Writer's Block

Alas, I've lost my creativity,
That spark, the muse, whose urgent call once pulled.
Now neither neuron nor divinity
Will move my pen---the light inside has dulled.
No prose springs to my mind, no yarns or tales,
No poetry, no paintings, no designs.
The art, unformed, just stutters, stalls, and fails;
The soul, depressed, with purpose misaligns.
Through sluggish thoughts and dim ideas slow,
I search for inspiration once again,
To go back to before life brought me low,
To force electric brainstorm to begin.
Though art, so forced, should never see the sun,
Yet here it is: a job, though not well done.

Minecrafters

            The torchlight flickered wanly as I tunneled further from the lava pit. I was in the deepest part of the mine. The air was filled with minute dust particles rising from the bedrock, and the cavern echoed with the ring of iron pickaxes on stone as my fellow miners sought the treasures of the earth. Behind me, the glowing lava pit bubbled and hissed.

            I checked my pack. I was loaded down with cobblestone I had inadvertently collected, but among the useless rock were real finds: a stack of redstone, a pile of lapis lazuli, gold ore, iron ore, and an alarming amount of coal. It was just about time to return to the surface, to place the ore safely in the furnaces, to stow the lapis and coal, to give the redstone to the engineers among us so they could create massive technologic wonders. I was on my last pickaxe and it was showing signs of wear. It would shatter soon. I sighed. The trip back to the surface was long. I would work until the pickaxe broke, I decided, and then make the trek back to the base.

            I hacked away at the nearest block of stone. And there, behind it, was paydirt: a green-veined block of the elusive emerald. Our whole group had only found two of these in the weeks we had mined this spot, and the engineers were clamoring for more. I sang out my find. My friends cheered, and I began hacking at it with a will.

            And then, before the block could crack enough to release its prize, I heard the bone-chilling sound of a monster. I knew what it was, and that it was close, even before my friend screamed, “Creeper! Creeper! Look out!”

            I abandoned the emerald, whirling to face the oncoming monster. Its face was twisted in a hideous scowl. Its body was covered in scales of sickening green, and its four stunted legs moved with alarming speed. It raced toward me, inexorable.

            Desperately I fumbled in my pack for my sword. I grasped stone, and a shovel, and my lunch, a roasted chicken, and then it was upon me. I flailed about with the chicken—no time to grab the sword! But it was no use. The creeper was repelled once, but it was too late. It rattled and swelled. All I could do was watch in horror as the thing exploded, and everything went to black.

            I came to in the bedroom, my friends clustered around me in concern. “You alright?” one asked.

            “My emerald,” I gasped. “Did anyone grab my emerald?”

            They looked at one another guiltily.

            “Shit!” I yelled, and charged out of the room to the mine entrance.

            “Wait!” my friends screamed. “Your armor! Don’t go down there!” But I paid them no mind. I plunged down the long stairway. Every second counted, but I could run no faster. The stairs went down and down and down, through the mountain on which we had built our base, under the river, deep under the forest. The dig at the bottom was a maze. I leapt over ridges of stone, piles of dirt. I took a wrong turn, swore, and raced the other direction, past a startled zombie, dodging the cruel arrows of a hissing skeleton. Finally, I found the lava pit, and my own beginning of the tunnel.

            I searched all around the space, screaming. There was nothing there. No coal, no gold, no iron, no redstone. And my emerald. My emerald was gone.

Playing the Gender Card

Moon Dog Coyote

Thunder Smurf

SHINY!!!

 

HAHA I DREW A UNICORN HOW COOL IS THAT IT IS A PRETTY UNICORN 

love the unicorn

love it

The Tree

There is a tree in a clearing. It is a strange tree, dark and twisted, with broad, dry leaves. The grass around it is gray and brown, though it is the height of spring and the surrounding woods are green and full of birdsong. This is a tree out of time, a tree of winter. It sways slowly to an icy wind that only it can feel.

It is not wise to approach too near this tree. But if you look carefully, between gnarled buttress roots, a small figure huddles, sleeping. A youth, ragged and cold, approached the tree in an early winter storm. He was near the end of his strength and hungry, and did not know how far he had come or how far he must still go. He had lost the road and had been following the sun, but the wind rose and the clouds grew and he soon had no guide. He saw the tree, though, and took shelter from the storm. And now, he sleeps.

He has been sleeping, fitfully and shivering, for maybe an hour. He will wake soon to find his winter long over, and a world that has passed him by.

Beading

This evening's project looks like it's actually going to be multiple evenings, so in the mean time, have some doggerel.

Tiny, sparkling seeds of glass
Have tumbled, clinking, on the floor.
They've fallen in a dark crevasse
And there they'll sit forevermore.

AAAARRRRGHHHHH

Welcome home, Fenner! (A haiku)

Yowling, howling cat
Sliding on the hardwood floor
Loves his catnip ball.

Pruning

I fight a constant battle against the jasmine. Our relationship was not always this way. When it started, it was nothing more than a friendly debate. The jasmine would extend small, questing shoots over the path to the door, and I would gently trim them back. It was as though the jasmine was asking, "May I be here?" and I was responding, "No, I'm sorry, you'll have to stay in the flower beds."

As the summer grew brighter, the jasmine flowered. The sweet, intoxicating scent drifted through my window in the evenings, making it impossible to study. The jasmine called to me, "Come out and enjoy this evening! You need not sit inside!" Most nights, I ignored it with some effort. But my debate with the jasmine over its proper bounds became less gentle on my part. I loved the flowers, but they angered me as well, and I grasped the branches more forcefully and lopped a bit more ruthlessly than before.

In response, the plant grew bolder. Where before a few upstart branches had wavered over my front walk, now an energetic vine was crawling over my window. It grasped the window ledge and dug in. The scent in the evenings grew almost unbearable. The plant mocked me. Furthermore, it was losing all sense of propriety. I could not go out my door without a vine or two seeking to enter. I tried to explain things to it. I told it, "Look, I don't mind if you grow up against the wall, but you can't come inside!" The plant ignored me.

So I kept hacking it off. I trimmed, not just the new growth, but the older branches from which it sprung. The jasmine oozed sticky white sap from every cut, which adhered my pruning shears to my skin. As I worked, branches waved about and landed their oozing sticky ends in my hair. I sliced of branches and flung them into a pile. The cut branches kept fighting, refusing to go neatly into a trash bag. I had to shove them in almost a branch at a time, and even then, the bag was ripped to shreds by the time I was done.

The jasmine kept growing, even faster now. The vines crawling toward the windows became ropes that were starting to threaten the integrity of the screens. I could reach the ropes closest to the screens to cut them off, but not the more vigorous vines near the center of the window. The plant was beginning to fight dirty. It shoved strong branches through every gap in the wood that it could and climbed every available structure. For every branch I cut, five grew in its place. I admired the plant's rebellious spirit, but I was beginning to give up on the idea of peaceful coexistence.

Today, there was a branch inside. Not one that had fallen in when I opened the door. No, this was a branch that had wormed its way between the cracks in the door jamb. Tired of being cut back from its forays through the door, the jasmine had found an alternative route. This level of aggression could not be tolerated. I cut the branches bordering the walk back further than I had ever cut before. I waded among the branches to lop off the vines than were beginning to cover the window. I ripped exploring shoots from the cracks in the wood and flung then into a massive pile. I shoved the trimmings into the bag, heedless of flying sap, and hurled the bag into the trash.

The jasmine simply waved its fronds in the air and continued exhuming that amazing, alluring scent. It was not harmed. The battle will continue tomorrow.

Waves

Bar exam: taken.
Household & cat: moved.
Apartment: furnished.
Hiatus: Complete.

Here, have a nice picture of the ocean.

This is the photo it was painted from.

Seaboard Love Song

A high wind blows across the sea
And lightning flashes through the night,
Upsetting crows upon a scree
That rise on black wings to the heights.

On such a night as this was born
A maid of storm and salt and brine
Whose coming wails a song forlorn,
Alas! I cry --- she won't be mine.

A wild woman, feral but fair,
She swims among the rocks and mist
In tides and pools I'd never dare
But I would drown for just one kiss.

She scorns the shore and mocks the sand
And laughs at those upon the beach.
But I, a coward, hug the land!
Sweet sea maid, ever out of reach.

More colorful and spiky

Warning: This will probably give you a headache if you stare at it too long.
[Edit: Smoother motion.]

Colorful & spiky

Living In the Open: Explorations in Self-Identity and Invisibility

My sexuality isn’t something I talk about much. It doesn’t come up. In Tucson and, more recently, in Eugene, I have found that I can talk about my wife, and the most response I’m going to get is a slightly startled look. People accept without question that a woman might be married to a woman. And while this attitude is not universal (for instance, in Huntsville, Alabama, I mostly got people being very polite but quickly making excuses not to talk to me), it does point to a very encouraging trend in societal values.

            The response I have never gotten is, “Oh, so you’re a lesbian?” It just doesn’t come up. Which makes sense. If I were to talk about a husband, no one would even think of asking, “Oh, so you’re heterosexual?” It’s not that I’m closeted. There is simply very little opportunity to talk about sexual orientation when one is in a happy, stable relationship.

            Because the thing is, I’m not gay. And I am definitely not straight. I tend to say I am bisexual, but since my view of gender identity is one of a continuum (or maybe even broader than that), the “bi” prefix is a bit problematic. On the other hand, I’m not prepared to talk about myself as “omnisexual,” because that term seems too broad, somehow.

Besides, when my sexuality does come up in conversation, it’s usually in the context of some guy going, “Oh, you’re bi? Wanna threesome?” and saying I’m omni would only compound that problem. (For the record, if that’s where your mind went immediately, then the answer is no. HELL no.)

I am proud of my sexual orientation. It’s a big part of my identity. But it is continually masked by the assumption that sexual orientation is about whom one happens to be having sex with. When I dated guys, everyone assumed I was straight.  Now, everyone assumes I’m gay. Even my closest friends tend to forget that I’m not.

On some level, I don’t mind this. There’s nothing inherently wrong with being gay or with being straight, and neither is an orientation that I would be unhappy belonging to. But in fact, I belong to neither group. And it really bothers me that because I am in a monogamous relationship, people will assume that I am either gay or straight, with no sort of nuance or interpretation.

Not that the problem would go away if I were in a polyamorous relationship with both male and female partners. If I were to walk down the street with a guy on one arm and a girl on the other, most people wouldn’t think “bisexual.” If they realized a sexual relationship existed at all, they’d more likely just think “slut.”

I am, for all intents and purposes, expressing myself to be gay when I talk about my wife. And, as I noted at the beginning, no one is going to question that presentation. Indeed, I would probably be offended if they did. But what they assume I am is not who I am. And I don’t like it when people walk around with an erroneous impression of me. It feels like lying. However, it feels even more awkward and like I’m a nitpicky uptight bitch if I go around correcting them.

It’s a problem without an easy solution. Or maybe there is. Maybe instead of wearing my rainbow necklace everywhere, I should switch over to one like this: 

Better living through self-marketing jewelry. If only I liked the way it looked.

Stowaway

Tableau of Chivalry

A dragon sits, scaled and resplendent, on a mound of treasure. It is his pride and glory, a lifetime of ransacking. He has coins from a civilization long past and now faded, rough-cut gemstones from dozens of upstart empires, crowns and swords and jewelry wrought in hundreds of styles for the vanity of thousands of wealthy lords. He has books as well, for he knows that not all treasure is tangible, and he knows that there are those who prize the ideas within the books above all else, though he himself lacks the skill of reading them. He collects these things, attractive glittery gems, though he does not know why.

            He is old, this dragon. He has grown impossibly large. His wings are a map of scar tissue so thick they would not bear him aloft, except he has grown too large to fly in any case. His scales are thick, too, though this is to his advantage. What was once a shining glittery skin easily pierced and ripped away is now rock-hard, and rattles when he moves. His eyes gleam with ancient intelligence, and though his sight is not as clear as it once was and his reactions slowed, his hearing and sense of smell are as sharp as ever, and with claws and teeth as large as his are, fast reaction speeds are less important.

            A knight stands before him, encased in armor. He is young, and he trembles, though the armor hides it. He is sweating, though he does not know whether it is the heat or his raw fear. But he stands fast, knowing that a knight must be brave, and being brave means standing strong when all good sense screams at him to run and hide.

            He is not rich, this knight. He won his armor and his title through brave deeds, battles fought against other armor-clad warriors, jousts won against other, human, knights. Mock battles. Mock bravery. He did not come for the dragon’s hoard, it is true, but he is tempted by the glittering pile. And by the books. He has never seen so many.

            Between them sits the lady. She is young, too, younger than the knight even. Her cheeks are streaked with tears, her hair tangled, her clothes dirty and torn. She does not look a lady, in truth. She looks like a scared girl. For the first time in her life, however, she does not know how she looks, nor does she care. She sees the dragon, huge and looming, its giant claws arching, its wings flexing, its eyes narrowing and smoke beginning to drift from its nostrils. She sees the knight, standing at the ready, longsword drawn and sharp, face hidden behind a visor, inscrutable. She does not know which she is more terrified of.

Cheetah dude.

It's a cheetah dude. Inexplicably wandering through a jungle. Enjoy.

Monday Night

I studied, wrote, reviewed, and fretted
'Til I thought I'd take no more.
Finally done, I rose and sweated
Glad 'twas time to mop the floor.