stained face was pressed into Wulafric’s fur, both of them in the same exact position they had fallen asleep in.  When she woke, she did so all at once, jerking upright and startling Wulafric who jumped to his feet looking for something to defend his person from.  Not finding anything, he turned back to her and licked her from chin to forehead.  Tabitha didn’t seem to notice, her eyes staring wide as if in the moment before waking, something important had been decided, and she was trying to remember what it was.  She cocked her head as if listening to the memory of a dream, and then she smiled.

            This wasn’t the small slow shy smile that John the stable-boy fell in love with.  This wasn’t even the mischievous smirk that she allowed herself after a triumph (although she never allowed anyone to see it).  This smile was hard and resolute—a smile that lacks all vestiges of humor, except perhaps a macabre irony. 

            You see, somewhere between her dreams last night, Tabitha had realized that she had nothing worth caring about except Wulafric and John.  One would never leave her side, and the other was banished into the world to suffer any number of fates.  So what was left for her to care about? 

            Nothing.

            And once she realized that, Tabitha became the most dangerous, the most crafty, and the most selfish that she had ever been in her life.  For now that she cared for nothing, what was left to harm her in this place?  What was left to stay for?  A few meals a day and a dry bed were not worth the price of tip-toeing around her Great-Aunt Hilsida (and she defiantly named her in her thoughts for the first time in months) and The Butler, subject to their implacable whims and harmful desires.  John, her only friend in the world, was gone.  And she meant to follow him. 

But first—she must plan. 

Insomuch as Tabitha had now decided to run away, it would be far better to run away well-provisioned with food and other items than to leap out her bedroom window with only the clothes on her back.  But how to go about it? 

            There are very few obstacles to a truly determined mind, and Tabitha had probably the most determined mind in the past century, if not longer.  There might be some debate about this; citing of this world leader, and that dictator, of this politician, and that philanthropist, but none of these men (or women) could match Tabitha for her determination in achieving a goal.  For when Tabitha had decided something, she did it, or got it, or made it happen.  Always.  It could almost be assumed that reality itself was overawed by her and so as not to upset her, made sure things always went her way. 

Tabitha was not to be trifled with.  Especially not now.

            Poor maid who had the unfortunate privilege of bringing up Tabitha’s breakfast (with a few extra sausages for Wulafric, courtesy of the cook).  She was expecting the girl either to be asleep, or else so overwhelmed by the situation that she was sitting numb as a post.  Tabitha was neither. 

            The maid entered the room quietly enough and even had a sympathetic smile ready for strategic use should Tabitha so need it—but that was not to be.  She was instead greeted by the sight of Tabitha sitting upright and fully clothed on the edge of her bed, Wulafric crouched by her feet.

            “Coward that he is, I suppose the Butler could not bring himself to face me in the morning’s light?”  (the maid could only stare at her and make confused noises).  “Since it is you at my door instead of him, I am indubitably correct in labeling him such, and must proceed to plan number two.”  Tabitha took a deep breath before continuing: the maid felt like backing up a step and had no idea why (although she was about to find out). 

“I have found the Butler to be lacking in all common decency and it is no surprise that he should be ashamed of his egregious behavior last night—but where I am most surprised is that he dared to do it in the first place.  In overstepping his bounds he has demonstrated a very low sort of behavior that only marks the very worst of society.  His callous treatment of you—his fellow servants and John in particular—reveals a fundamentally flawed mind that cannot be allowed to make any more mischief in my Great-Aunt Hilsida’s home.” The maid flinched at her name.  Tabitha did not.

            “You will now go tell him that I order him to come to me this instant, and only a swift obedience will perhaps ameliorate his inevitable punishment and dismissal.”

            The maid was absolutely speechless.  She didn’t know anything about these matters (or half of the words coming out of Tabitha’s mouth) and in a flustered state she bobbed a terrible curtsey and left to find The Butler, forgetting to lock the door behind her. 

Tabitha wasted no time in marching out of her room and making for the front stairway and Great-Aunt Hilsida’s parlor.  Wulafric followed faithfully, although he had cast one mournful look back at the sausages on the breakfast tray.  They boldly strode down the halls, drawing astonished looks from the servants scurrying back and forth—an unusual sight, really, as none of the servants had had to scurry in an awfully long time, not since she had been her normal self—cleaning this and cleaning that, all ordered about by The Butler as if he was expecting a parade of high class visitors to come through the front door at any moment and would be disgusted by the state of the house.  Used to a life of semi-indolence, none of the servants took well to being ordered about again at high speeds, but none of them dared to go against The Butler. 

They all knew Tabitha had been confined to her room—although not why—and seeing her walking the halls without a care stirred strange emotions in their hearts that defied description.  She walked like a queen through a palace, followed by her faithful hound, and deserving of all courtesies.  But since their bows were rusty and their curtseys disgraceful, they merely stared at her until she passed, and then whispered amongst themselves about what this might mean.  Life had changed so much in the past day that no one had any idea of what to think, and this was a crowning cherry. 

            Tabitha did stop one of the maids and gave her instructions in a low voice, and although she might have wanted to object, the maid was given no choice and she hurried off to do as Tabitha asked. 

            But Tabitha was not to proceed entirely unimpeded.  Before reaching the parlor she was confronted with the sight of The Butler, rising up from the kitchen stairs like a vengeful demon out of hell who sees its prey standing before it and is supremely confident that it is more than adequate to the task of handling it.  And last night, he had been.  But last night he had been more, and Tabitha had been less.  Today, Tabitha was more, but The Butler did not know it yet. 

            (To be completely honest—as it is always best to be—The Butler actually looked quite magnificent.  From somewhere about his belongings he had rescued an old but finely cut suit of clothes that he must have worn in the hey-day of the house.  They had been cleaned and ironed and starched until they shone in the reflected glory of by-gone days.  The Butler had trimmed his hair and shaved his chin—during a very lengthy and thorough bath—and now he stood resplendent as he was always meant to be, as any Butler should be, except for the troubling lack of anything resembling human mercy behind his eyes.)

            “Out of your room?  I had thought I had made myself clear.  You are not to leave your room, you are not to do anything I do not tell you to do, and if you do not obey me, I will have you tied to your bed at all hours.”  It was a truly intimidating speech, more so as he advanced upon Tabitha with every moment.  But it failed to hit its mark.  Wulafric stepped between the two, half crouched and growling low in his throat as he stared down The Butler.  The Butler stopped, as most men will when confronted by an angry dog.  Tabitha merely smiled a cool smile at him (this one said that she thought him entirely disagreeable and very much beneath her notice, as he was only a servant, and therefore must do exactly as she said), very much undeterred by his harsh words.

            “Your restrictions are intolerable, Butler, and your manners lacking.  You have taken too much upon yourself as a servant of this household, and therefore must be reprimanded.  You have no authority over me, Butler, you never have, and you never will.  Too long have you run this household with impunity, but that is sure to end today.  I am going to my Great-Aunt’s parlor, and—if she is not there—when you find her, please tell her I wish to speak to her about a great many things.  Including your general unkemptness, your lack of dedication to your duties, and your upstart manner which is most unbecoming.  That is all.”  Tabitha walked past him, Wulafric still keeping a wary barrier in-between the two.  The Butler had been swelling with indignation for the entirety of her speech, but lacking an appropriate moment to insert his own ire he was forced to swallow it instead. 

This is really the best way to deal with someone who believes they can overpower you.  Don’t give them a moment to gather steam, don’t linger if at all possible, and act as if you have all the power in the world.  Those who act as if they have power, will be perceived to have it.

Tabitha entered the parlor, found it empty, and settled into the chair her Great-Aunt favored.  The maid she had talked to in the hall brought down her breakfast tray and both she and Wulafric enjoyed their meal for quite some time before they were disturbed.  It was The Butler who entered first, announcing his Mistress as if this was a grand occasion of state:

            “My Lady Hilsida of Despart.”         

            At the moment, however, she looked like nothing so much as a ditch digger (remember, all last night she had been digging in the cellar trying to find the gnomes that lived there).  Her clothes were dirt stained and all her visible skin was filthy.  She stumped along behind her cane as if there was nothing so important as making as much noise as possible, but when she caught sight of Tabitha in her chair she stood stock still, shocked to her core.

            “Get out of my chair, girl.”

            Tabitha cocked her head in polite confusion.  Great-Aunt Hilsida repeated herself, assured that repeating the phrase again and in a louder tone would bring results.  (there are many people in the world who live by this rule, and it is astonishing how many other people give in to them.  Does repeating oneself in a louder voice really change the argument?  Does the fellow arguer go ‘Aha, I see your point now that you are shouting very loudly after repeating yourself ten times.  I will concede the issue.”  It must be a wish to avoid violent confrontations that causes a person to give in to this tactic.  But Tabitha had no such wish).

            “Get out of my chair, girl!  Out of my chair!  Out of my chair this instant!”

            “What, this chair?”

            Great-Aunt Hilsida nearly solved many problems by having an apoplexy.  Her face flushed a lobster red and her veins were pulsing in her forehead.  But it was not to be.  Nearly speechless with rage, she still managed to spew a series of swear-words that made The Butler do his best imitation of a deaf stone.  Tabitha merely filed them away for future reference.

            “Now, Great-Aunt Hilsida, it is entirely proper that I have this chair at the moment.  For one, I entered the room first.  For two, you have forfeited the rights that age and relation and infirmity have bestowed upon you.  And for three, I feel the need to annoy you.  So no, I will not get up from this chair, and if you wish to sit, I suggest that The Butler get you a stool.”  Tabitha was watching her Great-Aunt intently.  Many things depended on this conversation and Tabitha wanted to make sure it went where she wanted it to. 

            Great-Aunt Hilsida swelled with anger and her mouth moved for a few moments before sound came out.  “You ungrateful horrible wretch of a dissolute child.  You sit in my chair, in my house, after months of eating my food and think you can give me orders?”  She swooped forward toward Tabitha and tried to grab her arm and haul her up out of the chair but Wulafric bounded to his feet and growled at her.  Great-Aunt Hilsida was suddenly across the room clutching at the wallpaper (a rather faded blue rose with green stripes, it tore beneath her fingers and made a bare patch that looked awfully like a palm tree, although only Tabitha would have recognized it as such, given her love of foreign botany.  Everyone else thought it looked like a dandelion).  She hadn’t noticed the dog before and having it jump up and growl had the same effect on her as if he had tried to tear out her throat.  Not that Wulafric did any such thing, but when someone is afraid of a dog, even innocuous actions appear sinister, and Wulafric certainly did not appear innocuous.  He had grown much since he was a tiny puppy, and although he could not be called full grown, he was fully as large as some dogs, and larger than most.  His shaggy hair had turned a dark grey with brushed silver tips, and when angry he was a thoroughly intimidating sight.

            “Get that—you can’t—get it away from me—why—“

            “Be calm, Great-Aunt.  You’ll frighten Wulafric, and I really don’t think you want to upset him.  Please, have a seat.”  The Butler helped her into a small chair near the door.  Tabitha and Wulafric were at least six feet away but Hilsida showed every evidence of desiring them to be miles away. 

            “Butler, I think this discussion would go better with tea.  Please have Cook send some up.”  Tabitha ordered the Butler.  Forced by his nature and the situation, The Butler bowed and left the room.  Tabitha thought it best to wait in silence for the next move of the board, letting her Great-Aunt suffer just a bit longer before springing the rest of it on her.  The Butler returned with a tray and served Great-Aunt Hilsida her tea before setting it conveniently out of reach of Tabitha.  She smiled inwardly to herself.  She hadn’t really wanted tea anyway, not for herself.  She watch closely as her Great-Aunt tried to discreetly unscrew a bottle and dump the contents into her tea, but before she could pour more than a drop, Tabitha interrupted her.

            “I would really be more sparing of that if I were you.”  Great-Aunt Hilsida looked up suspiciously.  “There really isn’t that much left,” Tabitha continued helpfully.  Still no sign of understanding.  “Oh dear.  Has The Butler not told you?  That—my much afflicted Great-Aunt—is the very last of your laudanum to be found on the premises.  Last night your entire stock was destroyed—poured out onto the ground.  Really, Butler,” Tabitha chided as her Great-Aunt struggled with the concept of what she had been told, “You should keep your mistress apprised of these things.  Imagine what would have happened when she used up that bottle and had to be told that there was no more laudanum.”  At long last the idea penetrated.

            “What—you!”

            “Yes,” Tabitha said calmly.  “Me.  I did have a little help but your ever-faithful servant threw him out without a penny to his name and no chance to say goodbye, a very large mistake you see, as it has made me very angry.”

            “You, angry?  Angry?  Angry?  You poxy-ridden trollop, you sap-skulled fornicating pig—“

            “Yes, I am angry!  I’ve been angry ever since I was sent by my parents to live here with you, although I highly doubt they know about the treatment I have suffered through while here.  You neglect your duties, you ruin your house and lands, you beat your servants if you find them in the house after dark—you nearly beat me if not for a stout wooden door—you dig in the cellar for gnomes and smash all the furniture so it can’t kill you, and why?”  Tabitha fixed her gaze on the bottle clutched in Great-Aunt Hilsida’s hands.

            “Why, I do believe it is because of that poison you are holding so close to your heart.  It has poisoned your mind and seeped its unhealthy influence all over this benighted and bedeviled place.  The townspeople won’t come within a mile of this place, did you know?  The shepherds as well.  The night I was dropped at your doorstep the coachman wasted no time in hustling himself away and at the time I didn’t understand but now I do, oh yes, now I understand many things, my deluded Great-Aunt.  You think that bottle will help you, that it keeps the nightmares at bay.  Well, wake up!” 

Tabitha rose from the chair, Wulafric staying by her side, slowly approaching the cowering figure of Great-Aunt Hilsida.  “You have been asleep, and your nightmare has been ruling in your stead.  Look around you—see for the first time in who knows how long what you have done to yourself and your servants.  Because Great-Aunt?  I think you will find me a worse enemy than that laudanum has ever been your friend.”

            And this was the moment Tabitha had been waiting for, the moment when her Great-Aunt’s mind was full of chaos and shadows, the moment when she would be most vulnerable, the moment when Tabitha could force her to her will.

            And her will was fear.

            Tabitha dropped her hand to Wulafric’s back, and he let out such a howl that Great-Aunt Hilsida shrieked in terror, jumped three feet up in the air and whisked herself out of the parlor door so quickly her feet never touched the floor. 

(It took five days for the servants to find her.  The search would have gone much faster if the locals had been willing to form search parties, but strangely enough, the thought of coming across Hilsida at any time of day on an empty moor did not appeal to anyone.  It was only because The Butler bullied the servants into searching that they did so, and it was poor Ustin again who found her, crawling along the moor like a dumb beast, unable to walk yet unable to remain still.  She hadn’t slept in those five days, constantly moving away from that originating howl of Wulafric’s, convinced that it was following her.  In fact, she never slept easily again for the rest of her life, and even in the daytime would often start and turn around to look for the dog she knew was coming for her.  She once confided to The Butler that she had known ever since her injury that a dog had been released from Hell to find her and kill her, whereupon originated her fear of them.  She was, however, mistaken as to the cause of her death.  She lived for three years after Tabitha left her house, and when out walking one day a bird dropped a poisonous snake on her head, which then bit her.  It is safe to say she never saw it coming).

            The Butler struggled between chastising Tabitha and running after his Mistress to see that she was all right, and his indecision resulted in the five day disappearance of Great-Aunt Hilsida, who left the house at a run and didn’t stop until she collapsed from exhaustion.  He did eventually decide to chase after Great-Aunt Hilsida (after making awful faces at Tabitha that would have gotten him expelled from the Butler’s School for Butlery—an off-shoot of the Butler’s Guide to Butlery—and attempting to say words that his nature would not allow, thereby closing his throat and giving him the appearance of an angry plum) allowing Tabitha to move on to part two of her plan.

            Unsure of how long she had until The Butler and Great-Aunt Hilsida returned, Tabitha went to the stables where her satchel awaited her (she had packed it with everything she thought she would need last night—mostly books—and this morning while talking to the maid about her breakfast she had also ordered her to take the satchel to the stables).  Tabitha then went up into the loft to gather a few of her books that had taken up permanent residence there, and once there found it hard to tear herself away from a room where she had been so happy.  There were so many memories tucked into that little loft, all the more sweet because they were shared memories, even if the one they were shared with had disappeared without a trace.  Tabitha’s roving eye fell on a cap of John’s that he had left behind in his confused escape.  She picked it up and stowed it in her satchel with unwarranted tenderness for the baseness of the object, though fully justified when taking her love for John into consideration. 

Then, deciding that it was safe enough, Tabitha made for the kitchen and asked the cook very politely for a sack of food that would keep well for traveling on.  The cook (just as politely, for she had always liked Tabitha and Wulafric and besides, who would go against this girl who had just overthrown both her and The Butler?) packed everything Tabitha could have wished, including a large amount of sausages for Wulafric and even a hot berry pie that had just finished baking.  Thanking the cook, Tabitha hoisted the bag over one shoulder and left the house, never to return. 

Chapter 10