Blogs: Harpy Happenings and Harangues

Seas of suffering

Anjouleme — Wed, 20 Aug 2008 18:16:51 GMT

My tears, this season, fall more easily than summer rain. I am not typically a mourner and yet there is much to mourn. I begin to wonder on these ebbs and flows of life, on how there are long times of plenty and joy and calm, but they are succinctly punctuated by times of hardship, death, and sorrow that seem profoundly longer. And then there are times wherein the calm is all but forgotten for the extended stint of sorrow. Where is the end? In which direction is the halcyon horizon that beckons battered pilgrims to its bosom? Are we abandoned to tumult? Or is it that none of this is being done TO us? It simply is. Ebb and flow – and sometimes we get caught in mental eddies, swirling in the belief that we are the victims of these eddies when really we just are and they just are – neither of the which can be helped. Perhaps it is only that we must stop struggling, relax and go with it, however scary it is. In that, we may either drown or float, I suppose. Either way, all will be. Mikal, for those left behind, I breathe in pain and breathe out empathy. Rest, now, remembered well.

Adding chaos to chaos

Anjouleme — Wed, 20 Aug 2008 13:23:28 GMT

You would think with the last couple of weeks I’ve had, I’d want to bask in some quiet time, with a peaceful state of mind and an occassional nice rum drink with an umbrella on top. But harpies aren’t built that way I guess. Given such an opportunity, I decide to heap more upon myself by getting a puppy. Only those of you who’ve had puppies can probably empathize with the hell that is the first week of being in a new home. That’s my week so far. Greta is a 9 week old Vizsla and my first purebred puppy ever. She is adorable and precocious and energetic and smart and stubborn and persistent and has great lung capacity. She’s a joy and a terror at the same time. Learning boundaries is proving interesting but fruitful and she’s just now starting to get the idea that doing her business outside is not only allowed but preferable. That’s going to prolong her life profoundly. Right now her primary purposes in life seem to be to poop and pee, to pounce on random objects, to serve as a mouth with feet, and to terrorize poor Fergus. Fergus is none too happy with the last bit. I let them work it out between them for the most part. He wants to play, sometimes, but then realizes she is just too small and works on domination instead. They’ll work it out eventually, but I have a feeling it won’t be until she’s a little closer to his size. This whole exercise has been a lesson in patience, for sure. But I’m determined to see it pay off. And last night again solidified my reason for getting Greta. Fergus had his second seizure. Not NEARLY as daunting this time, but scary none the less, especially since he fell off the bed as I was running to get to him. He’s OK, but I’ve now moved the bed so that might not happen again. The seizure was followed by a good period of catatonia that he didn’t have last time, so that freaked out me quite a bit. All of his blood work previously came back OK for the most part, so we’re going to monitor and see how often it happens – this is only the second one of which I am aware. I’m calling the vet again this morning regardless, but I’m not sure there’s much they can do except put him on seizure medication. We’ll see what they say. In the meantime, I’m just learning to deal with the amped up stress factor. I’m trying to remember to eat and drink and do me things, but there just doesn’t seem to be much time for all that. I’m sure, though, once Greta and I get into a routine, things will be much smoother. Wish us luck! More pictures can be found at: http://picasaweb.google.com/Anjouleme/Greta9Weeks

One among many

Anjouleme — Sun, 10 Aug 2008 02:43:40 GMT

I was at the State Fair today, doing my share of people watching, observing all the folks caught up in "me me me," wanting to be seen, wanting to somehow be special and stand out. I suppose I was no exception. On the drive home, I sat in the backseat, staring out the window. As we stopped at a crossroads, I observed the grass, looking at a specific and single stalk among the many. It was nothing special. It looked like all the rest. And in all the days of its existence, I bet no one has ever looked at that stalk as a separate part of a whole. As we pulled away, I closed my eyes against the blur, and tossed a thought pointedly into nothingness: "I have noticed you."

Hella weeks

Anjouleme — Fri, 08 Aug 2008 12:32:29 GMT

When it rains it pours. I drove home from work yesterday thinking about a movie I saw that talked about madness. It quoted some famous writer who wrote something to the effect that the onset of madness comes not from one big event, but from a series of things, usually small, that build up over time: a tree falls, a tire blows, a squirrel dies, and then the straw that broke the camel's back occurs. A shoelace breaks and next thing you know, you're in a bell tower raining down hell on everyone else. I thought about that, feeling as if I was close to the breaking point driving home yesterday. My heart raced, and all I wanted to do was scream. I put on angry chick music and turned it up on high drowning out everything else, and still, I felt like a cornered tiger. I got home, shucked clothes and jumped on the treadmill, amping it up to high, running like I was running for my life. I felt a little better. See, it's been a tough couple of weeks. It started out on the 28th with the death of my grandmother, who, BTW, is being buried today. That got me thinking about death in general. Y'know it's a funny thing, death and me. I'm not afraid of it, at all, for myself. When it happens it happens. But when it touches those I love, it's an entirely different matter. More on that in a sec. I made the decision to NOT go to Tennessee to my grandmother's funeral. That was a wise decision, but it still vexes me. I hate to think on my family there suffering so in sadness. It's on my mind. The electric/gas company fucked me over this week like the monopolizing fucktards they are. I'm angry about it. Can you tell? They posted a double payment to my account that resulted in overdrawing my account,which resulted in my mortgage payment bouncing. I spent hours on the phone in some heated arguments with their customer service reps, their managers and their managers' managers that got my blood pressure way above normal. The end result: They can't do much more than cut me a check for the double post that will take 10-14 business days to arrive. Thank goodness my bank has given me some recourse by agreeing to file a claim and reverse fees. They also processed my mortgage payment through so it was not returned. But there's a day I'll never get back due to some injustice in the world. And I'm still having to deal with it as I'll have to continually call in to get fees reversed until it's done. That combined with the inability to use my account for 3 days has been trying to say the least. I had to borrow money to buy dog food. I'm a bit put out by the whole freakin' mess. On top of that I'm still having to pay the IRS for their mistake wherein they owe ME money, and I got another bill from them yesterday. Every time I get one I'm pissed off anew. And if I don't pay it, they threaten to garnish my wages. It just feels like entities can rape you for your money whenever they please and you have little recourse. What recourse you DO have causes you to have to jump through hoops. . .FLAMING 2 ft wide HOOPS in order to get anyone to do the right thing - the thing that SHOULD have been done in the first place. Our world is a damned nightmare, sometimes. So my grandmother's death spiraled into thinking about how I will deal with other deaths that are potentially a part of my future, namely my mother and my pets, the likes of which I am not sure I will be able to endure gracefully. My mother I can do nothing about, but I am wholly and fully responsible for my pets. This got me thinking about solutions to quell that potential blow, so I've been looking into getting another dog or puppy. Fergus has been showing signs of age, namely in his joints, and it breaks my heart to see him slow down. If I were to get a new pup, Fergus would be able to help socialize it, it would keep him more active in his senior years, and when he passed, there would be another companion to help cushion that blow. So I've been looking into the possibility. It's an ordeal to say the least. Picking a pet is hard and introducing it into a new environment is harder. I've agonized whether I'm mentally and physically able to deal with a new puppy. They're a LOT of work. But I've been contacting rescues and talking with people all over the area while I consider it. There are a couple of potentials, but it's a pretty stressful decision at times. I look at Fergus and wonder if he'll feel somehow slighted or jealous and whether that's an injustice to him. Then something happened yesterday that unraveled me utterly. Cian and Tatiana and I were watching Fergus and their new pup, Molly, in the back yard while we're sitting on the deck. We heard a commotion near the edge of the deck which turns out to be Fergus having a Grand Mal seizure. Now I don't know if you readers keep up with my little surveys or writings or anything, but if you do, you might remember that my greatest fear in the world, BAR NONE, is helplessly watching the ones I love suffer. And you may trivialize that love, because Fergus is a dog, but let me put things into some perspective here: My longest relationship with any man has been a little over 6 years, and men are responsible for themselves, can take care of themselves. I hand picked Fergus out as a helpless six week old puppy knowing that his every need and point of well being would be administered almost solely by me for the entirety of his life. I've had him in my life for 10 years, of the which, I have provided for him as much as I may. He is my best friend and companion and has done a greater service for me than most people on this planet. He is a major part of my life. And to hold that major part of my life in my arms while every part of his body is convulsing, his tongue lolling, gasping for air, his heart racing, his eyes wide and solid black because his pupils are fully dilated, a thick foam issuing from his mouth. . . to hold him in that state knowing there's not a damn thing you can do is a most unbearable thing. I've held animals in this state before, but it was not a seizure then, it was in the throes of death, and all I can think the whole time he's going through it, is that I have to comfort him as he may not come out of it. I was sure I was witnessing his death at the time. Thank God, I was wrong. But now, every jerk of his feet, every dream motion he has scares the hell out of me. I cannot imagine what people with seizures and the ones that love them must go through. My heart goes out to them. Yes, I consulted a vet. And he has a full examination scheduled. Seizures are fairly common in dogs, I know, though this was Fergus' first. And I probably wouldn't be so rattled and traumatized, except that this has been a couple of really shitty weeks wherein I've felt pretty helpless and alone (a feeling which does not come naturally to me), and my every fiber of being is on edge. It just seems that another death is certainly within the realm of possibility at this point. It just wouldn't surprise me. And there's more. . .but it is likened to the shoelaces breaking. I just won't go into here. I laid in bed last night, early, trying to keep Fergus calm, and thought, now I see why some people give up. Now I see why some people go mad while others just choose to go. Sometimes life can be so hard and seemingly unjust that the alternative seems sweet by comparison. It's not a choice I could make, but I can definitely see how a person could. Today is another day, though. And I go on. I'm trying to find some optimism here, and I owe my friends big time on that front. Many have expressed love and concern and I simply cannot relay how much that helps and means to me. In the vastness of the dark, every little spark offers hope. My friends are my light and I am forever grateful for them. And I look forward to some well illuminated days soon!

Writing, Independence, and Jane Austen

Anjouleme — Wed, 30 Jul 2008 14:30:56 GMT

“I haven’t written much, of late. I don’t fully know why. Perhaps it’s the travel. Perhaps it’s that warmer weather pulls me straight out of the doldrums and my drive to write is lessened. I usually write when something is inside me, some angst or overwhelming emotion, that needs to be let out and has no other outlet. I socialize more in the warmer months, so perhaps it is that I am feeling less like a shut in and more like a functioning human and that my angsts are relayed in person more during these times. Regardless, I miss writing. I feel like I’m letting vignettes, contemplations and scenarios pass on by uncaptured. Such IS the nature of life and the passing of time, but there are things that I have felt worth the words that I have just let go. They are as the wind through the trees yesterday: at once so tempestuous and then so quickly gone.” I wrote the above paragraph on Monday morning. How funny that life provides reason when you throw a unwitting request into the universe. Now, since death touches my life once again, all I want to do is write, but finding the words is difficult. It is as if solidifying thought and emotion somehow trivializes it, makes it less significant. I suppose that is why writing is a form of catharsis for me in times of strife. In solidifying thought, I am able to hold onto it less tightly –I’m able to let it go. I also suppose that I have not found the words of late because I am not fully ready to let it go, yet. And so, I will not write upon those matters most weighty to me now. I will hold onto them just a little longer. But there are other things. . . . I’ve been thinking on the nature of independence, specifically regarding women or more specifically, me. I happened to watch “Miss Austen Regrets” the other night and it occurred to me that Jane Austen’s life (if accounts that I have read of it are semi-accurate) has some extraordinary parallels to my own – though time and circumstance may be somewhat different. The movie caused me to truly survey my existence, and in that surveillance I found some measure of pride. See, my life is a series of transitions and goodbyes. I’ve spent years in moving and upheaval, always feeling as if my surroundings were of circumstance and belonging to others, feeling as if I owed my livelihood to others. But things are different now. Two days ago I sat upon a piano bench in a room of my house and simply looked around me. I gazed at walls and art and furniture and realized that for the first time in my life, everything I see is me. Everything that is around me was my choice to make: my house, the curtains, the piano, the couch, the dog, the mirror on the wall, the clutter and the order. It is all a product of a life that I have built through every step and endeavor I have taken in my time upon this earth. And in that I see a conscionable power over circumstance, over my course and my entire life. *I* did this. I built this, this existence that I have, from nothingness. And yes, there have been mistakes on the way. People that I could have done better by, choices I could have made differently, but overall, it’s not such a bad life I have. My biggest nemesis? I’ve agonized over loneliness and solitude, but the truth is, it’s survivable. I struggle in independence, at times, but overcoming those struggles is all the sweeter knowing that I am capable of yet something else, knowing that I CAN take care of myself. And all of this is driven home by this simple movie, “Miss Austen Regrets”; a movie wherein a spinster writer lives a audacious, witty, albeit somewhat lonely life, serving as a warning, a lesson, and yes, an inspiration to others who cannot or will not choose to step out of the convention that society has dictated to them. There are prices to every prize, and one has to weigh the ultimate cost of each to decide which price is worth paying. . . . and the choices, somehow, seem limitless. I realize, more and more each day, that it will become harder to break me from this independence for any sustained period. And I wonder, with no small amount of trepidation, at the price of that.

Life lessons as taught by MySpace (and Tribe)

Anjouleme — Fri, 27 Jun 2008 19:10:06 GMT

This was written for MySpace, but applies to Tribe as well, I suppose. So I know in some circles you become a social pariah when you mention that you’re an active MySpace member, like you’ve joined some super elite geek network the likes of which you can never leave. But, in truth, MySpace is really teaching me a lot about my community of friends and family. I don’t use this venue to collect a plethora of faceless names in hopes of proving my popularity to the world. I use this venue mostly to keep abreast of the happenings of people I have met or will meet and would like to stay in contact with. In a sense, I guess it’s kind of voyeuristic, but observation is a great teacher. I have come to realize through the MySpace voyeurism of my friends some of the following things about the greater world around me: 1) For every person that is having the best day of their life, there are others that are having one of the worst. I find myself at times wracked with conflict. One friend is rejoicing over a new job, a new baby, a new love while another, at that same moment, has lost their every possession or the love of their life. The world is a balance of the bell curve. Some shout, some whisper, but most simply speak. I have wrestled with this, with the balance of my feelings, but I have ultimately come to realize that I can share in one person’s joy while reaching out in compassion to another. There does not have to be an absolute, nor does there have to be guilt because you feel as if you’re cheating one by feeling for the other. 2) Everything changes. The person that is on top of the world today, has a fall, no matter how large or small, in front of them. And the person that is at the bottom of the barrel, will, one way or another, find some light to follow. There is no constant, save change. Life is in constant flux. 3) The one thing I really remember from chemistry class is that when particles move faster, things get hot. That holds true of people too. You can watch in individuals the steady build up of pressure as they move more quickly forward, until eventually something gives and usually in a spectacular way. And then order is restored. 4) Struggle is a part of the human condition. We ALL go through it. We all, for the most part, come through it. And we all can help each other get through it. People are strong. Stronger than even they sometimes realize. I am bolstered by the courage I witness in the face of all adversity. It seems I’ve seen victims of every kind here, though they are far from the classic definition of “victim”. I’ve seen those afflicted by ice, snow, floods, war, tornadoes, death, hurricanes, drought, fires, divorce, destitution, suicide, and always, people seem to find a way to forge on. It is an inspiring and terrible thing to watch all at once, and I am stronger for witnessing such courage and fortitude in my friends. There’s more, but I’ll put this up for now. Thank you to all of my MySpace friends for allowing me to glimpse your realities and in turn learn more about the human condition. I love you all for it.

Lilies War XXII flashes of memory

Anjouleme — Mon, 23 Jun 2008 17:18:10 GMT

Long about Wednesday, I realized, there’s no good way to process everything we do when we are at an event for 10 days. By the time Monday has rolled around, I have all but forgotten what Saturday was about. Days, hours, minutes roll by and all that there is, is that moment. Perhaps it is why I never want to leave. Perhaps it is why I sleep so little. Perhaps it is why I try to cram it all in to the detriment of my body. I cannot tell you everything that happened in a succinct order. I can only give flashes of memory that sustain far more within than the telling of such things relays. I love everything about the game we play. The moments that stick are these: In a hesitant rain, a horn is sounded as an ornate Viking ship makes for the shore, a stout, proud man clad in red at it’s prow, standing one leg propped upon the foremost seat. He is one I am proud to call friend. He is Magnus Anskegg. He is come to claim the hand of another friend, the lovely Baroness Winnifred d’Artois, who stands waiting with attendants in nearby fields o’ergrown with grass. She is clad in blue, the color of the sky, strong and airy. Her hair flows freely about her shoulders in dark waves. She is beauty personified and her air is anticipating but patient. As the ship scrapes bottom near the shore, confidently this man, takes to the shallow water and strides onto the sand. He is deterred by no element, by no force. As the boat is pulled to shore, moored safely, another horn is sounded that soon sees the two united where the water meets the grassy strand. Words and tokens and glances full of all loving emotion are exchanged and tears of joy run full throughout the witness host. This is a strong union, a well matched pair, and long may their love carry them through times of toil and times of mirth. Merriment among the trees was plentiful, thanks to our friends from the Outlands. Though guests in our lands, they are ever gracious hosts within their own camp. I am so blessed to have met them and been able to spend time with each of them. Stagman & Falconman. . . .How artfully that thong comprised the “T” in Calontir . :0) Glowing bocce balls and fort antics. Helga Ball – in MY job, the cabbage is secondary. Who knew women were so pliable. :D Ashir’s hat goes walkabout. . . . .more about that later . . . . with pictures. Gnomes, gnomes, gnomes. . . . aaaaaaarrrrrgggghhhhh!! Hanging out with Zach, Charlie, Sean and gaining a new Chippy: the might Slain-ie!!!! Hanging out with Winterwolf and the craziness that always ensues. Madlibs and wolf spit and circles of death, OH MY! While walking past the Outlands camp upon the road, I heard the plink of banjo. There was a merry grinning Bran playing for Pema’s toddler who danced beneath the trees with unparalleled joy, arms and legs flailing, laughing squealingly, naked as the day he was born. It was the most pure moment I recall of the war. THAT is childlike wonder. I have gained a new squire brother. A goodly ceremony, succinct and proper was conducted amidst friends and household members, witnessed by HRH Raito from Northshield. And then the household piled into the Fyrdraca and rowed about the lake under a light rain. Storm clouds sang powerful praises in the distance as we headed back to shore. It was a good day. Syr Ivan is no more. There are times in the SCA wherein we witness something so powerful that there is no containment for the resulting emotion. The passing of this warrior was one of those moments. Ivan, stalwart knight, has chosen to leave himself behind, as he can no longer take up the axe and sword and spear for mundane reasons of health. He chose, instead of simply fading away, to enact a warrior’s death. I am sorry to have missed the first part of this passing which occurred in the morning. But I am told is was as significant as the events of the evening. In the heat of battle, Odin came forth, I am told, to claim his man Ivan. Ivan fought warriors valiant until he fell and was carried upon shield into the wood by the one eyed god on his journey to Valhalla. Huscarls sang their tribute and lament, and words were given to Ivan’s fame. A great pyre was created and upon it was laid the body of Ivan clad in steel, armed with spear and shield. His possessions and wealth were laid about him and he was displayed for mourners throughout the afternoon. At the sun’s falling, songs were sung and our king laid the first torch upon the pyre. Amidst the sound of flame, Bran’s voice came strong as he brought forth ritual and wordfame from those assembled. Ivans actions and deeds were called from friend and brother and enemy alike as his body and all his possessions began their transformation to ash. But lo, Ivan was sorely missed, and his assembled brethren were not prepared to let him go. His spirit was called therein for one more night of revelry and it was so that he emerged from the wood, clad in white with a merry countenance to rejoin his kith and kin for one last drink of mead. All the while his former self burned, remaining hot among the coals well into the next day. I cannot relay the emotion felt at the deeds above. Ivan is not, in truth, dead. He will assume a new persona, from all that I gather, but he can no longer fight as a warrior, so he chose the warrior’s death. The trappings of his old persona burned within the fire along with the “body” that was created for the event. Richard even made a helmet for the pyre. The symbolic nature of the entire thing was overwhelmingly powerful and real. I wept openly from the moment the first torch lit the pyre. And as the fire grew higher, the heat licking the faces of those assembled, emotion could not be contained. I wept not only for Ivan’s loss, but for those that have struggled with the very thing Ivan does now - a choice to forge on with something he loves to his own detriment or to take a step back and do the sane thing and let it go. It is no easy thing. I wept too for all those who have gone before, for friends and loved ones whom I will never share an ale and a good tale with again. For those whom I have not known, too. Those warriors of old who were sent thusly into Valhalla, their deeds sung into an empty night made pregnant with tales of glory. This was one of THOSE moments, the moments that come all too infrequently in the SCA but that etch themselves into memory forever more. I am glad to have witnessed it. There was so much more that occurred this year I may relay later. As ever, I was reluctant to leave, convinced that, were my friends around me, I could blissfully live like this for quite a while. I miss it already and sorely wish I was going to Pennsic. Glory will have to sustain me, instead. And it is only 2 weeks away. I sit here with a gacked up shoulder, covered in bug bites and blisters and bruises, sunburned quite literally from the top of my head to my toes, exhausted and spent, and all I can think about it getting to do it all over again ASAP. Cass out (and recovering)

Ponderings on the tongue

Anjouleme — Fri, 06 Jun 2008 19:07:51 GMT

Why is it that when I draw or write I have to run my toungue along the back of my teeth? Even if I try not to, I find I am doing it. Why, when I touch a certain part of the top of my head do I sometimes feel it in my tongue? Here's a weird, cool thing: I flip my tongue and hold it with my teeth so that the bottom is on top. If I now touch it, my brain does not associate the position of the touch correctly. Left feels like right and right feels like left. Top feels like bottom and bottom feels like top. It's a sensory illusion, so to speak. I could do it for hours and still wonder on it.

Three little words and "the list"

Anjouleme — Wed, 04 Jun 2008 15:54:33 GMT

I've engaged in watching sappy TV and movies lately. For this I will apologize right now, because it pulls me into melancholy lines of thought on relationships. Yeah, I’m a girl. I have a vejayjay and I occasionally cry over girly things. Sue me. So now, I'm wondering on those three little words, again: “I love you”. I think on them and I am saddened - and for this reason I have to contemplate more. Love is supposed to be a joyous thing. A thing that can be reveled in and coveted, a thing that dreams and wild happiness are made of. I want that. I want that wild zing of happiness. And yet, I feel that admitting that somehow makes me seem pathetic in the here and now. But the truth is, I’m here because of my convictions and I must learn to find patience and peace in that. It is better to be as I am now, than in the wrong place, in the wrong time, with the wrong person. But still. . . I’m cruising MySpace and Tribe through friends and acquaintances, and I see examples of men who, though they are strong and extremely masculine, have no problem shouting about their love for their girls from the rooftops. Those proclamations cause me to smile for them. I am so happy that they are so very excited about the person they are with that they want the world to know about it. But I am saddened too, when I think on my own past. With the possible exception of my first love when I was 18 and completely naïve (though even then there were difficulties), I cannot think of a single relationship I have had wherein a man was willing to proclaim his desire to be with me with such conviction as I see evidenced elsewhere. The first guy I moved in with and my first extremely long term relationship wouldn’t even really admit we were dating until well after we had moved in together. It left me feeling unlovable and unworthy for the entirety of the relationship. Because of mitigating circumstances, it just didn’t feel right in my last relationship to proclaim a happiness with each other until a few years into the relationship. That created its own issues. So I’ve not experienced that shouting from the rooftops freedom, yet, and I damn well long for it. So it’s been added to the list of wants. Yes, there’s a list. Actually there are two where relationships are concerned: one that is self centric and one that is partner centric. And as I go along in life, these lists continue to be modified and adapted. The “wants” list (the partner centric list) comprises the frosting on the cake, things that cinch the deal, things that make it all the sweeter. The “must haves” list (the self centric list) constitutes those things that I will not compromise. It is self centric because it represents the list of things I can control, the list of things that I will or will not do and accept in my life. I’m not going to list the wants here, because they are pretty malleable, but the must haves. . . .I need to be reminded of that list from time to time and it should rarely change, except for the occasional addition. It’s a hard list, but not unachievable, I believe. And it just seems necessary at this stage in my life. So here it is, so far, for my own edification and reminder: I will love with an open heart and accept that I can be loved similarly. I will allow a love and respect for myself first, above any desire to be accepted by another person. I will accept that I am flawed and that all humans are flawed and allow for mistakes and forgiveness in each. I will stand my ground regarding my convictions, with the caveat that those convictions can be changed at times. I will keep an open mind as much as I am able, and remember that all are on their own path, regardless of me and my convictions. I will communicate honestly and freely about my likes, my dislikes, my fears and my feelings. I will not acquiesce only to gain acceptance or favor. I will acquiesce only when it is the right thing to do for the right reason. I will not lose myself. i.e. I will not take on the characteristics or issues of others solely to gain a favorable outcome. I will not continually accept less from another person than I deserve. I will not allow myself to be treated as inferior and will not facilitate such treatment. I will practice awareness and employ honesty about perceptions, whether they are my own or others’. I will not repeat the same cycles. I will not accept continual ambiguity from myself or others. I will not give of myself cheaply or to a person that cannot be with only me. I will not accept a person into my life than cannot show me compassion and respect. I will practice compassion with others, even when I do not agree with their actions. I will learn from the past and lend a forgiving heart to it, for all those involved, including myself.

Recent points of awareness.

Anjouleme — Fri, 23 May 2008 14:16:23 GMT

1) When you do not compromise your own promises to yourself, things work out better in the long run, even if they are painful as all get out initially. It’s truly a sense of accomplishment to withstand the fire that would consume your own core values and goals if you were to let it. To walk through it and come out better, if not unscathed, is an amazing feeling. 2) Even if you open your heart to others, they may not be capable of doing the same, yet. Every person is on their own path. When synchronicity occurs, it is a rare and magical thing to behold. 3) There are people out there that look up to me. This has been a hard one for me, not feeling as if I’m much of an example to many. In the last few years, I’ve been baffled and wondered why people I don’t know approach me and try to be my friend or to solicit my opinion in earnest. I’m kind of a loaner and shy to boot, so this type of behavior always throws me for a loop. But I’m coming to realize that my exposure in the SCA in my own Kingdom and others has actually afforded me some reknown, for good or ill - which is not something I've ever conceptualized until recently. So people approach me readily. My reactions vary, but with the awareness of the idea that there are some that actually look up to me, I am much more open to eschewing my loaner behavior and doing what I can to facilitate comfort for the other person involved. I encourage more. I judge less. Sometimes it gets me in trouble. Sometimes it pays off in heaps and bounds. The consequence of it on me is that I want to make myself worthy of that type of attention. It drives me to try to do the right thing, to be a better person. Kind of neat, I guess, overall. 4) When things go too smoothly, I will seek to deconstruct my life. I don’t like complacency. I’d rather have uncertainty in various areas of my life. Those uncertainties and adversities drive one toward growth. Complacency = stagnation. I will force a change, even if it means walking headlong into adversity, in order to continue growth. I’m in a stage in my life, for the first time, when I can pay all my bills. I own a house. I have a cush job that earns me a good wage. And I feel as if I’ve sold out. I want to be done with it. What I really want is to get rid of all my “things”, pack only what I can fit in the van, and road trip to where ever my gas money can take me and figure out how to live – how to start again. This drives my inner virgo organizational monkey child insane. But sometimes that kid needs to be spanked within an inch of its life. 5) I’m ready for a relationship again. I never thought it would happen. After the mental strife I put myself through over relationships, I thought it was just not worth the heart ache. Now, once again, I believe it can be. But I refuse to compromise myself to MAKE it happen. Compromising ME is what caused my issues in the past. I won’t do it again. Now that doesn’t mean I’m against compromise between two people, for that is necessary to make a relationship work. What it does mean is that I won’t give up or sacrifice aspects of the self that I love in order to please another person. The person who gets me, gets me just as I am, and will love me for that and will allow me to love them as they are. Now I just have to find it. :o) 6) Being as I am, honestly, openly, unabashedly is the best feeling in the world and a heck of a lot easier than trying to obfuscate, sugar coat, or remember the little untruths I’ve told to others in order to make them feel more comfortable with me or with themselves. And I live by the golden rule, for sure. I want others to do unto me as I would do unto them. I’d rather know the truth than have to guess at what it might be. Forthrightness is always appreciated, even if it’s uncomfortable at first. However, most people are not able to do this, I have found. Our PC world with its “ruffle no feathers” mentality has made obfuscators of us all, so that almost nothing we get is truth. Sometimes I wish I was a mind reader for that reason. If I’ve something in my teeth, tell me for christsakes. Sure I’ll be embarrased, but I’ll be able to get rid or the source of that embarrasment and for that I’ll be grateful. If I’ve unwittingly offended you, freakin’ let me know. I may decide it was justifiable (or not), but at least I’ll be aware of what set you off and can choose to do something about it (or not). I’m resiliant. I can take about anything that’s thrown my way. The reason being that I’ve truly been able to look into myself and my motivations and find comfort there. And if I become uncomfortable, I have the ability to take a step back and ask why. Bringing brutal truth to me sparks that contemplation such that *I* can choose to remain constant or enforce a change within myself. Again – it’s all growth. 7) I no longer equate sex with love. I think it is just one more step on my road to masculinization. Next step: lesbos. ;D (oh, if only I could get over that terrible penis addiction) Harpy out!

Quote to keep

Anjouleme — Tue, 20 May 2008 11:13:37 GMT

This showed up via a person on my friends list quite by accident, but it is definitely something I need to remember from time to time so I'm putting it here in my e-memory: "Never make someone a priority when, to them, you are just an option" I also need to ponder this one from the Buddhist "open heart" perspective a little and see where it falls out.

Giving thanks

Anjouleme — Tue, 06 May 2008 12:19:30 GMT

The sun will rise tomorrow or perhaps it won't. Regardless, its first rays within my eyes, I thanked the sun for shining on you and I just as we are today.

Spring Caprice

Anjouleme — Mon, 28 Apr 2008 18:55:22 GMT

Ah, Spring, you devilish scamp! You’ve enwrapped me with your rapture. Every new bud, every bloom evidenced, brings a joyous smile to my face. I am a child again. I spin ‘neath the dogwoods winding their scent to me, lifting my eyes to watch blossoms kaleidoscope against the sky, with no fear, . . . . .no hope - . . . . . . . . just pure joy . . . . . . . . . . . . and laughter. Love comes easy ‘neath the dogwoods.

Ding ding ding

Anjouleme — Sun, 27 Apr 2008 15:18:51 GMT

So we went and saw "Forbidden Kingdom" yesterday. It's the movie with Jackie Chan and Jet Li, both incredible talents in their field. Their fluidity and flexibility is absolutely amazing to me. There is a fight scene between the two of them that had me grinning from ear to ear the entire time. The choreography was fabulous and though the fight lasted a good long while, I just didn't want it to end. I really enjoyed watching every movement and counter-movement. Towards the end of the fight, I even had a sort of "Ah HA!" moment, wherein there was clarity around the concept of just not being there when an attack comes. It was a pretty cool moment of consciousness. Then today, I'm reading some Buddhist Lojong teachings, trying to gain some compassionate perspective on a particular situation, and I read a lojong slogan that gives me pause: "Don't try to be the fastest", which Pema Chodron translates to mean "Don't compete with others." I begin to wonder: How does one maintain such a principal in competitive endeavors like, for example, SCA fighting? And the answer smacks me square in the forehead with lightening precision. "You dumbass, you can only control YOU." DUH!! Oh holy hell! This whole time, I've been concentrating on my opponent, trying to figure out how to beat him or her, when really, I just need to do what I can do to best me. There is no competition. There is only doing and making space in your mind for the awareness of it. Be there when you need to be. Don't be there when you need to not be there. It's that simple. In concentrating on my opponent, I am fighting me more than I am fighting him. I need to be concisely aware of me, first. I'm utterly dumbfounded that, after 13 years of fighting, I'm only just now coming to this realization, this epiphany. I mean, I've heard it all before, but it didn't make any kind of real and practical sense until now. Who'd have thought that two movie martial artists and a Western Buddhist Nun might work in tandem to make me see THIS in this way? I'm grinning from ear to ear again. Now that I have the concept, I need to learn to re-train my hindbrain. It's exciting. I have another focus, and yet again, it comes just before I am to fight in Crown Tourney. Hell, even if I never win one, I'm happy as long as it causes the lightbulbs to keep going off like this. What a rush!

Under the Mango Tree by Mayadhar Mansingh

Anjouleme — Mon, 21 Apr 2008 18:26:31 GMT

A beautiful Indian poem I want to retain. Translated from Oriya by the poet - - - - - - - - - - - - - Under the Mango Tree by Mayadhar Mansingh Under the mango tree during that tryst, When the bangle-bedecked arms of the sweet one Entwined round my neck, and Pressed me to her bosom in balmy embraces, The very moonlit night appeared cheered up With the touch of the zephyr that blew soft, And while a wild bird on the wing was piping a melodious note. The very earth looked mystic with shadows and moonshine, From under the mango tree of our cloistered bliss. 2 The lamps in the city were fading With folks retiring for nocturnal rest, Crickets were chirping a drowsy note, Filling meadows and fields with deep resonance. And my timid fair one, casting glances all round, Kept furtively pouring out in spilling-over measures The red wine of love from her soft rich lips In hurried kisses, Under the blissful shadow of this mango tree. 3 What soulful efforts there would be from us both, To merge into each other, deeper and deeper, and Keener and keener ever more To excel in the barter of body and mind, Oblivious of all the world, far and near! That moment, rendered eternal by love Brought me heavenly music As I listened to the jingle of her bangles, Under this mango tree of shade and sheltered bliss. 4 The sweet restive creature Even while she filled my whole being. With the wine of love, Started up once from my bosom, Loosening the twining, And looking straight into my eyes; Asked with lips vibrant and tremulous "Swear by me and speak out, my dearest, my all, Do you ………. do you really love this creature who, For your sake, is bearing this cross of infamy, For love, true and eternal?" Mine arms just pressed her closest to my bosom, in reply, Under this mango tree of shade and sheltered bliss. 5 The air beneath the tree had spread around the perfume Of her body and her scented tresses, eager for kisses, Had loosened about her creamy shoulders, in wild dishabille, But the cool moonbeams of the midnight Grew colder, Gently forbidding us to further unsheltered love, The zephyr whispering, "Be gone, reckless ones, Now that you have had your fill From the brimming cup of love! Many a time more will you meet Under this mango tree of blissful shade". 6 But did that spot witness, alas, any more of our dalliance? Did it any more inhale her fragrance wafted about, In another moonlit night? Never again did we meet, alas, Thrilling each other's limbs and filling each other's hearts With that abandon of love; torn apart as soon we were, by society, placing between us two, Miles of fields, forests, hills and rivers, With no dance ever of another tryst Under this mango tree of bliss. 7 Many moonlight night since then, Must have come and gone, oh tree, In many a spring, The cuckoo's note must have thrilled your green foliage, The bangles of many a lovely one Might have sweetly gingled here, Lips of many a fair one must have been soaked profuse With the impassioned kisses of impetuous love Under this mango tree of blissful shade. 8 But tell me, Oh blessed tree, The happy shelter of lovelorn creatures, If you ever knew that flaming passion, That thrill voluptuous, In the eyes of any other daughter of Eve? From the thrilled heart of another fair one, So rapturously lost in love, as was my darling? Say also, if you met another damsel, so determined To absorb the adventurous love, In all-forgetting embraces? Has there been any more such ardent union of hearts And fusion of spirits, Under your shade and sheltered bliss, as were ours, Oh Tree? 9 Mute witness of tremulous tableaux of love, Problem to the Universe, will you not That no other amour could match the ecstasy of ours, None there is in the whole world, To equal my loving one in beauty, grace and beneficence, And none so abandoned to love, as was my moon of delight. Say, comrade, that the few moments of bliss That she gave me here under you Has set forever an indigent poet on a monarch's throne, and never has it been the lot of any mortal to drink such nectar of love As my love poured out unto my lips Say that, will you not, again and again, To this disconsolate lover so forlorn under your shade, that the lifelong pangs of separation May be assuaged, In the waters of remembrance? (Mayadhar Mansingh is a legendary poet-critic from Orissa. He is one of the most influential literary figures of the last century. His work has had a profound impact on the literary movement of the State.) - from Muse India, a literary ejournal: http://www.museindia.com/showcont.asp?id=146

The voices in my head made me do it

Anjouleme — Thu, 17 Apr 2008 14:54:06 GMT

One of the greatest things we can do for ourselves is really start to listen to the stories we tell inside our heads. We are constantly bombarded by this voice that is seemingly the “I”, (which, BTW, it is not), ranting on like a lunatic about all manner of things. Many of us, if not most of us, are ruled by that voice, because it rants on and on without a conscious awareness on our part. I really learned to start hearing that voice after reading some of Pema Chodron’s writings many years ago, and now, in the mainstream Eckhart Tolle is also perpetuating this concept. If you heed nothing else in your life, begin to heed what these people say: Become conscious of what the voice is saying and listen to the stories we unconsciously build about the world around us, the people around us, and even ourselves. It is the catalyst for awareness, for consciousness about action and thought. It is the catalyst to affect change. I call the voice “a lunatic” for the sole reason that, if we were to actually verbalize everything it imparted in our head, we would seem raving mad. Eckhart Tolle relays a story about the first time he became aware of the voice – really aware. When he was in his early twenties, he was riding on a subway with a woman in her thirties who seemed quite insane. People avoided her because she seemed oblivious, tense and angry. She ranted on and on talking not really to herself, but to an invisible someone who had obviously hurt her at some point, going on about “I trusted you, and you betrayed that trust. . . “ He followed this woman off the subway, since she headed in his same general direction and he was curious about her. She continued to rant all the way through the streets walking finally into the very Library that Eckhart was going into. This gave him tremendous pause to think that a woman such as this, seemingly insane, would be headed to the same place he was. Then it hit him. In truth, there was very little difference between him and her. There was pain in both their lives, they both were sentient, they both were headed in the same direction, they both had an inner dialogue. The main evidenced difference was that she gave voice to her dialogue while he did not. It was in that moment that he realized those voices, those thoughts, were in all of us. In realizing that, in becoming aware of it, he was able to start practicing the hearing of it, such that he could influence change in unconscious thought. That, I can tell you, makes all the difference. Anyway, that’s a long way to get to a moment of realization I had this week when I actually heard something internally of the stories I was perpetuating in my life. The voice said something to the affect of “now that you have permission, you can move forward, open, give.” I heard it succinctly and that caused me to seriously stop and consider some things about my psyche. The permission part of it really bothered me, really caused me to realize that I wait for affirmation from others before letting go. I am dependent upon others for that permission and I am, therefore, stifling myself. I’m preventing myself from openly and freely just “being” in a positive way, afraid that others will crush that in their fear of such things. I don’t hug freely; I don’t readily tell people how beautiful they are; I don’t open myself quickly to others, because I’m afraid that they will react negatively to it , feel smothered or pull back away from it. I’ve spent a lifetime in waiting for permission from others to be as I am, to be me, in their presence. How preposterous. I don’t need anyone’s permission to relax and be me. Anyway, this is a new revelation that is going to require more thought as to the hows and whens and whys. But the main point I guess I’d like to put out there is that, in so hearing such things in your head consciously, you can begin to decide if those behaviours are something you’d like to keep or change. Otherwise, you’re just repeating patterns over and over and over again. Much luck and love to everyone on the path!

The new marriage (or commitment) theory

Anjouleme — Tue, 15 Apr 2008 23:11:55 GMT

I had this thought about marriage as an institution a couple of weeks ago. . .a wholly new thought for me, as, for the last few years, I've really rejected the notion of getting married. But I think that has to do with my commitment quandries of the past. So when a friend mentioned her thoughts on arranged marriages, a short burst of inspiration got me to actually writing down my new theory. I thought I'd repost it here, just because: I came to the realization that I've had some looooong term relationships, but never felt as if either one of us was fully committed to it, especially in the early stages, for various reasons. That seemingly created its own set of trends that spiraled into negative issues in the long run, causing me to feel as if a lifetime commitment would never occur or might not even be possible. Maybe people in the old days had it right: marry early. My new theory is that modern relationships work in a bell shaped curve. (Note: I had to stop this writing to start drawing pictures to go with it. See pic above.) Couples start, they have a drastic upward trend in the relationship and then it starts to slowly level out - the excitement wanes a little, the routine starts to set in. They eventually reach a pinnacle and then start a slow decension that CAN have a rapid decline. I think most people these days decide to marry near the decline side of that pinnacle, such that all the best was experienced before that full lifetime commitment was realized. I wonder, REALLY wonder, if that commitment is realized in the early stages before you've even reached the 1/2 way point between the beginning and the pinnacle, if that elongates or changes the bell curve by creating a greater and deeper sense of mutual commitment. I wonder if a sort of mutual dedication to working things out right from the beginning strengthens your resolve for the same in the "decline" phases and if that happens because you've experienced the majority of that upward journey while conciously committed to each other for the duration - for a lifetime. If so, the result would be something more closely resembling the front part of a bell curve followed by a series of smaller sine waves representing the normal ups and dows that represent the human condition. Is it a coincidence that we see these trends in many older couples that got married early in their relationship (sometime *gasp* before having sex)? Makes you wonder. Or maybe I'm getting too mathmatical about it. :D But it's a theory. Create the commitment early, stick to your guns through the good, through the upward rocketing that love is so famous for, and see each other through the rest. Doesn't sound so bad, really.

Spring Haiku

Anjouleme — Mon, 14 Apr 2008 21:03:36 GMT

I'm feeling all Spring-y today, so I decided to compose some more appropriate Haiku than my last batch. :0) 1. His ruby throat full, A cardinal lights to sing On budded branches 2. In April hoarfrost Jonquils, shy, push frigid earth With lips of purple 3. The naked maples Brush away the call of crows to welcome robins 4. free from icy bonds it trips freely over stones and babbles my name

Send extraction team please. . . .

Anjouleme — Sat, 12 Apr 2008 12:58:55 GMT

It's a lovely April 12th in Iowa! So lovely that I took the picture above from my bedroom window. It's now official: winter actually DOES span 1/2 a year here. This is our 6th month of snow. Send help! We're going crazy here, and our winter paunches will not go away if we can't get outside and exercise!!!!

Our precious experience in going to see Belle and Anton get hatted

Anjouleme — Wed, 09 Apr 2008 15:47:51 GMT

I can't post pics in the blogs here the way I can on MySpace, and pics are sooooo very necessary to do the precious experience justice. The pic above will simply whet your whistle. Check it out at: http://blog.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.view&friendID=153780886&blogID=376027952&Mytoken=9F6A15FF-08BC-4482-B4ABC59A8A29FD1121360422

Filling my head with Irish Music

Anjouleme — Tue, 08 Apr 2008 20:51:48 GMT

(unedited, as yet, so still in progress) April 4, Friday night, at 30,000 feet I marvel at what we’ve done to our land. The lights lay out in rows, grid-like, marking the divisions of this country like square fractals that go on in seemingly infinite diminutions. We have parceled our land out in perfect symmetry, leaving almost no part untouched. I sigh at this and visualize the mountains. I miss them, flying over them, seeing them and knowing that they appear impervious to such symmetry. They are the chaos in our enforced math-like precision. I think on this notion of precision, the concept of discipline and the desire to move to some form of chaos and free form. It becomes a theme during the days ahead. I am flying to St. Louis, having caught a last minute deal, in order to attend an event called “The Tionol” – a series of Irish music workshops, concerts and semi-impromptu jam sessions. I have never participated in anything like this before, so I am nervous and excited at the same time. I move forward, motivated by the encouragements of my friends Duncan and Donna. In going to Ireland with them, last year, I caught a bug, so to speak. We went primarily to get them hitched, but a close second priority to that was experiencing Irish music as played in sessions by local Irish musicians in County Clare and thereabouts. We arrived on St. Patrick’s Day 2007 and immediately starting a journey that sparked in me a new interest in learning Irish Music. Prior to that trip, I had never known music like that. Even though I had listened in on some American sessions, I’d never experienced anything like the sessions that “just happened” in Ireland. It was a completely different perspective, for me, musically speaking. While I’ve been marginally interested in Irish music for the entirety of my life, I didn’t really have a drive to or know how to pursue it. . . . until that trip. When in Ireland, I bought a “tin” whistle made of wood in a local music shop. I liked the earthy tone too much, and knowing that woodwinds are all basically the same, I thought I might be able to pick it up and start playing. And in truth, the tones themselves came easy. But it quickly became apparently that I had no idea HOW to replicate the Irish style so prevalent in Reels and Jigs. I put it down in frustration for quite a while. Then the opportunity to attend the Tionol came up. Duncan and Donna encouraged me to participate, and despite my hesitation, I agreed. They immediately signed me up for the Intermediate Tin Whistle workshop before I had a chance to back out – Bless them!  Last Friday, I arrived in St. Louis and drove the rental car to the Schlafly Tap Room downtown to meet up with the crew. It was close to midnight by the time I arrived, but sessions were still in full swing. Irish music wafted from various corners of the bar. Duncan guided me upstairs to a small room full of musicians just sitting around and playing. It was almost like being in Ireland again and ended too soon due to the bar closing. But my disappointment was minor, for I knew Saturday was a day that would be completely dedicated to music, both the enjoyment and learning of it. I slept hard, well sated with a jig or two running about my brain. The morning found us at school where the workshops were being held. People wandered about carrying all kinds of instrument cases. The cafeteria area, where registration and sign in were taking place, was filled with tables laden with various flutes and pipes and drums and mandolins. It was an Irish music lover’s Mecca. A note or two would waft about as people tried different instruments, testing for tonal quality, tuning, or just to hear a sound. I knew no one, so my “new kid” brain kicked on, but I still found some enjoyment in the surrounding. Donna scoped out class rooms and we quickly separated ways to go to our workshops. I found my way to a room at the back of the school that held several folks and our teacher, Kathleen Connelly. I was filled with all kinds of trepidation as I sat in a front row seat. Was I good enough to be in this class? Will I make an ass of myself? Will I just get so frustrated at my incompetence? Will the teacher think I’m an idiot. I decided to let it all go and just sit down. Then to my horror Kathleen immediately asks me to play something in order to assess my ability. Oh HELL, I think, I’ve got nothing loaded. I stammer a bit. She asks how long I’ve been playing. Her voice comes out in a perky English lilt that is actually comforting. I croak out, less than a year. She looks confused at first and asks about my musical experience. I explain that I am a saxophonist, and I’m newly trying out this Irish Whistle thing. She seems delighted much to my relief. I then produce the Tamlinn whistle I bought in Ireland. Her eyes widen and she says, “Uhm OK. . . that’s a recorder, love.” I smile sheepishly. “Actually, it’s a D whistle,” I say and turn it around to show her the lack of a thumb hole. She smiles wide and says “Out of wood? That’s beautiful.” And I am somewhat relieved. Then she re-intimates, again, the need to hear me play. By some marvel I pull out a tune I’ve memorized some time back. Though it’s neither a jig nor a reel, it is Irish. She nods curtly and then declares that we’re all solidly within the Intermediate category and at similar levels so that this should be a great class. I still have no idea what that entails though. All in all the class ends up being very educational. Not because of the 2 jigs and the reel that we learn but because of all that stuff that is unspoken that I pick up on. Kathleen is a master musician, no question. Her playing is incredible and she is a very patient teacher, but it quickly becomes evident that her technical knowledge of music theory is almost non-existent, to the point that she doesn’t even read music. Her notations of all the pieces are done in a code of sorts using letters to indicate the notes. I am stunned by this revelation. Here is a musician whose playing I can probably only aspire to, that grew up learning without the benefit of reading music, without the pure structure that is provided by reading compositions. I look at her and I am looking, quite solidly, at my opposite. I should explain this. I have played music in some form since before I was a teenager, but I’ve always been kind of tentative about it. The perfectionist in me never felt good enough. Even when I started to get instruction in Middle and High School, I practiced saxophone for up to 6 hours each day, hoping to be good enough for the next solo, for the next competition. And even though I held the first chair position in High School for 2 or 3 years, I still never felt good enough. I became an excellent technical player. I knew the notes and I played the style as written by the composer, rarely deviating from the intended structure of a piece (a consequence of learning music for competitions). But I found solace and affirmation in the structure of music. (Perhaps that’s why Mozart ended up being my favorite composer in High School: He evidenced impeccable structure to his pieces.) But I lacked imagination as a result. Imagination did come in the form of singing for me, but formal education quelled even that. Though I was discouraged from it for years, I’ve always sung. I made stuff up in my head all the time that just came out vocally. My dreams were scored in original music even. I longed to capture that. I took music theory in High School, hoping that I might learn how to harness some of that, hoping that I might learn how to compose. I even dreamed, pie in the sky, that I might compose movie soundtracks one day. Music theory was a passion that led me to some limited vocal instruction, and it was that vocal instruction that started me down a path of discipline in voice, as well. I would add natural embellishments when singing that would cause reprimands to come. I later realized that while classical vocal music does not employ these embellishments, Irish Music does. But at the time, I had to quell my natural inclinations and play it straight. My vocal work, too, began to lack imagination. As a consequence, I failed to write and soon gave up attempts at it unless it just wouldn’t leave me alone. Years later, I picked up recorder and just started letting things happen as they felt right. I began to actually employ my own style for the first time ever, and it really felt incredible to just forget music theory for a while, and simply let go. Fast forward to my whistle class. Before me stood a world class musician who learned through auditory tradition, by listening and playing, by forcing herself to know the music inside and out such that it simply flowed, without concern for right or wrong or disciplined structure. She is musical freedom personified. Her style flowed in everything she played and she interpreted freely. I was awed. How does one learn this? And the answer hit me succinctly: Let go. Make mistakes. Persist. Learn. If I got nothing more out of that class, I finally discovered that I need to release my strangle hold on musical form. I need to actually feel the music and do what feels right. There is no right and wrong. I need to just play and play and play without having a sheet of music before me. I need to practice picking tunes out my head, out of a piece I hear, out of thin air. I need to let go, relax, develop flow and just be. Who knew Irish music was all zen!!?! So I’ve started trying to memorize pieces hoping to find that eventual flow and I’m surprised at how quickly it is coming. The more a tune engrains itself in my head, the more I just let it be as I’m playing it. It’s very cool. Now I just need to increase my repertoire to a phenomenal size and I might actually be able to play in a session some day! In the last 15 minutes of the class John Skelton, who was teaching the Advanced whistle class, brought his class into ours and began an exercise with Kathleen to demonstrate differences in style. Even though John and Kathleen are from the same general area of England, their choices in embellishment and the application of style are very different. This was evidenced as they both played simultaneously and echoed each other, in turn. It was amazing to hear them together and to pick out how they differed and were able to play off of each other. They reaffirmed the concept of doing what felt right to you as an individual, the concept of no right or wrong as long as it sounded like it fit plausibly into the basic tune. Experimentation is acceptable! Exhausted but fulfilled, I left the class feeling quite excited to try new things. The concert was great. I’m speechless at the caliber of these musicians. Mark Stone, Kevin Crawford, Robin Bullock, and John Skelton among many others simply blew me away with their mastery. And then later, in the sessions, WOW! You’ve never heard anything like it, I guarantee. All of these incredible world class talents together feeding off of each other in an amazing way without any pre planned pieces being introduced. One person would start a phrase and the whole of the room would join in with nary a misplaced note. The energy was unmatchable. The evening finally ended near 1 am or so for us, as I was just too exhausted and overstimulated to go on. I fell asleep with a head crammed full of Irish music that played even throughout my plane trips home then next day. I’m so glad I had the opportunity to go to the Tionol this year and I’m eager to learn as much as I can now. What an incredible experience, overall.

Snow Haiku - composed in springtime angst

Anjouleme — Thu, 03 Apr 2008 22:34:31 GMT

Picture taken just now, April 3rd 2008, after 6 months of relentless snow that blanketed the ground without thaw. Yes, it's snowing in Iowa yet again! If you cannot tell from the timber of these haiku, I’ve had enough. . . It’s a good thing I do own the house, or I would just pack everything I could in the van and go. 1 What bad have I done That my soul should be sucked out by snow in springtime. 2 Buds in ice are wrapped, When, instead, they should unfurl. Oh why? DEAR GOD WHY?!?? 3 Mother F*(&!ng hell C&!& $u(ing Iowa Snow f*(& off, whydontchya! 4 Swilling beer in snow I believe all elegance has left the building

Coronation Crest Tourney Footage

Anjouleme — Wed, 02 Apr 2008 00:24:09 GMT

So my squire brother, Aubrey, handily defeated me in the Coronation Crest Tournament. And the harpy crest took a brutal beating. Aubrey first decapitated her, but His Majesty declared, "the best parts of her are left - Continue!" before returning to his throne with her head on his shoulder. The fight continues and she eventually is crest fallen. In defiance, at the end, she blinded me with her. . . endowment, shall we say. Above is a pic of the crest. Video footage can be found on my profile or on YouTube at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pdD9_gBdkAw

Esoterica

Anjouleme — Sun, 30 Mar 2008 22:20:58 GMT

My hands seem foreign to me, like seperate entities on the keyboard, older, wiser perhaps, and fulfilling purpose. I seem outside myself, somehow, and at times I’m not sure I want back in. I feel an emptiness in the pit of my stomach that is not hunger. It is longing, but I know of its trickery. These hopes, these fears, these other worlds are devils in disguise pulling me further and further from myself. They are not now. I waited. And the more I waited, the more I came to understand that the nature of waiting is like the nature of fear or hope. It is illusion. I sat here a good while, wrapped in a cloak of all hope, waiting. And I was false - being other than I am. Being not here, not now. Save change, there are no certainties. No future realities. No past realities, for that matter. Waiting is a fallacy. Waiting is hope. Waiting is not being. Deductive reasoning would lead to the conclusion that if waiting is all of those things, then all of those things are synonymous: fallacy, hope, not being, waiting. They are all states that pull us away from what "is". I stare at this screen. I see each letter as it scrolls in front of me, my hands creating my now. And I cease all else. Waiting, hope, fallacy, not being - for a moment’s time, they are abandoned for the illusions they are in glowing light of a humming computer screen.

Airport Security in Arizona

Anjouleme — Fri, 28 Mar 2008 16:17:16 GMT

So there I am flying back from Estrella this year. Sky Harbour Security at this point in the day was it's own special brand of HELL. Remember that: HELL. I'm in 45 minute line behind a Buddhist monk, trying to garner sanity from his peaceful countenance. The line is such that you can't even see the security check point until you get up to it. After spending my time in purgatory kicking my bag all the way so that I don't have to shoulder it (it holds all the SCA stuff i consider irreplaceable: squire's belt, custom made things, etc.), I finally see the checkpoint. The TSA agents are literally screaming above the din at passengers as they go through. The noise, the cacophany, is unbelievable. I stare at the back of the Buddhist monk. He is my only strength. I remove my shoes while watching the TSA agents pad down dangerous octagenarians and search strollers like rats seeking tasty morsels in a garbage bin. I am reminded of a Bosch painting. I am urgently ushered through the metal detector and give way to my first sigh of relief when the sirens do not wail at my passing. But then, the little imp behind the x ray conveyer belt lets out a sound like a hiccup and the belt comes to a stop. "Shit!" I think, but my bag is past his inspection point. I hold my breath, wondering if he'll hit the reverse buttone to more closely examine my underwires, packed so carefully in a discreet compartment of my carry on. After all, they could appear to the trained eye, as a detonation device, cleverly disguised as a couple of bras. The horn beaked man grumbles a little and releases the conveyer belt to its forward motion. I close my eyes and sigh relief once again. I am almost free. I huddle all my sundry possessions to me and put on my slip on shoes worn solely for this one purpose of getting through purgatory and hell. I smooth myself over and prepare to continue into the airport, leaving the din behind me. And as I step away from security the wide expanse of the terminal before me, I am greeted by, I kid you not, no less than the "PARADISE" bakery and cafe. I stopped and dropped my bags. I couldn't help it. Laughing, I snapped a picture of the place on my camera phone - I'm not lying, I attached a link to the picture below. I can't make this crap up. I confused the hell out of a guy standing off to the right of the picture. I'm sure he thought I was psycho, as he refused to make any kind of eye contact with me, but how can you pass up the opportunity to document such irony. I laughed all the way to the freakin' gate. Image at: http://forums.armourarchive.org/phpBB2/files/paradise_191.jpg