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! ;_;

beautiful, dark, one of my all-time favorites.

it's 3:35am and it feels moody.

I love this obscure track.

Pure, sexy rock n' roll cool.

I thought to myself tonight, "Maybe I should make a new lj account." Because...this lj handle was basically assigned by my ex, who is evil. The most insidious kind of evil. The kind of evil that feeds on children's dreams. The kind of evil that drinks from the hearts of virgins. The kind of evil who combs his hair with pomade created from the tears of the meek.

What was I saying?

Oh yes. Well, we used to share an lj account called "twospiders." Then he dumped me, and announced that he was deleting that account...and made me a new one for me to keep. Called "onespider." To remind me of how alone I was, I imagine.

One is the loneliest number.

But I'm not so lonely anymore. I'm not so sure of my own inadequacy anymore. So maybe I should make a new one, just to remind myself that I don't need to see myself through his eyes anymore.

I just have to think of a name. If I think of a good one...I think I'll do it.

-Nicole

ETA: Hmm...maybe I'll just buy one of these "rename tokens."

"There is no such thing as coincidence. There is only the inevitable." -Yuuko, a witch, from xxxHolic.

"Happiness is the reward for those who accept their Fate. Glory is the reward for those who fight against it." -Edel, a puppet, from Princess Tutu.

Yes, I feel that both of these lines from incredibly girly anime shows sum up my feelings well.

I think the 80s are as far back as I could realistically stand living in. Plus, so many of my favorite musicians would be at their prime.

As much as I love Victoriana, it was frikkin' impossible to exist as a woman in that time. Or as a not-quite-middle-class person. In fact, I'd probably be poorer than I am, since my mother would never have been able to do the work that she does (as a psychotherapist.) I could probably still paint as a woman, but 1: my work would have been ignored; and 2: as a poor person, I would never get the schooling for it (nor afford the supplies). I'd be more likely to be the nude model at the academy than the student painting her. And as a non-white person? Sheesh. I might have had to do what so many other Puerto Ricans did and pose as white...even in Puerto Rico. (You see, Puerto Ricans come in all colors, and the white ones have the privilege just like anywhere else.) And if I wanted to marry vonfaustus? I'd have to try and apply for whiteness to make it legally possible. And on top of all that?

No birth control.

So no, nooo Victorian Age for me. I'm inflamed by all the artistic and revolutionary movements that were born in that era, but it was simply too hard to live. My great-great-grandmother was a washerwoman living in a shack. My great-grandmother worked like a dog on a tobacco farm with eight children. My grandmother couldn't even go to school after age 13. No thank you. The past sucks.

So yeah. The 80s. The media shit storm against feminism was crap, but it's a fair enough trade for great rock music, I feel.

Oh my god, you guys - look what I found! It's my two favorite baby faces of rock - together!


( large-ish photo )

It makes me feel a bit better about listening to MCR if I know Corgan approves. (Like how I lost all my anxiety about loving AFI once I knew Robert Smith approved.)

Okay, okay, back to work...

Taken from alfrecht, and done in an attempt to re-learn how to quickly make a lj post instead of just thinking about it all day.

( The sort of survey I imagine that census takers from The Dreaming might give. )

So, I more or less fulfilled my personal pledge to finish three drawings this week. That just depends on what you mean by "finish." Or, "drawing." >.>

Nevertheless, I'm rather proud of this:

( NSFW. )

Óengus Mac Óg, the god of love. This is one of those drawings I didn't intend to actually take seriously. I was just doodling aimlessly in an attempt to draw something, anything - and then I decided on this, beginning with a careless sort of attitude, and then putting all my care into it. I originally meant to make him more conventionally masculine, but no matter how many times I tried, I just couldn't get it right. His face, his bodily proportions, nothing - it was like I'd forgotten how to draw a person. Every attempt was pitiful. Finally, I said "forget it!" and went as romantic as I could. I stopped trying to draw realistically and just used lines. I stopped trying to make him manly and let him be angelic. The god seemed to like that so much better.

(This image was much informed by the John Duncan painting of the same subject, seen here, at right.)

Also, I drew this, for my own amusement.*




IRISH MYTH. LEARN IT. LOVE IT.

*Yes, all these quotes (and more!) can be found in The Exile of the Sons of Uisliu, The Wooing of Emer, and The Second Battle of Mag Tuiredh. (Óengus never says anything like that, though. He's a nice boy.)

Tomorrow, I will conquer that which I was supposed to have been drawing - art for We Never Sleep.

From Cracked.com: The 5 Most Baffling Sex Scenes in the History of Fanfiction. (What I love about this is that it's written by a fangirl; it's not some male geek hating on slashfic in general. It is also painfully funny.)

Bonus: The 5 Most Unintentionally Gay Horror Movies. (Just one more reason I need to finally watch Lost Boys.)