Long time no see, and thoughts on monsters

First off, hello! I hadn't forgotten this blog existed, but I'm going to have to rethink how I want to use it. I'm still likely to talk about tea and poetry most of the time, but for the moment don't expect anything regular or quite so structured. I'm at a point in life where I should start thinking about longer term plans and patterns. That doesn't mean that I'm actually going to, but in as much as I can use this blog for rough drafts and direction, I'll do so.

To that end, I'd like to pin some words down on the subject of horror and monsters, a subject near and dear to me that I always struggle to explain my full connection to. Fair warning, this is likely to wander about a great deal.

As early as I can remember, I've had a paired fascination with ghost stories and nightmares. My own dreams were and have ever been filled with monsters and the end of the world, but always in fantastical scenarios. Floods and zombies and serial killers, undead personally coming to the door of five year old me to murder me. And for all that these sound horrifying, they didn't scare me in the same way that more mundane dream scenarios have. They were still frightening, and I'd wake up with that heightened paranoia that makes me watch shadows at 3 a.m. to this day, but it's a different plane of fear, and thus, in a way, comforting.

As for ghost stories, they were my introduction both to formulaic story-telling and fear as entertainment. My close friends got into the habit of asking me to tell them ghost stories on long rides or sleep-overs, and I'd string together the necessary beats and imagery as I went, fascinated that the words I was making up off the top of my head could possibly be frightening. Obviously the blood and the mirrors and the ghosts weren't real,* so how could this be affecting them? And given how much they were enjoying it, how could I make it affect me? Could I convince myself to feel afraid, or did I need darker material to start with?**

It's probably also worth mentioning that I'm not entirely neurotypical. I've never had a formal diagnosis, but I went through most of my life a half-beat off from everyone else. I am very likely on the autistic spectrum. I don't process emotions the same way as most people, I certainly don't react to them in the same way, and as I grew up, most of my efforts were spent on understanding why I seemed to living in a parallel dimension from the people around me. Mostly I figured out how to fake the expected reactions and social scripts, but they never came naturally and never made sense. This will come up again later.

And so life went on and I grew up. The usual tragedies of childhood followed, as well as tragedies that shouldn't be normal. I graduated from books of ghost stories scavenged from the library to my older sister's Fear Street books, hungry for blood and phantasms, and grew a collection that eclipsed hers. I was never deeply into movies, but bored and alone over the summer I'd catch any bizarre horror movie that crossed my path. In middle school, I fell in love with the Count of Monte Cristo for an execution scene as much for the beautifully executed revenge plot. In high school I took a summer class on vampires in myth and literature and fully codified my love for Gothic fiction.

Throughout this all, I was a clearly labeled Weird Kid. "Gifted" teacher's pet, shy, but also widely referred to (affectionately) as evil by my family and friends. Teenagers always feel like outsiders, but the struggle of understanding basic social interactions combined with the knowledge that the stories and images that most pleased me were horrifying to the general public led to my feeling a great deal like a monster in a human suit. And some days that was (is, really) something I'm proud of, and some days (less of these now) there was this vast grief that I couldn't understand or become human. I was at points afraid that enjoying tales of fear and suffering meant that I was myself a bad or dangerous person. It sounds silly now, but I avoided certain martial arts and research options because I didn't want to risk it. (Knives are pretty, but maybe I shouldn't be allowed access to them because I think that. Fire is beautiful, but perhaps I would be unsafe?)

I'm not a teenager anymore, and I know all of that last is bullshit (and when said by others, was said in jest), but it stuck with me for years, and in the same way that I spent time building an artificial system for socializing once I realized mine was unexpectedly different from those around me, I devoted time to codifying my own internal morality, so that I could be certain that even if I was weird or different, I was at least comfortable that I was a good person.  Which I was, and am, but it will always be something I watch and try to improve.

So is it any wonder that I developed sympathy for monsters? I still love a good ghost story or slasher flick, but tales of monster protagonists choosing to do the right thing out of love or wonder, or reverting back to their base natures, or trying to find a balance...these are all near and dear to my heart. What is humanity and what is human? What do you do with the knowledge that the terrifying Other in the narrative is, in fact, you?

The undergraduate thesis that I devoted woefully little time to was specifically about the exploration of the relationship between Other and Self in Gothic literature, and the texts I looked into were all about blurring that line. Possession, doppelgangers, revealing the monster within.... It's a topic I'd like to revisit now that I have some distance, because I had no idea what to focus on or what I was looking for at the time. If I were to look at it again, I'd spend more time on Othered identities in society, which is clearly the key I was looking for and never quite managed.

What I didn't fully understand growing up was that I'm not just "weird," and I'm not alone. I'm neurodivergent, which is true of many people and means there are people out there who speak and understand the world the way I do, and I'm very queer. Both mean that there are vast sections of the country that think that I'm broken or damned or better off dead. (And if you don't think that's true, you haven't been paying much attention to the news this last year.) A significant chunk of the world has already decided that I'm Other and the monster of their story, and if that's the case, the idea of being scary instead of helpless becomes a power fantasy, and monsterhood becomes wish fulfillment.

I'm also fond of flipping the script, and rightfully calling out horror behind prevailing social norms. Because horror touches on who is and has a right to be human, and the inherent monstrousness of man. But if I go too much further down that path this will become a love letter to Get Out, and that deserves to be more than a post-script in a Sunday ramble.

So there. Some thoughts about monsters and what they mean to me. That's not everything I love about horror, or even everything that appeals to me about the topics mentioned here. And I haven't even gone into my love of ghost stories as healing narratives. But...let's leave it at that for now.


* The one and only ghost story that managed to get to me is Bloody Mary. It frustrated me to no end, because I knew better and none of the other bloody and horrific stories I was consuming even in elementary school ever stuck with me. But to this day I can't sleep if my image is being reflected in a mirror.
** I eventually discovered roller coasters and violent hobbies, and yes, adrenaline is indeed great.

Poetry of the Week: Ending 2016 in Fire

Few of us have been fond of 2016. Mentioning the year itself has taken on a cursed quality in the media, in private conversations. Even foes on vehement sides of political divides can share sympathy about the past twelve months.

For myself, it's been a personally difficult year. I've attended two funerals, lost the last of my grandparents, said goodbye to a beloved pet of 14 years, dealt with various more complicated and personal issues, and I'm still not fully equipped to talk about how this last election has shaken me. Suffice to say that I came out under an administration that progressed human rights and made it feel like we were moving forward as a world and a community, and now people I know are getting targeted and harassed, and my existence is once again a matter of debate and public opinion.

But for the lowest of lows, there were also highs. I attended two funerals, but also two weddings. I spent time with friends I haven't seen in years, and strengthened friendships both new and old. There are people who rely on me, and people who will be there to support me when I need it. I don't mean to hide how terrible this year has been overall, but despite all of it, if I look back to December 29th, 2015, I felt lost and alone in ways that I don't any more. The world may not be in a better place now than it was then, but tired and bruised though I am, I'm better off.

So I'll accept the pains and trials and lessons of this year, and consign the rest to the fire. Fires of cleansing, of anger, of passion. Fires of trial. Fires of death and rebirth. Maybe 2017 won't be any better than 2016, but life and growth continue regardless, sometimes the stronger for having survived.


Fire and Ice - Robert Frost
Some say the world will end in fire, 
Some say in ice. 
From what I’ve tasted of desire 
I hold with those who favor fire. 
But if it had to perish twice, 
I think I know enough of hate 
To say that for destruction ice 
Is also great 
And would suffice.


Fire - Dorothea Mackellar
This life that we call our own
Is neither strong nor free;
A flame in the wind of death,
It trembles ceaselessly.

And this all we can do
To use our little light
Before, in the piercing wind,
It flickers into night:

To yield the heat of the flame,
To grudge not, but to give
Whatever we have of strength,
That one more flame may live.


You cannot put a fire out - Emily Dickinson
You cannot put a fire out;
  A thing that can ignite
Can go, itself, without a fan
  Upon the slowest night.

You cannot fold a flood       
  And put it in a drawer,—
Because the winds would find it out,
  And tell your cedar floor.


To Some I Have Talked With By The Fire - William Butler Yeats
While I wrought out these fitful Danaan rhymes,
My heart would brim with dreams about the times
When we bent down above the fading coals
And talked of the dark folk who live in souls
Of passionate men, like bats in the dead trees;
And of the wayward twilight companies
Who sigh with mingled sorrow and content,
Because their blossoming dreams have never bent
Under the fruit of evil and of good:
And of the embattled flaming multitude
Who rise, wing above wing, flame above flame,
And, like a storm, cry the Ineffable Name,
And with the clashing of their sword-blades make
A rapturous music, till the morning break
And the white hush end all but the loud beat
Of their long wings, the flash of their white feet.


Keep your lanterns burning and your hearths warm. I hope your winter is filled with folks who love you, and that you have a happy new year.

Tea Update: Hiatus Ending

My tea updates fell off the map, and I still owe you a Wonder blend for my Crossover LARP collection. The reason for that is that I ran out of both the bases for my Joy and Sorrow teas, and was putting off doing a full tea order until I did a full audit of my tea cabinet, which was a mess.

But a week ago I went through it, pulled out every last tin, jar, and bag, cataloged what was empty or mislabeled, and organized everything by type for future ease of reference. I now know that I am in fact out of lapsang, as I'd assumed, but I have significant quantities of mango and Earl Grey, and more plain white and yerba mate than I'd expected. I'll be putting together a tea order in the next few days, and then we should return to our regularly scheduled mucking about with mixes.

In the mean time, gaze upon my works, ye mighty, and despair (of my shaky photography skills)!

The top shelf is for blends of various complication, particularly if I can't name all the ingredients. Second shelf is blacks, including flavored blacks. Third shelf is mostly greens, but with whites, oolongs, and mates all huddled together on the left. Fourth shelf is herbals, and the last shelf is mix in ingredients and empty tins.  

Our previous organization system had more to do with container than tea type, which didn't work for me at all. This I expect to be far more maintainable, and way easier to experiment with when I don't have to dig through dozens of mystery canisters to find a good tisane for my caffeine free guests, or the particular type of green I think would taste good with whatever I'm trying that day.

Poetry of (Last) Week: The Old Astronomer

Last Wednesday was May 25th, which is, in addition to a day of remembrance and lilacs,* my father's birthday. Whenever I'm describing my dad, my most frequent description is "Like me, but older and taller." We think alike and always have, from early days of competitive pedantry to our current tech careers. He's the person to blame for my expressions of affection through sarcasm, my occasional befuddlement with the human race, my sense of honor, and my constant striving to be a better, more accomplished, and more creative human being.

That said, I skew more fantasy to his science-fiction, and when I asked him last week about his favorite poems or poets, he couldn't name any. Not so much his thing. But I think he'd enjoy "The Old Astronomer", even if it isn't a particularly happy birthday poem. So several days and my own birthday later, here's a repeat of one of my favorites, for him:

The Old Astronomer

Reach me down my Tycho Brahé, – I would know him when we meet,
When I share my later science, sitting humbly at his feet;
He may know the law of all things, yet be ignorant of how
We are working to completion, working on from then to now.

Pray remember that I leave you all my theory complete,
Lacking only certain data for your adding, as is meet,
And remember men will scorn it, ‘tis original and true,
And the obloquy of newness may fall bitterly on you.

But, my pupil, as my pupil you have learned the worth of scorn,
You have laughed with me at pity, we have joyed to be forlorn,
What for us are all distractions of men’s fellowship and wiles;
What for us the Goddess Pleasure with her meretricious smiles.

You may tell that German College that their honor comes too late,
But they must not waste repentance on the grizzly savant’s fate.
Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light;
I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.

What, my boy, you are not weeping? You should save your eyes for sight;
You will need them, mine observer, yet for many another night.
I leave none but you, my pupil, unto whom my plans are known.
You “have none but me,” you murmur, and I “leave you quite alone”?

Well then, kiss me, – since my mother left her blessing on my brow,
There has been a something wanting in my nature until now;
I can dimly comprehend it, – that I might have been more kind,
Might have cherished you more wisely, as the one I leave behind.

I “have never failed in kindness”? No, we lived too high for strife,–
Calmest coldness was the error which has crept into our life;
But your spirit is untainted, I can dedicate you still
To the service of our science: you will further it? you will!

There are certain calculations I should like to make with you,
To be sure that your deductions will be logical and true;
And remember, “Patience, Patience,” is the watchword of a sage,
Not to-day nor yet to-morrow can complete a perfect age.

I have sown, like Tycho Brahé, that a greater man may reap;
But if none should do my reaping, 'twill disturb me in my sleep
So be careful and be faithful, though, like me, you leave no name;
See, my boy, that nothing turn you to the mere pursuit of fame.

I must say Good-bye, my pupil, for I cannot longer speak;
Draw the curtain back for Venus, ere my vision grows too weak:
It is strange the pearly planet should look red as fiery Mars,–
God will mercifully guide me on my way amongst the stars.



* This is a Discworld reference. If you haven't already, I highly recommending reading the Guards plotline of Discworld novels.**
** Honestly, I recommend reading most Discworld novels, and should actually post a lengthy description here of some of my favorites some day.

Interlude: The Problem of Focus

Focus is a concept that's at once difficult for me and all too easy.  If I make the mistake of starting a new book, and I enjoy it, my focus is guaranteed for the next handful of hours until I've completed it. I can put it down and work on other tasks, but I'll be at least somewhat distracted if I do, and given how quickly I read it's usually more efficient to just buckle down and get through it.

My projects can be like that, as well, all jostling for attention. I've started likening focus and task management to walking a pack of dogs. Some, like a good book, grab me and start dragging me down whatever path they want, and have to be wrangled back into order. Others want my attention, but meander unproductively down side roads. "Oh, you want to work on your short story? Absolutely! Let's research tangential but fascinating details for the next three hours without writing a single sentence." Like real dogs, they can be trained to some degree, but it seems to be on a dog by dog or project by project basis, and it's not a quick process. Enough work on a specific task or thought will allow me to properly pace and channel my enthusiasm and inspiration. I can trust that letting it sit on the back burner while I deal with other priorities won't result in losing it forever, and I can dredge up some momentum when it's finally time to get to work. But very few of my projects reach that level of maturity.

Today, in what free time I can scrounge between work and scheduled obligations, I could do any of the following: pick which poem I'm posting tomorrow, make plans for my trip to NYC in a few days, brainstorm and write up details for two upcoming LARP characters, work on my short story, see if I can make progress on my next tattoo, set up a second blog for SCA-related thoughts and make a post there, sort out logistics for the next several months, or make progress toward either getting a vocal teacher or at least researching some exercises I can do at home. Instead I'm writing this, because it's been nagging at me off and on for days, and I'd like to wrap it up and see what conclusions I can draw. (I'd also like to avoid the twenty minute rumination I ran into earlier this week where I tried to figure out what dog breed my various projects must be.)

Before I'm deep into a task, I can be easily distracted by other thoughts and priorities, leading to a very flighty and honestly somewhat uncomfortable state where my mind flits from shiny to shiny until I pick something or drown out the noise with forced quiet. Usually this involves chaining my mind to something engaging enough to carry me along, but self-contained enough not to spawn further jostling thought threads. Fencing can be good for this. Netflix is less healthy for me, but similarly useful. A quick 20 minute sitcom is sometimes all I need to reset all the pending threads and reassert control. The act of definitively finishing something, whatever that something may be, is usually helpful. Alcohol usually dampens most of my excessive brain energy (hooray for lowered anxiety!), but doesn't encourage single-minded focus, so it's better for relaxing than productivity.

But once I've started moving and gotten deep into something, I don't context switch well. Turning around and switching to an entirely new task takes time. I've taken efforts to minimize this in my work environment, but I only recently realized that I need to worry about it for my personal productivity as well. As it stands, on a good day I'm home for five hours before I need to turn in. A significant chunk of that is taken up with cooking, eating, and cleaning up after dinner, leaving me with even fewer usable, consecutive hours in the day. And yet I have this strange notion that I'll do a little fencing and a little writing and a little guitar and a little research and a few small improvements and maybe those pending e-mail tasks and... And shockingly, that hasn't been working out well for me. I can't research in dribs and drabs any more than I can set a new novel down before I've finished it. And I really can't write that way. I can plan! I can outline and brainstorm and let the threads run wherever they may, but the hard work of sitting and typing and forcing words to happen takes at least a half an hour before it clicks and starts moving properly.

This blog has been helpful. Arbitrary, self-imposed deadlines aren't particularly useful to me, but ones that are visible to other people are. That added bit of urgency helps me get through whatever it is I'm needing to work on. (See also: my entire academic career) Which is why I'm likely to start an SCA blog once I find the time to properly devote to it. And beyond that, I think I'm going to go back over my plans and schedules and cut out all the "spend a half hour on this regularly" thoughts, replacing them in as many places as I can with larger chunks of time spread further apart. That won't work for everything, of course, but it might help with a couple of my projects that have stalled out.