The Ice Castle

Crits

2004-06-14T07:17:17Z

My apologies for everyone, I was posting two crits last night when puter crashed, shall re-do them in the course of the day.

crossposted from lumatorium

2004-04-18T23:19:42Z

I actually came across this particular marvel a while ago but I thought it bore mentioning here.

So, what could be better than Tarot, with its ancient, elegant symbolism and dolphins, sweet jolly creatures that they are? Why, it's Tarot and dolphins put together!!! Magical.

For instant gratification, go here.

Firstly, as someone with an incomplete Tarot deck, I admire Ms. Kocsis's efforts in designing and completing her own and getting it published. Also, whatever I may think of the content of the images themselves, technically she seems quite skilled so kudos to her.

I take issue with it though for the following reasons:

1) It's hopelessly Twee. It has nothing at all to do with what Tarot symbolism is all about (there's no depictions of the mascluine for starters). They sell short the complexity, the richness and versatility of the Tarot. They reduce its intricate Archetypes to the level of stickmen drawn with crayon by four year olds on acid.

Fine, you might say. Not everyone gives a fuck about the inner masculine and feminine. They don't want to discuss Archetypes. Not everyone cares about symbolism and subtle meanings. Some people like mermaids and dolphins and want to look at pictures of them.

Nonetheless, I feel it is as representative of my craft as Ally McBeal was of lawyers and as such, express my disdain.

2) While it is certainly *different* from the classical Tarot imagery, I feel it is bland and fairly uninspired. It's women and dolphins. By contrast, an example of true visionary genius in a similar vein is http://www.womenanddogsuk.co.uk

3) She charges $75 for this infamy.

And the pleasure need not stop there. For added stimulation I suggest you view Samantha's guestbook. It showcases many insightful and delighful observations, but I was particularly grabbed by the following:

"Stunning deck! I just had to have it and it was worth every penny and more! I just love your colors and your vision of tarot. Out of all my decks (115) yours is the best! Keep creating your wonderful artwork"

Although I appreciate that Tarot is a magnificent thing owning 115 decks smacks a touch of obsession, to say the least.

Snark and hear the Angels sing...

2004-04-18T22:47:37Z

http://www.livejournal.com/community/lumatorium/

teee heee heee

thieved from ladybug218

2004-04-04T09:12:22Z

1: Grab the book nearest to you, turn to page 18, find line 4. Write down what it says:

The book is The troublesome offspring of Cardinal Guzman by Louis de Bernieres, and the line is: "Her life as a whore had given her a great love of her freedom, but at this time she felt the lack of a helpmeet."

2: Stretch your left arm out as far as you can. What do you touch first?

Coffee table

3: What is the last thing you watched on TV?

the film Regeneration

WITHOUT LOOKING, guess what time it is:

approx 10 am

Now look at the clock, what is the actual time?:

09:52 am

With the exception of the computer, what can you hear?:

Cars on the street, my mother on the other end of the phone.

7: When did you last step outside? what were you doing?

Last night to go shopping.

8: Before you came to this website, what did you look at?

The contents of hte fridge

9: What are you wearing?

pink t-shirt and black underwear

10: Did you dream last night?

Yes. Something convoluted.

11: When did you last laugh?

Probably a couple of days ago.

12: What is on the walls of the room you are in?:

Lots and lots of paintings, one wooden carving and some bookshelves.

13: Seen anything weird lately?:

Not that I can recall

14: What do you think of this quiz?:

It's more entertaining than listening to a list of blood kin's grievances.

15: What is the last film you saw?:

Regeneration

16: If you became a multi-millionaire overnight, what would you buy first?:

A small tropical island. And some new bookshelves.

17: Tell me something about you that I don't know:

I used to study palmistry.

18: If you could change one thing about the world, regardless of guilt or politics, what would you do?:

I would promote tolerance and the principles of the sacred feminine.

Or have politicians only permitted to dress as barnyard animals of thier choice.

19: Do you like to dance?:

Yes. :D

20: George Bush: is he a power-crazy nutcase or some one who is finally doing something that has needed to be done for years?:

Power-crazy moronic nutcase

21a: Imagine your first child is a girl, what do you call her?:

Ivy

21b: Imagine your first child is a boy, what do you call him?:

Mattei

22: Would you ever consider living abroad?:

In Yugoslavia for a bit, maybe.

colour me turquoise

2004-04-01T08:19:20Z

Your Energy is Turquoise. Full of fresh ideas,
liveliness, and imagination, you bring faith
and enlightenment to others. You usually
project a calm and cool exterior and are
capable of dealing with demanding events with a
take it in stride attitude. You tend to see
things clearly and dont panic easily.

You relate well to the world of ideas and anything
innovative. You would make an excellent
inventor, scientist, quantum physicist, airline
pilot, astronomer or New Age entrepreneur.

What color is your energy?
brought to you by Quizilla

islen @ 2004-03-22T15:57:00

2004-03-22T15:57:12Z

My Dad
22.03.1946-17.10.1989

the sad saga

2004-03-20T19:08:28Z

So today, I am finally getting my head around pennydreadfuls. It hath been driving me absolutely bonkers.

I tried writing trash, I really did, and I just couldn't do it. I tried making it into overblown victoriana but was unable to keep at it, even for a good cause. So I ended up deleting the lot.

THen I started toying with the idea of writing things in my usual style, fleshing out some of the storylines I had previously come up with, but I realised they were very character driven and I wouldn't be able to make them last plot-wise, probably because they never had a whole lot of plot to begin with. ;) Certainly I'd not be able to work cliffhangers into it, cliffhangers don't really figure in the sorts of stories I normally write.

But today my muse took pity on me, and inspiratin struck and I came up with a workable plot. I had been reading Julian Branston's The Eternal Quest (a nifty tribute to Cervantes and Don Quixote which gave me the spark of an idea which in turn caused my creative epiphany)

*excited bouncing*

here we go:

The Plot and the People (but as yet no title)

Cast of Characters:

Rue- an imperious, volatile and insane sorceress.

Akala- one of the nomadic tribespeople and her protector and guide.

Griffyn- lean mean thief, scavanger, street-smart mercenary. No loyalties except to himself, and no goals beyond survival and building a place of security in the world.

Sir Galahad Chamberlain, Knight of the Realm A chivalrous, dignified, idealistic old man, now mostly a relic of a lost age.

Silvenes A corrupt and lazy priest.

The Storyline:

An alternate universe, and a world in the wake of cataclysmic natural disasters and a civil war. The onetime King is dead, trade and commerce shattered, cities collapsed and survivors gathered in fortified villages and old keeps.

In the world the struggle for power is on, between various factions; in the West a dark mage of megalomanic inclinations is plotting to gain supremacy through finding and taking control of a lost, powerful arcane artifact. To this end he sends out his acolyte Griffyn to search for the relic and sew chaos and disorder throughout the wounded world.

In another place, an insane sorceress dreams of a magical artefact and where it can be found, and guided by her vision and one of the tribespeople who venerate her, she goes in search of it, in the company of an old knight setting out on one last quest hoping to attain the artefact and use it to help establish the dead king's son on the throne so that he may heal the rifts of a weakened kingdom.

The small company sets out on a perilous journey through the world. They are joined by Griffyn who hopes they will lead him to the relic so that he may use it for his own ends...

That's the basic premise. :) I've figured out more or less the beginning and the end and some of the twists in the middle. I think I've got enough material with the characters and the plot to keep me going and allow me to write in installments. :)

*off to brainstorm for titles*

I love this

2004-03-19T11:05:17Z

http://www.illwillpress.com/rant.html

you need to have your speakers on

islen @ 2004-03-12T13:11:00

2004-03-12T13:13:48Z

"Marijuana? Cocaine? I'm not going to talk about what I did as a child"

"This is Preservation Month. I appreciate preservation. It's what you do when you run for president. You gotta preserve." Speaking during Perseverance month at Fairgrounds Elementary School in Nashua, New Hampshire, 2000

"Oh Yeah, the guy who came with the runner" When asked about a meeting with former Conservative Party leader William Hague and his chief of staff, Olympic champion athlete Sebastian Coe.

"The important question is, how many hands have I shaked" Answering a question about why he hadn't spent more time in New Hampshire in 1999

"Will the highways on the internet become more few?" Concord, New Hampshire, 2000

"That;s a chapter, the last chapter of the 20th, 20th, the 21st century that most of us would rather forget.The last chapter of the 20th century. This is the first chapter of the 21st century." Arlington Heights, Illinois, 2000

"I know how hard it is for you to put food on your family." Greater Nashua, New Hampshire, Chamber of Commerce 2000

"It's clearly a budget. It's got a lot of numbers in it." Reuters, 5 may 2000

"The most important job is not to be governor, or first lady in my case." Concord, New Hampshire 2000

"I was raised in the west. The west of Texas. It's pretty close to California. In more ways than Washington DC is close to California." Los Angeles, 2000

"The only thing I know about Slovakia is what I learned first hand from your foreign minister, who came to Texas." To a Slovak journalist in 1999 before his meeting with Janez Drnovsek- The Prime Minister of Slovenia

"States should have the right to enact reasonable laws and restrictions particularly to end the inhumane practice of ending a life that otherwise could live." Cleveland, Ohio 2000

"I think we agree the past is over."

"People make suggestion on what to say all the time. I'll give you an example. I don't read what's handed to me. People say *Here, here's your speech, or here's an idea for a speech.* They're changed. Trust me." Interview with the New York times, 2000

"The only things that I can tell you is that every case I have reviewed I have been comfortable with the innocence of guilt of the person that I've looked at. I do not believe we've put a guilty... I mean innocent person to death in the state of Texas." US radio show ALl Things Considered, 2000

islen @ 2004-03-12T06:33:00

2004-03-12T07:16:18Z

A remembered thing, a string of bright beads, falling repeatedly these past nights in dreaming. The vision is always the same, a bright snake falling, falling, just about to hit the ground.

In my mind it repeats over and over again and I watch it transfixed.

As if in that falling thing, in its breaking pieces I can see my own life coming apart. I remember things fragmenting. The sound of shattered glass. The feel of my own heart breaking like a necklace on stone.

In my mind it spirals, it falls the way leaves do. It has not the gentleness of leaves.

I remember things, pieces of things. I understand them only now, long after the events themselves have passed. I remember the man when I was twelve or thirteen. I didn't understand sex then. I didn't know how to read or interpret its energy. It was just a puzzling language on the edge of the senses, easy to disregard for one who was lonely and one who had steadily been learning to shut out thier inner knowing, one who was just learning to speak the outward tongues of humans.

I remember how he touched me, and how he spoke and the things at the edges of it, beyond it. It was never overt. But he liked to hug me. He liked to make me sit on his lap. He played with my hair and he liked it when I hugged him or kissed him on the cheek. He played tickle games with me, sometimes he'd kiss the back of my neck and I'd giggle at the tingley way it made me feel and wriggle away because of the other feeling, a nameless thing that did not know how to shape the words to name itself.

It was all fairly innocent, the touching was never explicitly sexual and I think he delighted in my innocence. I'd been told I was ugly in various ways for so long that I thought no one would ever consider me attractive, I just never thought I had an appealing dimension. And I was missing my dad. I was aching. I craved the companionship of older males. Father figures. Love and embraces. Kind people in a strange world, people who'd fill the awful gaping holes inside or at least mask them for a time. I was so desperate for touch, for love, I was willing to do almost anything for it.

He didn't molest me, not physically, and looking back I don't feel scarred, only sad. I recall the energy of it though. Ever since I could remember I've been sensitive to the shifting energy people send out. Each feeling, each thought, each action has its own particular frequency and usually I can feel their textures very clearly, like a blind person who reads through sensing, and touch. Except that some of it only makes sense to me now, the way English was unfathomable once upon a time.

I have learned about sex and sexuality, the languages and dialects of attraction and longing and desire. Its light and shadow face. And I can feel the energy of it, a pent up sexual thing that came out from his pores, that leaked from his eyes and his mouth and his hands. I can feel its prints on my skin, on my hair and inside me, in my bones. I understand now why the encounters with him always made me feel slightly wrong, and unclean. Like eating junk food.

I don't think he ever thought of it as wrong, or something that would hurt me. He would not have forced, but he would have coerced. He was coercing. To the outward eye it looked fine, and continues to do so. To the outward eye my life has always seemed idyllic. But the outward eye does not see the things between the lines, nor does it see with my secret senses, or understand that the feel of that energy is the same as if he had been rubbing himself up against me.

I don't remember everything. The beginnings and ends, a scattering of middle pieces. A bone deep revulsion for the smell of semen.

But I can still feel the energy. It feels pallid and cold. Like mist or wet leaves. Like dead sperm.

It tastes of sadness, and ash.

Things to do when you are ill

2004-03-10T18:12:14Z

So, I went through my old fils on my computer. These are mostly writings from 1997 (seven years ago. Good God) and I did a lot of cringing. And a lot of deleting (even though I kept some of the files for amusement sake)

I cannot believe how prolific I was as a writer once upon a time. Or that I thought that the stuff I wrote looked good. That's the most unbelievable part. Kind of like people seeing pictures of themselves from the eighties I suppose and gagging at what they wore/their hairdos.

I still have some of my first stories from when I started writing about age 8 and they are full of little gems such as *Then the brave Bonjo ran away* (Bonjo was a dog. I have no idea how I came up with some of these names- it was probably the work of malefic immortals).

I remember at 17 that I started writing again, working on my fantasy epic Dragonsong and at 100,000+ words and not even complete an epic it is. And I showed it to people. And they seemed excitement about seeing the next installment, and they read it, and they said it was good.

Re-reading it now, I can only assume that they were kind but illiterate or that the bastards lied.

I don't know how on earth I got the idea that tossing a bunch of adjectives and emotion-laden words would make the writing good. Thinking it was good was a cruel illusion. It is not good. It is dreadful. It is the anathema of everything I consider good writing.

1) It is obvious 2) It really fucking overloads on the adjectives/and the excessively flowery/emotive language (e.g. Briallen felt a leaden heaviness rip through her heart, she howled her unbearable piercing anguish to the silent idyllic wood) 3) the majority of my characters were far too fit 4)anything of my storylines which could be gleaned from between the adjectives was heavy on angst, drama and romanticism. It was unsubtle for the most part. I left little to the imagination, or to the intellectual capacities of the reader. I kept telling the reader what to think (e.g. calling my characters courageous, explainign the feelings a situation brings up) instaed of allowing the reader to exercise their own cognitive faculties and make up their own mind.

I really am thinking of deleting the whole lot because it is not something I want associated with my name. I am tempted however to take segments and post a then and now thing. An original piece and what I would do to it now (aside from burn the thing).

Graaght. Just graaght. I understand that I was young, and I was learning. But still. *shudder*
I have this same reaction when I think of some of my ex-bfs. I would like to think that if I met them now, I wouldn't even have lunch let alone consent to sleep with these people.

islen @ 2004-03-01T10:18:00

2004-03-01T11:04:37Z

I've messed around with the look of my journal and now it is pretty and purple.

*pets screen*

Toying with the ideas for pennydreadfuls and I think I will make it swords'n'sorcery type deal. I have a novella called Dragonsong written some six years ago (and quite frankly dire)which I think I can restructure and resurrect. It was an action/adventure type deal and it was dreadful.

I don't read fantasy much anymore, tend to find it dreadful but I was addicted to it once. I admit that I am a perfectionist and I have disowned my early writings (tend to cringe in horror when I read them) but the basic ideas were good as were the basic worldbuilding elements so they are all things I long to come back to another time.

My idea number 2 is to write a trashy romance novel, something I have had a long-standing hankering for. I require the presence of tack damnit, now that I no longer have Channel 5 {*insert disconsolate weeeping here*}.

Hot pink feather boas are just not enough by themselves.

The joy of 69

2004-02-24T14:33:04Z

Story written for this weeks musemuggers challenge which was to write a story exactly 69 words long.

There is a tree that grows by the lake, its branches tipped towards water as though reaching out to touch the boy who drowned, the boy who fell straight down like Icarus. The tree says nothing, but it sighs. It had rained leaves and bark for the boy’s long fall, his echoing cry. The surface holds a secret, the sky’s flat blue eye, the wind and waves a lullaby.

and the second is a story for Nance who pointed out that if you are writing a 69 word stories you really should have at least one dirty one.

It's sick and twisted but so am I.

There were so many things which drew him to her. Her curling hair, her large soft eyes. The teasing glances she cast him over her shoulder, the sultry swaying of her rump. He seeks her out in the fields, he reaches for her, he shouts with his lust. Fills his burning dreams with the curve of her ears, her fine strong legs, the soft cries of her passion: Baaaaaaa.

NB. No sheep were harmed in the writing of this tale.

I actually really like the format, so I hope to be adding on more bits and pieces later as I found them easy to write.

Giggliness

2004-02-19T00:26:28Z

Donald Rumsfeld's Kung Fu. :)

I have CDs :)

2004-02-18T20:03:11Z

Two of them in fact: Bill Hicks and Dar Williams. I'd been yearning for both for ages.

I've been a Dar fan for a while now, and happily I think she continues to get better. I loved The Green World but I'm even more deeply enchanted with The Beauty of the Rain

One of the reasons why I love Dar is because her songs read like poetry to me and sometimes feel like they speak directly of the stuff that I have experienced.

Oh my fair North star, I have held to you dearly, I have asked you to stter me
Til one cloud scattered night, I got lost in my travels I met Leo the lion
Met a King and met a giant, With their errant light

There's the wind and the rain, and the mercy of the fallen
Who say they have no claim to know what's right.
THere's the weak and the strong and the beds that ahve no answer,
And that's where I may rest my head tonight.

I saw all the bright people, In imposing flocks they landed, And they got what they demanded,
And they scratched at the ground. THen they flew, and the field, Grew as sweetly for the flightless,
WHo had longing yet despite this, THey could hear every sound.

There's the wind and the rain, and the mercy of the fallen
Who say they have no claim to know what's right.
THere's the weak and the strong and the beds that ahve no answer,
And that's where I may rest my head tonight.

If your sister or your brother were stumbling on thier last mile, In a self-inflicted exile,
You'd hope they'd meet a humble friend. And I hope someday That the best of Falstaff's planners
Give me seven half-built manors, WHere half-dreams may dream without end.

There's the wind and the rain, and the mercy of the fallen
Who say they have no claim to know what's right.
THere's the weak and the strong and the many stars that guide us, We have some of them inside us.

I have been singing a lot in the past few days ever since I had a dream last week in which I was a rock star and belted out rock tunes onstage. I am really inhibited about my voice based partially on the reach of my father's shadow (he had been an opera singer before he gave it up) and getting told as a child that I sounded like a crow.

My dad had the voice that could stop your breathing and send shievers down your spine. An incredible, rare, profound and resonant voice and an unusual range (bass baritone). I've known from the beginning that even if I had the purest voice ever I could never match his, and thanks to his own spectaculalrly inept teachings of me I am really terrified of music, but occasionally I get music inside me that demands to be let out and I just sing and although I haven't a clue what my voice actually sounds like I know I've hit the right pitch and the right note and it is like a little bit of magic right there. Because I find my own groove and it is though something inside of me is allowed to be set free, though I can only do this when I am alone, I freeze at the thought of someone listening to me.

Last time I saw my therapist we ended up talking about fire, it being the element which I am most lacking in and how to connect with it, how to summon it into my life in a method other than my usual one of surrounding myself with fiery people. ;) One of my ways of doing that is through art, I use a lot of reds, and another is through the singing.

Doing illustrations has really made me forget how much I actually love painting and how freeing it is for me when I allow myself to mess around with colours and surreal imagery.

A few days ago I had a dream in which I came across a man who had many caged animals and I pleaded with him for thier libeartion. Now, I usually suck at dream analysis when it comes to me but sometimes something clicks and I can see patterns and themes.

THere were many tied up animals, but in particular I was drawn to a young elephant in a cage (the elephant equivalent of a ten year old human child). It was chained by a leg and shot full of arrows. On the floor of the cage were snakes in a sack. When I was writing the dream down in my journal it clicked with me that the elephant was me, my child self so I've set about fidning all my old colours and doing sketches for a series of paintings I am calling Releasing the Elephant

oooh. I'm brilliant allegedly.

2004-02-18T15:52:24Z

You're Roots!

by Alex Haley

While almost everyone agrees that you're brilliant, no one knows quite
how to categorize you. Some say that you're a person with an amazing family tree. Some
say that you're just a darn good storyteller. Others say that you're both and don't much
care where to draw the line. What is known is that your people have been through a great
number of trials and that you are where you are because of hard work. You have nothing to
lose but your chains.

Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

islen @ 2004-02-17T20:30:00

2004-02-17T20:30:48Z

nicked from ladybug218

islen

Weather Loach

Agility
4

Strength
4

Stamina
8

Battle Rating
16

Origins
islen exploded onto the scene after releasing a number-1 hit single

islen @ 2004-02-16T21:05:00

2004-02-16T21:19:48Z

My goodness, I've had a difficult time getting back into the swing of things.

Lately I've been really happy for two reasons: 1) my friend Nance is back and out and about (*excited bouncing at the return of spiritual twin*), 2) I am finally getting real clarity in my life and relationships and 3) I have two new pink t-shirts.

I am back, or trying to be, although my brain still hasn't had time to catch up with me and do organised things like write and make comments on other people's writing.

Hurray for the gay wedding fest in San Francisco: http://www.authenti-city.com/friday.htm (link stolen from the very lovely auzerais )

This, I think, is just too good not to be shared everywhere:

http://www.uglyweddingdress.com

ANd I am glad when I finally get around to taking over the world I can get all my needs cateref for at: http://www.villainsupply.com

Also, no reason not to celebrate being single when one can be meeting new friends at: http://www.meet-an-inmate.com

My goodness, how I love the web.

Not the Standard Holiday News

2004-01-22T09:23:42Z

I may be staying around longer than expected. I don't know yet, it will all depend on what happens in the next few days, whether I can move my ticket, whether I can get better healthcare here than in Britain.

During a routine checkup to look at something else (blood glucose and testosterone levels) they found a huge increase in another hormone, prolactin. It was fine in October, now it is through the roof.

Prolactin is a hormone secreted in increased levels during pregnancy and after childbirth to stimulate the production of breast milk. Since I'm not pregnant and am not breast feeding its presence in my blood stream is odd, and possibly a cause for concern.

The thing they want to rule out really is a (*insert drum roll here*)... brain tumour.

So, further blood tests to double check prolactin levels and see what the other hormones are doing and then an MRI scan.

Isn't life fun?

I was due to leave a week from today, so now I need to decide how worried I should be, and how much longer I'd need to extend my stay. I imagine in England the process would be a lot slower than here, a week to see my GP, weeks for them to refer me, and so on.

I am not really worried. It's a possibility not a certainty right now, and I think I am informed that prolactinomas (or the prolactin secreting tumours of the pituitary gland {pea-sized thing at base of brain}) are some of the most benign and slow-growing tumours around.

And besides which it would be the greatest excuse for not working. Yeah, sorry, can't come in to work today, still have brain cancer.

islen @ 2004-01-19T12:31:00

2004-01-19T11:35:12Z

Oh yes, I meant to say this before.

I am on vacation til end of Jan, scanty puter access and much to see and do in little time.

Apologies to the Musemuggers but looking forward to reading and writing again properly after I get back to UK.

*scatters some greetings and snowflakes*

Yes I accept some people will think I am crazy

2004-01-19T11:31:57Z

I've been having weird dreams. I think it is because I am finally in a place in my life where I am open to hearing, and appreciating messages as opposed to going Noooooooooooooo and running away to hide.

The toughest things I've had to learn was loss, and rolling with changes. How everything is impermanent.

People usually think I am crazy when I say that after I say goodbye to someone I never actually fully expect to see them again. This is not pessimism to me, so much as a type of common sense. I've had ample opportunity to learn about the instability of the world, and the gragility of its people. I am the descendant of refugees, i was born in a land that witnessed huge upheavals. I witnessed two of them. I've moved countries, I've moved cities, I've moved homes.

Hardest of all, I've lost way too many friends/loved ones to count in various little and big ways. Some permanently, through death, others through thir trekks and mine, through living in different places, or needing different things from one another. It got easier after I stopped resisting and just got on with things.

I just reach a point, get to that place of sort of tired resignation, almost bemusement, and then utter surrender. Thy will be done... The card from the Tarot, the Nine of Swords. Dark night of the soul that lasts up until the point when you just let go, and then even if things still hurt they become easier.

Sometimes I have dreams that I am in some clear or pleasant place and my guide is there. My angel. The one that looks after me. And we talk. And my angel tells me the things I need to know, or things I'm not too keen on knowing or things that will happen soon. Sometimes in the dreams I see images in the pool of water. Sometimes I ask questions and the angel responds yes, or no. And sometimes I just get feelings.

Usually afterwards, I swear copiously and do my best to ignore everything, and just occasioanlly I pay attention and actually listen. And then swear copiously and throw a few a things.

islen @ 2004-01-12T01:39:00

2004-01-12T01:55:50Z

Based on dubaiyan's reccomendation and feath's useful comments about decreasing valueof dollar vs. the pound I ordered the O. Henry Award Short stories 2003 off amazon.com.

Largely I did this because I wanted to read The Deep by Mary Swan, and I loved it. Loved it, loved it, loved it.
I thought it was elegant and terrific, and now I want to read more of Mary Swan (but will wait until bank balance looks healthier).

Instead I've been browsing through some of the great local charity shops and came away with a few little treasures. THe Dinasaur in a Haystack by Stephen Jay Gould is an intersting collection of essays on natural history.

On the other hand Carl Sagan's Broca's Brain (another collection of essays) has gone AWOL and this is very sad because I hadn't finished with it.

However in another turn of fate Hideous Kinky (which I read half of and liked) has re-appared through circumstances no less mysterious, lending further evidence to the existence of sock and book stealing vortices in the house, which take them away to parallel dimensions and spit them out in odd places.

One of the books that remains my firm favourite is The Last Unicron by Peter Beagle. I loved it from the opening lines: The Unicorn lived in a lilac wood and she lived there all alone. She was very old though she did not know it, and she was no longer the careless colour of sea-foam, but rather the colour of snow falling on a moonlit night. to its conclusion. I thought it was both tragic and comic(I consider it a great satire) and hauntingly poetic.

I love each character from Schmendrick the completely inept magician, to the evil miserly king Haggard to the Unicron herself.

I watched the movie as a child under the misconception it was going to be a fun cartoon (it is about as fun as The Red Pony by Steinbeck) and I read the book as an adult, and didn't really get it, and then read it again and fell in love with every single line and syllable.

Another one of the stories I am sad not to have written but endlessly glad I got to read.

islen @ 2004-01-11T22:56:00

2004-01-11T22:43:06Z

Crossposting Musemuggers

Here were the elements of the challenge though I didn't really use all of them.
Theme of story: a dark quest
Main characters: an insane monk and a crippled singer
Story starts with flashback and finishes with journey.

I am running. My legs are long and lean and strong. I am swift as Loss, or as Desire.

This was long ago and far away. I have not walked in two winters. The running is one of memory-dreams. There are others. A quiet man. A screaming horse. Music. Snowflakes.

Outside of dreaming there is only the tree now.
My name is Morian and I am going to die.

I am what you might call a human sacrifice.
The sacred death is an annual event, and the monk calls it an honour, but not many people volunteer.

The Sha-Lunn monk has visions, which is part of what makes him both frightening and holy. He hears voices, the angry voice of the God, and the God’s kind voice which reveals how a land might be cleansed and safe-guarded. He often speaks of his mission, his holy task, and of the necessity of sacrifices. His visions show to him the God’s divine workings as well as the identity of the one the God wishes to summon.

It was not exactly a surprise when I was chosen.
In these uncertain times of raids and famine, the need is for the able-bodied, people to work the land and to defend it. Not singers, especially not crippled ones.

They braided my hair and wreathed it in flowers. They bathed me and dressed me in clean white cloth and then they gave me the juice of poppies to drink.

The monk had told me to sing, so I did. I sang as I was carried to the tree. I sang as they lifted me up and tied me to the boughs. I sang laments, and prayer-songs, and finally a lullaby. That was the first day. By the second day my throat was dry and parched, and produced only soft groans like those of the tree.

Time passed. It became night, and very cold.

On the ending of the second day the tree began to talk to me. And my vision filled itself with little explosions of colour, orange and crimson and yellow, like a flurry of leaves, constantly falling.

The hunger stops and starts. The cold and the fevered heat come in turns. Sometimes there is pain, in its thousand different incarnations. Sometimes there is nothing at all. But the thirst is always there. My tongue is dry and swollen, a dead thing.
The heart would cry, but the heart is a parched river bed.

On the tree, in its stillness, everything is amplified. Everything intense. There are moments in which I am filled with fits of laughter, and hilarity, there are moments by which I feel connected to every leaf and root and blade of grass, moments in which I feel the most alive I’ve ever felt.

Sometimes I become the tree. I meld into its branch. I develop deep roots and a taste for sunlight. I think I can sense each mouse hollow, each bird flight, each twist in the bark.

On the tree, my dreams are simple. Running. Water. Warmth. That is all.

On the third day, I began to lose my sight. By then I have counted the passage of 862 clouds and nine different kinds of pain. There is the cramp pain, and needle pain, there is the dull throbbing pain, there is the crushing stone pain, the twisting knife pain, the ice pain, the burning throat pain, the searing-cleaving pain and the last one, the untouchable, shadow one that is always there. The phantom pain, the memory pain.

Most of them I’ve known before, but the long, relentless, killing stretches of boredom are new. Before I lost my vision, I had grown to hate the sky.

After my legs were shattered time passed not in sunsets and sunrises but in breaths and heartbeats and in red-tinged darknesses. Once, I measured the passing of time and pain against that first night after I fell from the horse and the horse fell on me, when they carried me on the travois and each jolt and crook and lurch went through my body like a new breaking.

That was before the tree. Time is meaningless here. But time passes all the same. Each dawn is a revival, when warmth seeps back into my limbs, and the Sun is a gift, and an embrace, a friend, a lover, a blessing, a communion between the God and me. I am exultant and vibrant and delirious. Thereafter begins the descent to my long death, the freezing night, in series of little dyings.

On the fourth day the rain fell. It filled my moth and my eyes and my nose. The water cleaned me, revived me. I cried. I felt pure as snow, as mountain air.

I remember snow. I’d seen it once, as a child, when we rode. My father lifted me up from the saddle and I caught it on my tongue. It was white and cold, and tasted of nothing.

The rain tastes slightly of salt. If I twist my tongue I can lick it from the corner of my mouth.

The Hafizim had tales of a diety they called the Sea Queen, who lived on the bottom of the sea and walked among the remains of dead boats and dead men, weeping. They say she is unclothed but for her long hair and the strands of pearls she wears looped about herself and that seashells hold the echoes of her songs. They say she seeks out the drowned and gathers their bones gently as flowers.

But the Sea Queen wept for men, not women. There is no one to grieve for me, on my high tree. Most times, in a curious way I am glad of it. Most times but not all. Sometimes I am too lonely, and angry for that.

The rain fell and kept falling. At first it was a blessing and then it was a thousand tiny needles that stung my skin, and then it became pure cold that stole into my bones and stayed there.

I tell myself I am not in a tree, but in a field, or a glade, in a circle of sunlight or fragrant grass.
I try to remember my happinesses, to gather them up. To link them together like a string of stars, like the notes of a song. to wrap them around myself over and over until I am like a thing of legend, a Sea Queen, encased in pearls.

Sometimes I attempt to recall the songs I used to know, or make up a song about the tree. Often I hear music, drums, or the reed flute Haitari played and my own voice longs to answer, to craft and follow a bright pathway of notes out of myself and into oblivion.

I think of the places where my people dwelled, or of my father, or of the man who’d been my lover, but most often I think about dying . The monk said The House of the God has many mansions, and the worthy will dwell there forever. But I have little understanding of, and longing for walls. My ancestors believed that winged horses come to take them to Arda’s Gate and that death is a journey, a beginning of something else not a resting place.

On my fifth day on the tree I saw the boy. He sat in the branches playing. He crooned a song. He had dark blond hair and very pale skin and a long red wound across his neck. There was a time when they had slashed the throats of the chosen, before the Sha-Lunn decided that a long death was more pleasing to a God.

I am afraid, I say. The boy laughs. Silly thing, the end comes anyway.
It did.

That was the seventh day.

I am an Encoding Dumbass

2004-01-06T10:00:55Z

Or else I shouldn't write anything when tired. Eeep. Apologies for the more incomprehensible sections of previous post which LJ won't let me go back and edit.

arrgk.

islen @ 2004-01-06T02:03:00

2004-01-06T02:03:39Z

From the booklists posted by (lj user="feath")

I am miffed that some of my favouire books are not on there.

*The Unicorn* by Peter Beagle as well as the writings of the genius that is Kate Atkinson and Zadie Smith. Neither is *NeverEnding Tale*- a shame, I think it is a brillaint book.

Jane Eyre
Charlotte Bronte I read this in Serb, and it is probably better in English. I loved it though, even though it made me really paranoid about my features- the book mentions the ugliness of Mr. Rocheter's square forehead and ever since then I've been contemplating the unattractiveness of own squre forehead.

Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee
Dee Brown I like a lot of the historical pieces and this was beautiful, even though I creid a lot. I also like Creek Mary's Blood by the same author.

The Cherry Orchard
Anton Chekhov Good play.

The English Patient
Michael Ondaatje I think I need to read this one again to refresh my memory.

Hamlet and King Lear by
William Shakespeare A work of dark genius, both of them.

One Day In the Life of Ivan Denisovich Aexander Solzhenitsyn- manages to be short and interminable at the same time but is powerfully evocative all the same.

Pride and Prejudice Jane Austen- great book, although ony appreciate it now.

East of Eden John Steinbeck why this man is hailed as such a genius is beyond me (and I haven't forgiven him for the trauma of The Red Pony). All his work I find a bit pretentious and overdramatic, but film not bad.

. Robinson Crusoe Daniel Defoe
I remember reading and loving this as a child, even though I didn't think it was nearly as good as Jungle Book or Tarzan.

Dangerous Liaisons Pierre Choderlos De Laclos I started this and never finsihed it. I was reading it as a teenager and I remember thinking that too much letter writing and not enough shagging, but I think I would appreciate it now.

The Charterhouse of Parma Stendhal
Read this ages ago in French class and hated it, although possibly because a lot of the classics irritate me (far too flowery and descriptive style for my personal taste) and I resented being forced to read things.

. Madame Bovary Gustave Flaubert
I need to read this again, but I quite enjoyed this at the time although I am not sure what about it I liked.

. Alice's Adventures In Wonderland Lewis Carroll
Mad and wonderful.

Anna Karenina Leo Tolstoy
My chief objection to this novel is its interminable length, ahtough I appreciate it was written in a differnt time and was the television equivalent of that era. Anna irritated me from the stat. As far as I am concerned the high point comes when she throws herself under a train, even if you do have to wade through two volumes to get there.

Huckleberry Finn Mark Twain
I think I need to read this in English, as a lot of the humour of Twain is lost in translation and I read this as a child.

The Picture of Dorian Gray Oscar Wilde
I love Oscar Wilde.

The Call of the Wild Jack London
*sniff* I cried incosolably at the ending. .

A Bend in the River V. S. Naipaul
I adore Naipaul's writing, he has a beautiful style and prose, although I remember aA house for Mr. Biswas best and would need to re-read his other works.

. The BFG Roald Dahl
liked this as a kid.

. The Book of Laughter and Forgetting Milan Kundera
I've developed a fondness for Kundera, after the initial revulsion.

. Northern Lights Philip Pullman
I thought this was great.

. Black Beauty, Anna Sewell I was inconsolable for days, but I was gripped by the book.

. Memoirs Of A Geisha, Arthur Golden fascinating insgiths into antoher culture and its mix of sophistication and savagery.

I love all of Terry Pratchett (except for Strata and Monstrous Regiment) and the Harry Potter books grew on me (though I think Prisoner of Azkaban remains the high point)./

. Bridget Jones's Diary, Helen Fielding I was dissapointed with this, had been expecting it to be more engaging and funnier.

The God Of Small Things, Arundhati Roy I adore this book. It breaks my heart every time, as does A Fine Balance by Mistry but I still read and re-read it.

Magician, Raymond E Feist One of my favourite fantasy novels of all time, shame Feist has lost his touch and seems to just be flogging a dead horse of late.

The Clan Of The Cave Bear, Jean M Auel I was gripped, especially in the sequels with all the sex scenes.

. The Alchemist, Paulo Coelho i thought this was great

The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien I skipped massive segments of this book because it was driving me up the wall. The female characters are either superficial, or ornamental, or neurotic and all the singing and eating and drinking of the characters and the snail-like pace were maddening. Although I do remember it serving a powerful function as a sedative.

.1984 by George Orwell powerful, and terrific, but I had to read it in pieces because I could not stop crying.

.Animal Farm by George Orwell I cried all the way through this one too.

.The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger hated it the first time around, was moved to tears the second time. Love the character of his little sister and I nearly cried at the end when he is telling her his aspirations of being someone important,(helping others find their path through the rye)

.To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee looooove this

.One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia MarquezI fell in love with this partially because of the title, partially because it was so twisted and mad.

The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck I hated this book from start to finish. At least there are small mercies and the ridiculously named RoseOfSharon does not end up contributing to the genepool.

.Wild Swans by Jung Chang looooooong, but interesting for those who love history. I do, so I was gripped.

.The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald Fitzgerald frustrates me but his writing is pretty good in places.

.The Lord of the Flies by William Golding read this in school, appreciate it more now than did then.

The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame loved this

.Winnie the Pooh by A.A. Milne i love this also

.The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien I ate this up, loved it because it is so much punchier (and therefore I think, better) than LOTR.

.The Outsider by Albert CamusI like Camus

.The lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis I remember loving this. And mourning the non magical nature of my wardrobes

.Gone with the Wind by Margaret Mitchell this was a surprise pleasure

.The Hitchhiker?s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams he is a genius

.The Diary of Anne Frank by Anne Frank probably one of my most hated books of all time. The girl was an idiot and she couldn't write. Subject matter is interesting, and tragic but the writing is awful

.If This is a Man by Primo Levi deeply sad but powerful stuff

.Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov disturbing and terrific I think.

.A la Recherche du Temps Perdu by Marcel Proust I have not read this all the way through but I love the title and I liked a lot of the segments I read. (part of french teacher's attempts to educate us)

.Of mice and men by John Steinbeck I loathe Steinbeck.I think he is a pompous ass, and butchers what could be promising prose. some good characters in this one, and it was mercifully short.

.Beloved by Toni Morrison Powerful, but a bit on the confusing side. I tend to find Morrison's work somewhat difficult to absorb a lot of the time, but I keep going back to it
.Possession by A.S. Byatt beautifully crafted

Sophie?s World by Jostein Gaarder a mind boggle but interesting

The Name of the Rose by Umberto Ecobest thing Eco has written

The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera Kundera has been an aquired taste and I still hiss at some of his prose, but I like the vividness of the characters he creates.

.Birdsong by Sebastian Faulks powerful stuff I thought

.A Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irvine started reading this but found meany too irritating. love Irving's other books though.

.Gormenghast by Mervyn Peakesome brillaint prose but would be so much better if it was shorter IMHO. goes ott in Titus Alone, although I loved the creepiness of the duchess

The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath fascinating but irrated me after a while

.The Handmaid?s Tale by Margaret Atwood deeply creepy and troubling but I think she deserved the award she got for it. shame her other books aren't on here though

.Captain Corelli?s Mandolin by Louis de Berni?res i thought this was absolutely wonderful

.A Room with a View by E.M. Forsterlove love love it. the movie as well

.All Quiet on the Western Front by Erich Maria Remarque the film of this is brilliant and i thought both film and book very haunting

.Paddy Clarke ha ha ha by Roddy Doyle-skipped this in sections

.Matilda by Roald Dahl- first ever book in english

A Brief History of Time by Stephen Hawking <- want to read this one again sober

.James and the Giant Peach by Roald Dahl-prefer dahl's short stories such as Kiss Kiss (a lot more evil and entertaining)

.Lady Chatterley?s Lover by D.H. Lawrence <- read this largely because I had been told it was dirty and was largely dissapointed.

.Down and Out in Paris and London by George Orwell- kind of grotty but deeply disturbing and engaging at the same time.

.The Selfish Gene by Richard Dawkins loved this

Cry the Beloved Country by Alan PatonOne of my favourite books and films of all time

.High Fidelity by Nick Hornbycute but would probably be funnier if i knew more about music

#.The Horse Whisperer by Nicholas Evans I loved this, even though the end made me really sad