(Also be sure to follow along with Tina, Jean, Krista, and Tambo as they say much more sane and less esoteric things than me!)
I
can't recall my first exposure to blogging. It was back when the net
was new; back when LiveJournal was just starting out and hadn't been
sold to companies who decided liberally sprinkling the pages with ads
was somehow a good idea. I had wanted to keep a diary for a long time,
but frankly, I suck at diaries. I'm one of those people that purchases
them, keeps a day or two, then relegates them to the back of the
bookshelf so I don't have to feel guilty every time I run across the
empty pages. I thought maybe having people looking in on my work would
help my determination to keep up with it, so I made my first journal.
Like
all journals of young people, there was much emotion and angst, to the
point I don't know how I ever got followers. But I managed with well
over 100, which was a pretty respectable following in the early days of
the net. It helped my memory, my emotional equilibrium, and my life in
general. But at some point I befriended one too many of my flakier
followers. I screamed one too many times where a boyfriend or girlfriend
could see it. And the drama bomb exploded once too often in my lap.
So I abandoned it.
About
the point I felt I could take it back up again, LJ had added
advertisements, and it just didn't feel like the same place anymore. I
already paid for my account, I did my part to support LJ for years, and
saw no reason why I should be punished when times were lean. Especially
when I knew (as everyone there did) that they weren't exactly hurting
for money. I'd be there right now, but what's the point? I thought I'd
give a different blog site a try instead.
I've since thought of taking it up
again, as practice to getting back into daily writing. So far the
"daily" part is an uphill battle, but at least the "writing" is
happening. I am woefully behind, but I haven't given up.
Showing posts with label passion. Show all posts
Showing posts with label passion. Show all posts
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Friday, January 6, 2012
Superhero, Go! - Posting Challenge, Day 6
(Also be sure to follow along with Tina, Jean, Krista, and Tambo as they say much more sane and less esoteric things than me!)
All right, today I suppose I should be a little less obscure. Because I could be, you know. I have some severely weird superhero picks. ;)
However, I feel my mainstream choices are a little too mainstream as . Not because mainstream is bad, mind you, but because they are 1) all men, and 2) well known to the point that if you have to ask why I like them, you weren't paying attention.
I'll give them a quick cover anyway. Very quick.
Spiderman. The chuck-out-of-luck Peter Parker, the only superhero who visibly struggles trying to balance putting food on the table, romancing his girl, and saving the world. One of the few (aside from X-Men, who overblow the concept to ridiculousness) who receives flak for just trying to do what's right, and suffers persecution for it. In many ways Spiderman (at least as he was first conceived) is the Everyman, Joe Schmoe hit with something bigger than himself, and proving to himself and the world that absolute power does not have to corrupt absolutely...it all depends on where your priorities lie.
Why this picture? Dude, cheesecake is cool. And how often do you get a comic book female who looks like she still has all her organs? Though, that could be just a trick of the webs.
Wolverine. Brash, brooding, all male stereotype, and yet his sensitive side runs deep. He's an interesting one in modern comics in that the sensitive, thoughtful, smart part of him doesn't often get downplayed. In fact, it gets embraced. However, they are careful not to call it "sensitivity," oh no, it's him 'struggling with his inner demons,' or 'being haunted by ghosts of the past,' or other male code for "not a psycho killing machine with no emotions."
Wolverine is all strength. He feels love deeply and takes the loss of it hard every time. He is strong enough to place his blades to a friend's throat and offer to assist in their suicide when under extremes, and strong enough to go through with it and live with the consequences should it become necessary. He is a bad-ass, no doubt, and can tear through bad guys like a chainsaw through a paper mache tree. But his true strength lies in what he can take, not physically (though that's damn impressive), but emotionally. His healing powers will never heal those scars, and with veritable immortality at his fingertips, he has to live with them forever. And he does, quietly, and without complaint. He is strength personified, and he blows me away.
Batman. His most formidable weapon is his mind, something modern writers tend to forget in the morass of cool gadgetry they give him, but that even now shines through. He appeared in Detective Comics because that is what he was. Is. A costumed detective with a chip on his shoulder and a sense of justice so superdeveloped he makes Lady Justice blush and swoon. He plays with the big boys, keeping up with superpowers, geniuses, and people so evil their very continued existence breaks the Geneva Convention, and does so with nothing more than brains and a lot of cool gadgets. Speaking of sensitive, here is a man who went so severely PTSD about seeing his parents killed before his eyes that he either flipped his lid, or went very, very sane. He could easily have walked away, drowned his sorrows in Margaritas and a nice beach, his only nod to his tragic past hefty donations to the local police force. Instead, he dedicated his life to protection of the weak, putting his money, all his formidable resources, and his very body on the line for perfect strangers.
Why? Because it's right.
Three very, very impressive men. But, nonetheless, mainstream and male, and I have no doubts what I see, others see as well.
If you want to know the comics that moved me as a child, set many of my values, and carried me into adulthood, look no further than Elfquest:
There are not words for my fandom when it comes to this series. My life would be a poorer, more barren place without it, as would be my mind and heart.
Before some deluded commenter (yes you, the one hiding behind my other two lonely readers) says something about "Ew, elves," and proceeds to rant about their effeminate, cultured ways, how overdone the entire concept has become, or talks about how they're just a masturbation fantasy for girls...let me tell you, everything you learned about elves is wrong.
They never lived here, they lived on a world with two moons. Beings of energy more than physical form, they took the form of myths from a world they were visiting, but something went wrong with their ship, and they crash-landed there instead, stuck in frail bodies. However, they emerged to find themselves in a time too early, faced not with a cultured mankind, but primitive man...and primitive man did not like what he saw. He drove them away from their ship, into hiding, and those he did not kill the harsh rigors of survival took, until only a few remained.
In desperation, one of their kind--the only one still capable of shifting her shape--turned herself into a wolf, determined to learn all she could of survival from the hardy beasts and bring that knowledge back to her people. But she sank into wolf form too far, and forgot them until she she became pregnant, giving birth to a halfling that was as much wolf as elf. It was ultimately he, not she, who taught the remaining elves what they needed to know, bringing them strength, ferocity, and a connection to the world they were now exiles upon.
And that's just for starters. The rabbit hole goes far deeper from there.
It's a series that astounds. Love without ownership, a fierce interdependence of individuals all working towards a greater whole, the closeness of family, a code of ethics that is sometimes rigid but often must be determined on the fly, mistakes made and forgiven--sometimes bad ones, sacrifice, courage, responsibility, and pure blissful joy...the wisdom carried by these little four fingered dwellers just amazes.
They count as having superpowers, some can shape plants, some fly, some shape flesh, some heal, some speak to animals, and some do nothing at all. But their greatest superpower seems to be in their absolute acceptance of self. They are as flawed as any creature, ill tempers, bad judgments, and foolish actions abound. But their strength as a whole lies in the acceptance that one is no greater than the other, and that mistakes are simply a part of life. They are happy within their own skins, which makes them content to celebrate the happiness of others.
And because no one is considered "lesser" than another, no one is waste. Every elf brings something to the table. Skywise has no magic, and he seems no greater a fighter, hunter, or provider than any other Wolfrider, and in many cases is less so. But he brings knowledge, questions, a desire to reach beyond that seems to have been part of the influence that made Cutter the extraordinary chief he became. Redlance waits a long time before his powers finally blossom, and he, like Skywise, has no great skills. But he is valued for his gentle, almost healing nature. Treestump is a special delight for anyone from a youth-centric world. His outstanding contribution is...age. The Wolfriders respect him for all he has survived, and they acknowledge his wisdom, though he is hardly the stereotypical "wise elder." Instead, he is more like the tribes equilibrium, a sort of father figure, and a calm rock to rely on, even in the face of danger.
And so it goes. Everyone has value because everyone's value is recognized, and not just recognized, but sought after. The assumption is that if someone isn't bringing anything of value, it's because whatever makes them valuable simply hasn't been found yet. And through all the adventures, through all the epic battles, through all the magic and mayhem that constantly seems to surround them, this concept is what stuck with me the most. It's an ideal way of relating with one another that humans barely know how to dream for, much less strive for, given an achingly tangible form.
I truly believe that the idealized society in this story outlines what the human spirit could be, if only we loosed our self imposed shackles and set ourselves free. And, I suppose, more than the elves themselves, Wendy and Richard Pini are superheroes in my eyes, for opening my mind to a world, a culture, an ideal I barley knew existed, and giving me the ache to grasp it.
High Ones' blessings on you, my friends.
All right, today I suppose I should be a little less obscure. Because I could be, you know. I have some severely weird superhero picks. ;)
However, I feel my mainstream choices are a little too mainstream as . Not because mainstream is bad, mind you, but because they are 1) all men, and 2) well known to the point that if you have to ask why I like them, you weren't paying attention.
I'll give them a quick cover anyway. Very quick.
Spiderman. The chuck-out-of-luck Peter Parker, the only superhero who visibly struggles trying to balance putting food on the table, romancing his girl, and saving the world. One of the few (aside from X-Men, who overblow the concept to ridiculousness) who receives flak for just trying to do what's right, and suffers persecution for it. In many ways Spiderman (at least as he was first conceived) is the Everyman, Joe Schmoe hit with something bigger than himself, and proving to himself and the world that absolute power does not have to corrupt absolutely...it all depends on where your priorities lie.
Why this picture? Dude, cheesecake is cool. And how often do you get a comic book female who looks like she still has all her organs? Though, that could be just a trick of the webs.
Wolverine. Brash, brooding, all male stereotype, and yet his sensitive side runs deep. He's an interesting one in modern comics in that the sensitive, thoughtful, smart part of him doesn't often get downplayed. In fact, it gets embraced. However, they are careful not to call it "sensitivity," oh no, it's him 'struggling with his inner demons,' or 'being haunted by ghosts of the past,' or other male code for "not a psycho killing machine with no emotions."
Wolverine is all strength. He feels love deeply and takes the loss of it hard every time. He is strong enough to place his blades to a friend's throat and offer to assist in their suicide when under extremes, and strong enough to go through with it and live with the consequences should it become necessary. He is a bad-ass, no doubt, and can tear through bad guys like a chainsaw through a paper mache tree. But his true strength lies in what he can take, not physically (though that's damn impressive), but emotionally. His healing powers will never heal those scars, and with veritable immortality at his fingertips, he has to live with them forever. And he does, quietly, and without complaint. He is strength personified, and he blows me away.
Batman. His most formidable weapon is his mind, something modern writers tend to forget in the morass of cool gadgetry they give him, but that even now shines through. He appeared in Detective Comics because that is what he was. Is. A costumed detective with a chip on his shoulder and a sense of justice so superdeveloped he makes Lady Justice blush and swoon. He plays with the big boys, keeping up with superpowers, geniuses, and people so evil their very continued existence breaks the Geneva Convention, and does so with nothing more than brains and a lot of cool gadgets. Speaking of sensitive, here is a man who went so severely PTSD about seeing his parents killed before his eyes that he either flipped his lid, or went very, very sane. He could easily have walked away, drowned his sorrows in Margaritas and a nice beach, his only nod to his tragic past hefty donations to the local police force. Instead, he dedicated his life to protection of the weak, putting his money, all his formidable resources, and his very body on the line for perfect strangers.
Why? Because it's right.
Three very, very impressive men. But, nonetheless, mainstream and male, and I have no doubts what I see, others see as well.
If you want to know the comics that moved me as a child, set many of my values, and carried me into adulthood, look no further than Elfquest:
There are not words for my fandom when it comes to this series. My life would be a poorer, more barren place without it, as would be my mind and heart.
Before some deluded commenter (yes you, the one hiding behind my other two lonely readers) says something about "Ew, elves," and proceeds to rant about their effeminate, cultured ways, how overdone the entire concept has become, or talks about how they're just a masturbation fantasy for girls...let me tell you, everything you learned about elves is wrong.
They never lived here, they lived on a world with two moons. Beings of energy more than physical form, they took the form of myths from a world they were visiting, but something went wrong with their ship, and they crash-landed there instead, stuck in frail bodies. However, they emerged to find themselves in a time too early, faced not with a cultured mankind, but primitive man...and primitive man did not like what he saw. He drove them away from their ship, into hiding, and those he did not kill the harsh rigors of survival took, until only a few remained.
In desperation, one of their kind--the only one still capable of shifting her shape--turned herself into a wolf, determined to learn all she could of survival from the hardy beasts and bring that knowledge back to her people. But she sank into wolf form too far, and forgot them until she she became pregnant, giving birth to a halfling that was as much wolf as elf. It was ultimately he, not she, who taught the remaining elves what they needed to know, bringing them strength, ferocity, and a connection to the world they were now exiles upon.
And that's just for starters. The rabbit hole goes far deeper from there.
It's a series that astounds. Love without ownership, a fierce interdependence of individuals all working towards a greater whole, the closeness of family, a code of ethics that is sometimes rigid but often must be determined on the fly, mistakes made and forgiven--sometimes bad ones, sacrifice, courage, responsibility, and pure blissful joy...the wisdom carried by these little four fingered dwellers just amazes.
They count as having superpowers, some can shape plants, some fly, some shape flesh, some heal, some speak to animals, and some do nothing at all. But their greatest superpower seems to be in their absolute acceptance of self. They are as flawed as any creature, ill tempers, bad judgments, and foolish actions abound. But their strength as a whole lies in the acceptance that one is no greater than the other, and that mistakes are simply a part of life. They are happy within their own skins, which makes them content to celebrate the happiness of others.
And because no one is considered "lesser" than another, no one is waste. Every elf brings something to the table. Skywise has no magic, and he seems no greater a fighter, hunter, or provider than any other Wolfrider, and in many cases is less so. But he brings knowledge, questions, a desire to reach beyond that seems to have been part of the influence that made Cutter the extraordinary chief he became. Redlance waits a long time before his powers finally blossom, and he, like Skywise, has no great skills. But he is valued for his gentle, almost healing nature. Treestump is a special delight for anyone from a youth-centric world. His outstanding contribution is...age. The Wolfriders respect him for all he has survived, and they acknowledge his wisdom, though he is hardly the stereotypical "wise elder." Instead, he is more like the tribes equilibrium, a sort of father figure, and a calm rock to rely on, even in the face of danger.
And so it goes. Everyone has value because everyone's value is recognized, and not just recognized, but sought after. The assumption is that if someone isn't bringing anything of value, it's because whatever makes them valuable simply hasn't been found yet. And through all the adventures, through all the epic battles, through all the magic and mayhem that constantly seems to surround them, this concept is what stuck with me the most. It's an ideal way of relating with one another that humans barely know how to dream for, much less strive for, given an achingly tangible form.
I truly believe that the idealized society in this story outlines what the human spirit could be, if only we loosed our self imposed shackles and set ourselves free. And, I suppose, more than the elves themselves, Wendy and Richard Pini are superheroes in my eyes, for opening my mind to a world, a culture, an ideal I barley knew existed, and giving me the ache to grasp it.
High Ones' blessings on you, my friends.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Places I've Been - Posting Challenge, Day 5
I snagged links today! Also follow along with Tina, Jean, Krista, and Tambo as they say much more sane and less esoteric things than me. :)
Today's demand is a picture of somewhere I've been. Give me a minute.
I'm back.
Here you go:
Not what you expected?
Well, I could tell you about my life in one of five different states or around forty different cities and small towns. I could talk about the six or seven other states I have visited. I could speak of mountains, forests, scenic highways, oceans, swamps, fields, and deserts. I could talk of famous cities, of festivals and events, of clubs and nightlife, even of places that have briefly been home to me as I passed through area after area.
I won't. I'm not travel guide, and besides, you've probably already been there too. If you haven't, Google it.
I want to discuss something a little more...mythic. More surreal. Maybe even crazy. I want to talk about the place where I grew up.
Somewhere in the mind of every lonely child is a friend, just waiting to be imagined. And somewhere in the mind of every abused child is a still small place, a place they used to get away. And that a child suffering both, a creative, lonely, frightened child might create a populated world to flee to...it makes perfect psychological sense.
But it was real to me, real enough that it altered my entire life. It was a land where, in dark corners of the forest, trees bled and screamed. Where unicorns--real unicorns, not these pansy ass, horse-with-a-horn-Jesus-myth-virgin-loving-wanna-bes--were rare, beautiful, intensely magical...and were the terrifyingly vicious fighters of myth. (Seriously, I don't care how you depict a unicorn, but if you are drawing a horse with a horn, you're DOING IT WRONG.) It was a land with dangers around every corner and magic that was just a little too chaotic to be trusted, a war-torn land where children were disposable and people were suspicious and frightened even of familiar faces, and yet was also a land of incredible, awe inspiring beauty and endless, boundless potential.
I tried to write about it, in fact, spent most of my childhood locked in a battle with myself, trying to depict this inner world to my satisfaction. I eventually put that story down and moved on, after thirteen years of trying. I came to realize how difficult it was to capture, and if I succeeded in my dream, if I managed something so well that it could be published and shared but I made a mistake in that world, it would be cemented in print forever. The very thought felt like a betrayal. So I moved on to write stories about worlds that I cared about so much less. I still loved them, mind, but they weren't Home.
I suppose no one can capture the spirit of their home very well, even if they are writing pure nonfiction, and not about a world that lives in their head.
Maybe I'll take it up again, someday.
In the meantime...if you are following me through these posts, you'll recall I mentioned that I am a weirdness magnet. Let me leave you with a little weirdness that is--probably, maybe--all in my head.
But, you know? Maybe not.
Today's demand is a picture of somewhere I've been. Give me a minute.
I'm back.
Here you go:
Not what you expected?
Well, I could tell you about my life in one of five different states or around forty different cities and small towns. I could talk about the six or seven other states I have visited. I could speak of mountains, forests, scenic highways, oceans, swamps, fields, and deserts. I could talk of famous cities, of festivals and events, of clubs and nightlife, even of places that have briefly been home to me as I passed through area after area.
I won't. I'm not travel guide, and besides, you've probably already been there too. If you haven't, Google it.
I want to discuss something a little more...mythic. More surreal. Maybe even crazy. I want to talk about the place where I grew up.
Somewhere in the mind of every lonely child is a friend, just waiting to be imagined. And somewhere in the mind of every abused child is a still small place, a place they used to get away. And that a child suffering both, a creative, lonely, frightened child might create a populated world to flee to...it makes perfect psychological sense.
But it was real to me, real enough that it altered my entire life. It was a land where, in dark corners of the forest, trees bled and screamed. Where unicorns--real unicorns, not these pansy ass, horse-with-a-horn-Jesus-myth-virgin-loving-wanna-bes--were rare, beautiful, intensely magical...and were the terrifyingly vicious fighters of myth. (Seriously, I don't care how you depict a unicorn, but if you are drawing a horse with a horn, you're DOING IT WRONG.) It was a land with dangers around every corner and magic that was just a little too chaotic to be trusted, a war-torn land where children were disposable and people were suspicious and frightened even of familiar faces, and yet was also a land of incredible, awe inspiring beauty and endless, boundless potential.
I tried to write about it, in fact, spent most of my childhood locked in a battle with myself, trying to depict this inner world to my satisfaction. I eventually put that story down and moved on, after thirteen years of trying. I came to realize how difficult it was to capture, and if I succeeded in my dream, if I managed something so well that it could be published and shared but I made a mistake in that world, it would be cemented in print forever. The very thought felt like a betrayal. So I moved on to write stories about worlds that I cared about so much less. I still loved them, mind, but they weren't Home.
I suppose no one can capture the spirit of their home very well, even if they are writing pure nonfiction, and not about a world that lives in their head.
Maybe I'll take it up again, someday.
In the meantime...if you are following me through these posts, you'll recall I mentioned that I am a weirdness magnet. Let me leave you with a little weirdness that is--probably, maybe--all in my head.
But, you know? Maybe not.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Me With A Friend - Posting Challenge - Day 3
Today's is both easy and hard--show a picture of me with friends.
Easy because, hey!, very little writing. (Creative punctuation, must love it.) Hard because...well...remember what I said about photos?
But it's not just that, it's that I have pics taken of me by friends, or with just one or two friends, but the picture I would wish to share would have all the people who should share the limelight, and that doesn't exist. So instead, I give you a picture of legs.
This was a Chinese New Years party. And the legs you see before you was the natural fallout of drinking at said Chinese New Years party. It was great fun.
For a while, whenever a friend and I would get drunk, we'd tussle. We'd hit, but not too hard; we weren't out to beat each other up. Mostly, we'd wrestle. Two large breasted, long legged women in short skirts, trying to take each other down.
As a matter of fact, no, we weren't the life of the mostly male dominated parties. We didn't do it for the men, you see. We often started in a quiet little corner, and it would be after we'd chatted for a long time with no sign things were headed that direction. We tended to wind up like this, in a deadlock, with neither winning and neither losing, though we would end the battles like children:
"I won!"
"Nu-uh!"
"Uh-huh"
"Nuh-uh. I got you in the piggy-nose lock!"
"Well I got you in the over-the-shoulder-boulder hold."
"That was cheating! Bras are off limits!"
"They are not."
"Yes they are!"
...you get the point. Sometimes we'd tussle again, most times we'd go for another drink and dance.
I think our crowning moment of awesome was at a Con. Some guys had started beating drums quietly down one end of a hall, just for fun, not for show. We wandered down to watch, and then the mood of the drums took us. We circled and feinted and tussled and wrestled and hit while the drums pounded, two girls just feeling their inner cavewomen. I think we were both aware the guys were grinning as the watched, but there was not a catcall to be had, not a word of leering encouragement said, just silence and the pounding of the drums. It was like a spell was cast over us all.
We never tussled again after that. Life took us in separate directions, and besides, that was a tough act to beat.
But I know what will happen if we ever see each other again, someday. We'll laugh, reminisce, drink, and sooner or later, with half forgotten drums in our heads, we'll tussle.
Easy because, hey!, very little writing. (Creative punctuation, must love it.) Hard because...well...remember what I said about photos?
But it's not just that, it's that I have pics taken of me by friends, or with just one or two friends, but the picture I would wish to share would have all the people who should share the limelight, and that doesn't exist. So instead, I give you a picture of legs.
This was a Chinese New Years party. And the legs you see before you was the natural fallout of drinking at said Chinese New Years party. It was great fun.
For a while, whenever a friend and I would get drunk, we'd tussle. We'd hit, but not too hard; we weren't out to beat each other up. Mostly, we'd wrestle. Two large breasted, long legged women in short skirts, trying to take each other down.
As a matter of fact, no, we weren't the life of the mostly male dominated parties. We didn't do it for the men, you see. We often started in a quiet little corner, and it would be after we'd chatted for a long time with no sign things were headed that direction. We tended to wind up like this, in a deadlock, with neither winning and neither losing, though we would end the battles like children:
"I won!"
"Nu-uh!"
"Uh-huh"
"Nuh-uh. I got you in the piggy-nose lock!"
"Well I got you in the over-the-shoulder-boulder hold."
"That was cheating! Bras are off limits!"
"They are not."
"Yes they are!"
...you get the point. Sometimes we'd tussle again, most times we'd go for another drink and dance.
I think our crowning moment of awesome was at a Con. Some guys had started beating drums quietly down one end of a hall, just for fun, not for show. We wandered down to watch, and then the mood of the drums took us. We circled and feinted and tussled and wrestled and hit while the drums pounded, two girls just feeling their inner cavewomen. I think we were both aware the guys were grinning as the watched, but there was not a catcall to be had, not a word of leering encouragement said, just silence and the pounding of the drums. It was like a spell was cast over us all.
We never tussled again after that. Life took us in separate directions, and besides, that was a tough act to beat.
But I know what will happen if we ever see each other again, someday. We'll laugh, reminisce, drink, and sooner or later, with half forgotten drums in our heads, we'll tussle.
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