For the longest time I couldn't put my finger on why Avatar (the blue alien movie, not the Asian fantasy movie) was problematic for me. I mean, clearly it's one of those white guilt stories, but when I bring that up to people I could never really find a way to explain why white guilt stories are problematic.

I just happened upon an article that explains it perfectly, and it does so by comparing it to the plot of District 9, which I loved.

"Think of it this way. Avatar is a fantasy about ceasing to be white, giving up the old human meatsack to join the blue people, but never losing white privilege. Jake never really knows what it's like to be a Na'vi because he always has the option to switch back into human mode. Interestingly, Wikus in District 9 learns a very different lesson. He's becoming alien and he can't go back. He has no other choice but to live in the slums and eat catfood. And guess what? He really hates it. He helps his alien buddy to escape Earth solely because he's hoping the guy will come back in a few years with a "cure" for his alienness. When whites fantasize about becoming other races, it's only fun if they can blithely ignore the fundamental experience of being an oppressed racial group. Which is that you are oppressed, and nobody will let you be a leader of anything."

Completely ignoring the question, I'd like to share a few things I learned this evening about Groundhog's Day.

I watched the video of today's event on the official Groundhog's Day website. I never realized the event was presided over by a brotherhood of men wearing top hats. They are the Punxsutawney Groundhog Club, and they each have a special little nickname like "Stump Warden," "the Plow Man," "the Big Wind Maker," or "Thunder Conductor."

It turns out they don't really let Punxsutawney Phil (the groundhog) just come out of his "burrow" (which is actually a man-made tree stump with a door) on his own. They pull him out, set him on top of the stump, and the president of the club communicates with the groundhog, using - he claims - a magic cane.

Upon receiving an answer from the animal, a proclamation is then read, relaying his message.

Also the groundhog is immortal.

From the website:

"How many 'Phils' have there been over the years? There has only been one Punxsutawney Phil. He has been making predictions for over 120 years!

Punxsutawney Phil gets his longevity from drinking the 'elixir of life,' a secret recipe. Phil takes one sip every summer at the Groundhog Picnic and it magically gives him seven more years of life."

So, every year in this nation, we seek out the prognostications of an ALCHEMICAL BEAST to advise our outdoor plans.

I want to go bake an apple pie and salute a flag right now.





Extra credit: Candlemas roots.

Yet another gem from racebending/Racebending.com. This "pamphlet" is more than just nerdrage about a particular show - there's stuff in here that really opened my eyes about racism today. Read pages 13 and 14.

( About the source. )

1.) vonfaustus and I have discovered the word "mansplaining." It has changed our lives forever.

2.) I'm gonna have "the talk" with my High Priestess tomorrow night, after Esbat. After taking my turn to lead ritual. >.> But...I will be making MAGICK COOKIES, so hopefully that'll soften the blow. Naturally, I am procrastinating about preparing myself for this. And speaking of procrastination...

3.) Spring semester starts on the 1st, and I'm still not registered for classes. YEAH. And student housing seems to be charging me for spring, even though I won't be using student housing. I'll have to see if I can clear that up, or we won't be able to afford Beltane at Glastonbury. That's much less intimidating than communicating with my student advisor, however.

I should really start seeing that therapist like I promised myself I would do six months ago. Probably more than six months ago. But if I could accomplish things that are in my own best interest in a timely fashion, I wouldn't need to see a therapist, now would I?

...

"I'm such a big coward, all I do is hide. All of this magic is to keep everybody away. I can't stand how scared I am."
-the wizard Howl, Howl's Moving Castle.

Since I've been talking about geeky things lately, I thought I'd share with you all an article I came across on the racebending community:

NOCs (Nerds of Color), by slam poet Bao Phi. It kinda hits me where I live.

"However, there was a discomfort about some of my own internalized issues. I always chose to ignore the weird feeling I got when I realized that, in my dreams, I was always, literally, a white knight. When I dreamt I was a superhero, I was a white dude with superpowers and the Mary Jane to my Peter Parker was always white. Even though I had a nagging feeling about it, I thought I was justified in my dreams because, hey, none of King Arthur’s knights were Asian and therefore my dreams wouldn’t be real if I dreamt otherwise. And I never really cared for the Oriental Adventures rule book for Advanced Dungeons and Dragons."

As a child, with my flame-red hair, I could easily pass, and I still do now that my hair is dark. It goes without saying that I didn't grow up with the same sort of negative self-image that comes from looking "different." But don't think for a minute that I didn't recognize that, in the media and the stories we tell, "beautiful = white." I may not have had to imagine myself looking much differently when I daydreamed of being a medieval ranger in the forest, but the Robin Hood to my Maid Marion was always white.

"None of this was easy for me personally, because I had to confront my own internalized racism. There was a part of me that said, no, don’t ask these questions. It’d be easier to just go with the flow. Don’t rock the boat. No one cares about this stuff. Do you really want to challenge yourself about how you want to be white? You’re a man of color from Phillips – are you really ready to out yourself as a self-hating nerd?

vonfaustus and I talk a lot about why I so vehemently testify to my non-whiteness, in spite of things like my appearance or my (half) jíbaro ancestry. I think I do it to remind myself as much as other people. It would be so much easier to just pretend, you know? So much easier.

"Sometimes it does get to be too much. Sometimes I wish I could be that kid in Phillips again, with a bath towel tied around my shoulders waving a flashlight around in the dark, pretending I was a Jedi, pretending that race doesn’t matter. It’s easier that way. You’re not going to be popular to anyone by saying that racism exists, even less so when you point out that it exists in almost everything that we love."

There's a lot more, and he talks about a lot of popular nerdy franchises as he goes - I urge you all to give it a read.

( Footnote )

So apparently Mr. Blood Elf is all over DeviantArt.

Here he is at Anime Expo, and here he is at the same con I just went to, dressed as Prince Kael'thas Sunstrider.

As fair-skinned as he is, I almost wonder if that's his real hair. I think his being the descendant of some merciless Saxon invader with a preoccupation with magical wells might be the only acceptable explanation for his enthusiasm.

Will pay for further sightings

Here's a little re-working of my initial ideas for the first two pages of The Bus Station,. issue 9.

( Don't listen to your high school art teacher. Ballpoint pens are your friend. )

So about two weeks ago I accompanied my kid sister and dragged along a hapless vonfaustus to the local bi-annual anime convention. I went for the first time in August of '08, and my sister and I thoroughly enjoyed ourselves, and got to hear our very favorite voice actor Crispin Freeman talk about brainy mythology things. Speaking of which, I had quite an agreeable dream about Freeman last night. Yes, quite agreeable. >.>

...he was wearing tights

Anyway, the time after that, Brianna got hauled to the January '09 con by our father, who hadn't bothered to learn what events would transpire that day, and my sister missed a panel featuring our second-favorite voice actor, Vic Mignona. Our father then proceeded to take pictures of young, female cosplayers without asking permission. He was particularly interested in the He Is My Master cosplayers.

Ahem.

Then we missed the August '09 con, and the SciFi/Horror con where Freeman was a guest.

"I'm not going to let the next one slip by!" I thought. "Mignona's gonna be at the next one with two other actors from the cast of Full Metal Alchemist. Oh, but they're all doing signings and panels at different times. Hmmm. Oh! They're all doing a panel AND a signing on the last day! How convenient!"

Not convenient at all.

Thankfully, we did enjoy ourselves at the panel, where we got to see a sneak preview of the new dub they worked on for Soul Eater. Watching the opening again, I was reminded of how much fun that show is. (Can you judge an anime by how entertaining the opening is? I find that, generally, you can. At least, you can if Shinchiro Watanabe worked on it.) I'd go on about what I thought of the dub, but that would be venturing too far into particularly obscure nerd territory.

After the panel we got in line for autographs, froze underneath a depressing, overcast sky for maybe two hours, only to be told that we, and everyone else at the back half of the line, would not be receiving autographs. We did make friends with a South Asian looking kid in a black suit and a Billy Mays mask, who played a ukulele. I really should have gotten a picture of him.

The pictures I did get were only a few. Not as many good cosplayers as the first time we went.

( Photos. )

And y'know, I still haven't seen a single good cosplay of any Ouran High School Host Club characters. I saw a whole team of Host Club cosplayers at this con, but none of them were even faintly believable as boys. If you're going to dress up as a guy, please make an effort! Wear a minimizer or something. I mean, this gal manages to pull it off, and she's playing a character who is really a girl disguised as a boy. Sheesh.

Nerdrage completed.

"I let my potential model slip away for the last time today. Gone is that Roman profile! Gone the benevolent incline of his head! Gone are those dreaming, sainted expressions! Damn it all. Sometimes there are things that you can't even say to another artist. Like, 'I really like your face.'"

He would have made a great Lucius Marius Vitalis, too. Damn it all!

( Disclaimer. )

"A man's in the doorway," said the doorguard, "who has no match.( Read more... )

Now this is an interesting one. At first it was hard to think of books I disliked, but then I thought back on childhood, and the task was much easier.

The Whipping Boy, by Sid Fleischman. ( Read more... )

Where The Red Fern Grows, by Wilson Rawls. ( Read more... )

City of God, by E. L. Doctorow. ( Read more... )

So...books I've loved? I can name them, but it's hard to really explain how they've touched me.

The Picture of Dorian Gray is one that I actually go back and reread, over and again. Opulent, malevolent.

The Scarlet Letter is another. Strangely otherwordly in unexpected ways. A damned woman at the edge of the forest, the widow to an alchemist. A bastard girl dressed in crimson. Self-imposed doom.

Woman Warrior, by Maxine Hong-Kingston. Not a timeless classic like the others, but this memoir...is something else. My mother was never a doctor in China who battled spirits, but I too remained confined to my bed as a pre-adolescent, dreaming a second life in which I was a red haired warrior. America is peopled by ghosts.

Sorry for the radio silence for the last couple of months. School has had me testing all of my best coping mechanisms to their limit. (Thank the gods for World of Warcraft.) Beginning the fall semester has, in many ways, been far more trying than the summer semester ever was. New dorm, new neighborhood, more classes, new school buildings to find my way to. (The Academy doesn't have a centralized campus - they've bought a number of buildings across the city. Or hold them in unusual locations. One of my classes is actually held in St. Brigid's Church (which mind-blowingly gorgeous, I might add. The angels all have individual poses!</a>))

But, I've gotta let myself live life like any other person. I can't deny myself the things I enjoy just because I have this irrational idea that I can't afford any respite or introspection.

Last night I was thinking some thoughts that I thought were pretty clever, so I posted them over on blogspot. I also figure I'll finally post some pictures of stuff I've been doing for school, so you can all shower me with praise. And today I actually started drawing some more plans for my own work, which I'm sure alfrecht will interested in seeing. (Hint hint!)

So, uh, yes. I'm going to try and take my own advice (or rather, my gods' own advice) and fucking chill for a second or two. Why worry? I'm too awesome to worry. Take that, lifetime of Catholic guilt.

I just wanted to share with you all some things that weirded me today.

So I went to our local Pagan Pride day festival with my sister and vonfaustus. And my old enemies were there - the folks at the "Enchanted Rune" booth.

Some of you may remember that, on a whim, I bought a set of "runes" from them a long while back, and, not knowing so much about runes at the time, didn't realize until too late that they were not the Elder Futhark. They were not the Younger Futhark. They were not Armanen runes. This was an almost completely invented alphabet. You had a couple of genuine staves in there like Gebo and Wunjo, but most of them came straight from the imagination of the folks who carved them.

Now, there are ways to justify this. For instance, people use the word "rune" pretty broadly, and I've never been against the idea of making up your own system and using it. In fact, when I had the merchant - a woman named Theresa - tell my fortune the year before, I was actually impressed with her. But it would have been common courtesy, I think, for her to have clarified somewhere, somehow, that these "runes" were not historical. It would have saved me 30 dollars.

Of course, if she did that, probably no one would want all the pendants and rune bags and knick-knacks and chalices she carves and paints, all with these self-invented runes. Most puzzling of all is a new little detail I didn't observe the year before: a small sign underneath "The Enchanted Rune," declaring, "Irishrunes." (Yes, all in one word.) No, there were no ogham to be found. Just the same idiosyncratic petroglyphs they put on everything.

I think there may be a couple of reasons for this.

1.) Someone tried to call her on her shit and now she's calling them "Irishrunes."

2.) She's got a scary new Irish boyfriend.

As a my little sister was waiting in line to have her fortune read, a teenage boy was having his runes read. Long hair, peach fuzz on his face. I overheard Theresa giving him some comments about coming of age and manhood. "I think you would benefit from some of our classes. Scott is giving a class about manhood..."

Whereupon, Scott appeared. And intruded upon my personal space.

"You waiting for a rune reading?" he asked, his arms hanging on the roof of the tent, and his face rather too close. I didn't understand him at first, and when he repeated himself, I realized he had a brogue.

"No, my sister is waiting," I said. He nodded and took a seat by Theresa, who referred the teenage boy to him. "Yeah, I give a class on manhood...on the goals of manliness..."

How would I describe this...Scott?

I think I would describe him as a man you would not want teaching your son anything about anything.

I think I would describe him as a man who might live in a van down by the river, where he keeps a lot of guns.

Maybe I'm judging him too harshly. But something about those first five seconds in which I was made conscious of his existence simply...creeped me out. There are no reasons I can point to without commenting on his appearance, which isn't fair, really...though I will say this. Something about greasy hair and a week's worth of stubble on man over 40 is just bad news.

There was talk of the teen boy being interested in his Irish heritage, and of Scott possibly being able to "teach" him, at which point I chose to completely zone out. With any luck, they'll lose the kid's email address and he'll never have to join their seedy mailing list or take any of their cult-recruitment classes, just like what happened to me. (It was providence.)

But you know what's really odd? That their booth is there every year, and I never hear anyone say, "You know, those runes are BOGUS." I even saw a woman in another booth reselling a set of wooden tiles with Theresa's "runes" on them. Do people just not know? Is Sacramento really so homogeneously neo-Wiccan? Where are the angry-but-intelligent Asatru when you need them?


(I still have the bogus rune set, if anyone wants convincing of their bogus-ness.)

When I saw this post at NFP today, for some reason I was reminded of this:

"Talk of a divinity in man! Look at the teamster on the highway, wending his way to market by day or night; does any divinity stir within him? His highest duty to fodder and water his horses! What is his destiny to him compared with the shipping interests? Does he not drive for Squire Make-a-stir? How godlike, how immortal, is he? So how he cowers and sneaks, how vaguely all the day he fears, not being immortal nor divine, but the slave and prisoner of his own opinion of himself, a fame won by his own deeds. Public opinion is a weak tyrant compared with our own private opinion. What a man thinks of himself, that it is which determines, or rather indicates, his fate. Self-emancipation even in the West Indies provinces of the fancy and imagination, - what Wilberforce is there to bring that about? Think, also, of the ladies of the land weaving toilet cushions against the last day, not to betray too green an interest in their own fates! As if you could kill time without injuring eternity."

-Henry David Thoreau, Walden.</a>

I once answered a similar question on a facebook "Top 5" questionarre, asking who my favorite literary protagonists were. I realized that all five of them were nymphets, adulteresses, witches, or some combination thereof. I don't think they're necessarily "the best" protagonists ever written, just my personal favorites. I found them all relatable to some degree. Hester Prynne, Sabina, Dolores Haze, Lyra Belacqua.

But, my very favorite? A 13-year-old Anne Rice character. I've never been quite as wicked as this girl, but I got kind of close.

"Mona wasn't evil. She was just a sort of pagan, really."

( excerpts )

I finally have internet access today. Goody.

So, I'm a couple of days into my first week here, and I haven't died or thrown up or anything. I think that's an accomplishment.

I've already been pretty failtastic already, however. In all honesty I'd rather not get into the details, but to put it briefly: I got all kinds of lost. I feared for my sanity once I realized I was standing next to the Grace Cathedral.

Sometimes I tell people that I've lived a sheltered life. Folks usually smile and brush that off, saying, "Oh, you're fine," or something similar. I'm sure they're right, but I'm also sure that they don't entirely understand just how sheltered I've been. I do not know how to get from point A to point B. People behind desks frighten me. Until I worked at a cafe at 20, I didn't know what an old-fashioned doughnut was. In fact, I didn't know what half the pastries were. A bear claw, I guessed, was the one that looked like a bear claw, and thankfully, I was right. (Granted, Puerto Ricans don't eat these things, but...)

The thing that's been keeping my spirits up this week is my new copy of the most recent collection of essays by David Sedaris, When You Are Engulfed In Flames. He's discussed his childhood Obsessive Compulsive Disorder in previous works, but from other essays, and especially some of the things he's mentioned in this collection, it's clear that, like me, he experiences some social anxiety as well. He hides when people knock at the door. He lives in fear of the telephone. He cannot discuss sums of money over $60 without sweating. I know exactly what he's talking about.

I guess, beyond the fact that it's relatable, it's a kind of reassurance that while we might be completely useless, we aren't hopeless, or worthless. He's a highly successful humorist - and hell, he used to be drugged-up hitch hiker with delusions of being a performance artist. I'm not drugged-up, and I'm pretty sure I'm actually an artist, so I think I'm off to an okay start in life.

Today I bought food for myself. I think it was the first thing I've actually done all on my own this week, by myself, in the city. It was at a deli near here, where, thankfully, the owner does not greet you when you enter. The guy at the corner store back in my neighborhood at Sac always does this. When he rings up my items, he always asks me what I'm "up to." This is always highly uncomfortable, not just because he's talking to me, but because I'm never fucking doing anything. I also tend to get the feeling that he has a slight crush on me. That might sound vain, but vonfaustus says that practically everyone has a crush on me, so I don't know. In any case, here at the Frisco deli, I bought some food. I think I'll go back and buy produce tomorrow, or sometime soon. My father tried to win my forgiveness and/or sympathy by sending me a miniature blender. Maybe it's dishonest of me to use it, but man - the cup part is portable! And that doesn't make him any less of a fucker.

I hope all my jittery craziness doesn't keep me from sleeping tonight. The first night I tossed and turned like someone being executed in the morning. The fact that my room at the time was cold, Spartan, and lacking in furniture may also have had something to do with my overwhelming sense of dread. I also had a horrible nightmare about my ex-boyfriend's penis, from which I was mercifully awoken by the sound of my phone ringing. (Very well, phone - we shall have an alliance. For as long as such a thing may last...) I wasn't able to attend my first class on Monday, as I was busy ensuring that I had someplace to live. I hope that when I go to that class tomorrow, we won't be expected to already have Wacom tablets at the ready. Then I really will feel useless. At least I already have a cursory knowledge of Photoshop.

*sigh* All the Warcraft in the world won't save me from tomorrow...

So, with a little luck, I should be in San Francisco tomorrow, ready to begin attending the Academy. I imagine my arrival will feel much like the beginning of chapter 11 of Wizard People:



I'm going to try and keep up a Brad Neely narrative running through my head in order to cope. "No matter what feelings the moments embody...YES. YES IS STILL THE ANSWER."

Here are two pupils
whose moons of black
transform to cripples
all who look:

each lovely lady
who peers inside
take on the body
of a toad.

Within these mirrors
the world inverts:
the fond admirer's
burning darts

turn back to injure
the thrusting hand
and inflame to danger
the scarlet wound.

I sought my image
in the scorching glass,
for what fire could damage
a witch's face?

So I stared in that furnace
where beauties char
but found radiant Venus
reflected there.


[This poem says so much about where I've been, and in such literal terms.]

I kinda like it.

To elucidate; A READING FROM THE BOOK OF LIES.

*ahem-ahem*

Ch. 21: The Blind Webster

It is not necessary to understand; it is enough to adore.

We ignore what created us; we adore what we create. That which causes us to create is our true father and mother; we create in our own image, which is theirs.

The god may be of clay: adore him; he becomes GOD. Let us create nothing but GOD!

Let us create therefore without fear; for we can create nothing that is not GOD.

Nema!

( In other news )

( cut for GIANT PICTURE OF AMY LEE )

It stings because it's truuuuuue! ;_;