I’m a gaming geek, as lots of people know well. So, I was talking to another gaming geek today, and we were talking about characters, and how each character is kind of like a sliver or two of our personalities, and that if you follow that thinking to its logical end, to know all of a gaming geek’s characters is to know all of said gaming geek. It’s interesting, at least, to think about. If I put Reagan, Lizzie, Terra, Britt, Mac, Vincent, Aodhan, Grace, Marissa, Zara, Sunshine and Najia all together, do they equal me? Some of them are similar, but different. Aodhan and Zara could sort of be combined. So could Sunshine and Marissa. And Najia and Reagan and Mac, and Vincent and Lizzie. But still . . . that’s seven-ish archetypes (or fragments, depending on how one looks at it) that fit well to different parts of my personality. Strange, hmm? It certainly makes me curious if this applies to everyone I know who games, or just to the person I was talking to and me. It also makes me wonder if I’m really that simple of a person, or if my characters are that complex.
Anyway! Onward and upward to other more interesting things. I have a friend in England, and he’s absolutely fabulous. Much like the other people I know online that I really call friends (and a couple of you read here), I’d love to just hang out with him. Be it at a pub with soccer hooligans or taking pictures of the riots in . . . Manchester, I think he said it was . . . or whatever, I think it’d be a great time. We’d sit in front of a fireplace in a library crammed full of loads of books on every subject with a messy computer desk in one corner, a laptop in one of our laps, drinking gin, smoking, and eating cake until we couldn’t stand any of the three any longer. Then, we’d make up silly songs and write silly radio shows and it would be fan-fucking-tastic, much like if I met up with Kai or K’wyn or Eric or Dusty, the other internet people I call friends rather than just internet people. I was supposed to meet up with K’wyn this fall, but of course that didn’t work out . . . stupid hubby’s work, getting bought out and changing vacation time policies and what not. But then, when I think about my internet friends, I wonder if I’d get tired of them and they’d irritate me face to face, just like most of the people I know in the real world do. I’m not really much of a people person, I guess – which is strange, because I’d rather be around people I don’t like, even, than by myself.
Sewing is coming along nicely, I suppose. I have a lot to do, still, but my patterns are pretty simple as far as such things go, and as long as the machine cooperates, it moves at a nice clip. If only the machine would always cooperate, I’d be done with everything already. I still need to call Ruth for her measurements – I keep forgetting – but G’s sewing Ruth’s dress for me anyway. I just have my stuff and the girls’ to finish – I’d have Jerry’s too, but we don’t have the money for his fabric (or, well, we do – but when he gets paid, there won’t be enough time for me to sew his stuff), or the pattern I’d need. Folkwear patterns are expensive as hell. I’m looking forward to the event; Eoin will be there, and it’s been a long time since I’ve seen him. He’s one of my favorites of the old guard, and ever since Elspeth died I worry about him a little. He’s old enough to be my dad, but still . . . I worry about my dad, too.
And now, I better get back to that sewing, or it never will get done.
29 August 2006
Sometimes, You Can Cut It With a Knife
It’s never the good things you can cut with a knife, at least not if one is speaking metaphorically. Instead, it’s the things most people wish they could deal with in smaller pieces – tension, anger, humidity. Sometimes, it’s frustration, sexual or otherwise. Sure, all these things can be good (or at least cathartic) . . . it’s just unusual.
I ran into an old friend not too long ago, and he came to a gathering at mutual friends’ house even more recently. We’ve known each other off and on for a decade, minus time apart when he moved to the other side of the state or to Ohio for a while, and minus time for when I was too busy to really know anyone. There’s always been a sort of energy, a tension between us that defies rational explanation (but then, what’s ever rational about most of the situations that touch me?). Most of the time, you could cut it with a knife; I’m not sure I even like him, really. I mean, he’s okay, but he irritates the hell out of me sometimes, and likely he could say the same about me. When, of course, he isn’t professing undying love. Needless to say, this kind of thing is less than helpful, and what’s a girl to do? Write blogs complaining about it, of course, in a place where he doesn’t know to look for them since he now knows where my myspace page is. Yay.
On a somewhat more interesting (or fun – to me, at least) iTunes is nicely picking songs that fit my mood or the situation about which I was writing or both. Quite sporting of it, really.
Hurry Up and Wait, Stereophonics
We wait to get warm, the car starts from cold,
Stall to make a first move,
Magazines make the rules to make us lose,
For your dream man, the house you could both plan,
The car in the sales ad,
The wet dream with a man you wished that you had
So hurry up and wait
But what's worth waiting for?
So hurry up and wait
But what's worth waiting for?
Nothing’s Changed, Chris Isaak
Let's take a drive through the old town.
Back past the place where we met.
Some things are hard to remember.
Some things you'll never forget.
Today Your Love, Tomorrow the World, Ramones
I'm a shock trooper in a stupor
Yes I am.
Misery, Green Day
And she screams why oh why
I said I don’t know
The Prettiest Thing, Norah Jones
So why does it seem
Like a picture
Hanging up on someone else's wall
Lately I just haven't been myself at all
It's heavy on my mind
Freedom, Tegan and Sara
this is where i wanna be
this is who i wanna be
Pourin’ My Heart Out Again, Golden Earring
And I could spend all
my life
Just sittin’ here paralyzed
And I could
spend all my life
Waitin’ for you to materialize
And there ends the random pertinence. I do hope my two readers enjoyed. Oh, and . . .
Sometimes you could cut it
With a knife
Sometimes you don’t know
If it’s wrong or if it’s right
Another bit of a poem. I like this one less, though.
I ran into an old friend not too long ago, and he came to a gathering at mutual friends’ house even more recently. We’ve known each other off and on for a decade, minus time apart when he moved to the other side of the state or to Ohio for a while, and minus time for when I was too busy to really know anyone. There’s always been a sort of energy, a tension between us that defies rational explanation (but then, what’s ever rational about most of the situations that touch me?). Most of the time, you could cut it with a knife; I’m not sure I even like him, really. I mean, he’s okay, but he irritates the hell out of me sometimes, and likely he could say the same about me. When, of course, he isn’t professing undying love. Needless to say, this kind of thing is less than helpful, and what’s a girl to do? Write blogs complaining about it, of course, in a place where he doesn’t know to look for them since he now knows where my myspace page is. Yay.
On a somewhat more interesting (or fun – to me, at least) iTunes is nicely picking songs that fit my mood or the situation about which I was writing or both. Quite sporting of it, really.
Hurry Up and Wait, Stereophonics
We wait to get warm, the car starts from cold,
Stall to make a first move,
Magazines make the rules to make us lose,
For your dream man, the house you could both plan,
The car in the sales ad,
The wet dream with a man you wished that you had
So hurry up and wait
But what's worth waiting for?
So hurry up and wait
But what's worth waiting for?
Nothing’s Changed, Chris Isaak
Let's take a drive through the old town.
Back past the place where we met.
Some things are hard to remember.
Some things you'll never forget.
Today Your Love, Tomorrow the World, Ramones
I'm a shock trooper in a stupor
Yes I am.
Misery, Green Day
And she screams why oh why
I said I don’t know
The Prettiest Thing, Norah Jones
So why does it seem
Like a picture
Hanging up on someone else's wall
Lately I just haven't been myself at all
It's heavy on my mind
Freedom, Tegan and Sara
this is where i wanna be
this is who i wanna be
Pourin’ My Heart Out Again, Golden Earring
And I could spend all
my life
Just sittin’ here paralyzed
And I could
spend all my life
Waitin’ for you to materialize
And there ends the random pertinence. I do hope my two readers enjoyed. Oh, and . . .
Sometimes you could cut it
With a knife
Sometimes you don’t know
If it’s wrong or if it’s right
Another bit of a poem. I like this one less, though.
25 August 2006
Things I Haven't Said
There's a well, somewhere, of all the things
I haven't said
good or bad or indifferent
for every
one
there are hundreds of words dying, drowning . . .
I’ve forgotten how to talk, or maybe you’ve
Forgotten how to listen.
It’s not an easy thing to learn, and it is
A difficult skill to retain
Comprehension comes in
Fits
And
Starts
And misunderstandings abound;
Everything is a homonym
Except for the things that
I haven’t said.
I haven't said
good or bad or indifferent
for every
one
there are hundreds of words dying, drowning . . .
I’ve forgotten how to talk, or maybe you’ve
Forgotten how to listen.
It’s not an easy thing to learn, and it is
A difficult skill to retain
Comprehension comes in
Fits
And
Starts
And misunderstandings abound;
Everything is a homonym
Except for the things that
I haven’t said.
21 August 2006
Yay for New Toys!
Now everyone who looks here can check out my kids. Kind of scary, but I think I know everyone who looks, so . . . yeah!
09 August 2006
Actually Written Back in June
So, this year was the first Border War I've been to in ages - you wouldn't believe how much I've missed playing with the people I grew up around, how amazed I am at the little McCords all grown up, how much I wanted to cry when I saw the bridge gone (and wondered where on earth the fighters were going to shower) and so on. That park . . . well, this year was Border War 23. I remember Border War 1 - that's a lot of Border Wars. Even the bad parts don't outweigh the awesome that is Bertha Brock park - never mind the mosquito bites, never mind the eight million miles uphill to camp, never mind all of it . . . just being there is amazing. It feels a lot like going back to camp, all quite and serene and OMG fun at the same time.
I remember playing with Jill and Chris and Rolf when their parents were prince and princess, and then king and queen.
I remember SO MANY Fum courts I've lost count.
I remember hanging out with the Donnershafen kids (okay, that was a Winter Revel, but still) and my dad telling me I smelled like furniture polish (drinking cognac tends to do that to one) and me kissing Karhu and that other guy (Cuvara? Something like that), having one on each arm.
I remember my first near-sexual experience being with some guy I don't remember now (but I think he's married and a knight!!!!!) with black hair and glasses - we went down the trail from Palmer Lodge and to the right to a stone bridge and right there in the middle of the bridge, leaning against the side, well . . . anyway.
I remember finally kissing Julie (hi, honey!).
The first time I got drunk was with SCA people from the western side of the state - I grew up there, I lived there forever. My dad was famous amongst all those people; now, years after he's moved several states away, I still have people doing double takes and saying, "Hey, aren't you Fum's kid?" When I go to events over there, particularly anything at Bertha Brock, or Val Day, I feel like I'm going home - more than I do when I'm going anywhere else. I could be going to visit my mom in the house I spent most of my life so far in (wow, that won't be true any more in another two years) and it wouldn't feel as much like home as those places, with those people. I'm not sure what it is, or why it happens that way . . . but it does. There's the smell of bonfires and mead and sweaty fighters, the sound of drums and people laughing and singing, there's the roads that I know so well that I could traverse them barefoot and blindfolded and still know exactly where I'd be and how long it would take - yes, I know from experience.
The memories in those places are a mile thick, and the relationships I've made there are bigger than that.
Fuck, I wish I could spend more time at home.
I remember playing with Jill and Chris and Rolf when their parents were prince and princess, and then king and queen.
I remember SO MANY Fum courts I've lost count.
I remember hanging out with the Donnershafen kids (okay, that was a Winter Revel, but still) and my dad telling me I smelled like furniture polish (drinking cognac tends to do that to one) and me kissing Karhu and that other guy (Cuvara? Something like that), having one on each arm.
I remember my first near-sexual experience being with some guy I don't remember now (but I think he's married and a knight!!!!!) with black hair and glasses - we went down the trail from Palmer Lodge and to the right to a stone bridge and right there in the middle of the bridge, leaning against the side, well . . . anyway.
I remember finally kissing Julie (hi, honey!).
The first time I got drunk was with SCA people from the western side of the state - I grew up there, I lived there forever. My dad was famous amongst all those people; now, years after he's moved several states away, I still have people doing double takes and saying, "Hey, aren't you Fum's kid?" When I go to events over there, particularly anything at Bertha Brock, or Val Day, I feel like I'm going home - more than I do when I'm going anywhere else. I could be going to visit my mom in the house I spent most of my life so far in (wow, that won't be true any more in another two years) and it wouldn't feel as much like home as those places, with those people. I'm not sure what it is, or why it happens that way . . . but it does. There's the smell of bonfires and mead and sweaty fighters, the sound of drums and people laughing and singing, there's the roads that I know so well that I could traverse them barefoot and blindfolded and still know exactly where I'd be and how long it would take - yes, I know from experience.
The memories in those places are a mile thick, and the relationships I've made there are bigger than that.
Fuck, I wish I could spend more time at home.
Left Unsaid
There's a well, somewhere, of all the things
I haven't said
good or bad or indifferent
for every
one
there are hundreds of words dying, drowning . . .
It's been a long time since I wrote poetry . . . a very, very long time. I don't think I was really any good at it then, and I'm fairly certain I'm not now, but I ran into someone I used to know a long time ago, and it made me come up with that bit. I don't know if it's a beginning, middle, or end.
But it's a start.
I haven't said
good or bad or indifferent
for every
one
there are hundreds of words dying, drowning . . .
It's been a long time since I wrote poetry . . . a very, very long time. I don't think I was really any good at it then, and I'm fairly certain I'm not now, but I ran into someone I used to know a long time ago, and it made me come up with that bit. I don't know if it's a beginning, middle, or end.
But it's a start.
08 August 2006
In-Laws
Almost everyone (that I know or hear about) hates their in-laws; it's in every movie you watch, every book you read, every song you hear. I don't feel at all unique in my hatred for them, deserved or un (goodness knows, they do a lot for us - I'm just not quite sure if it outweighs what they do against us), nor do I feel particularly unique in my reasons for hating them, at least not any more. Ever since I've seen what they do to me done to countless daughters-in-law in movies and TV, it's been hard to feel special about that.
Yes, I said hate.
I may even have meant it.
Eighteen. That's how old I was when I moved out here, away from home and friends into a strange new world (Mars is nice, I used to think as I looked around the suburb of Detroit I found myself in) that was exactly that, no exageration. In Kalamazoo and Portage, there aren't even neighborhoods that look like what I found in Grosse Pointe, or what I continue to see. Sure, the town's got great parks, great schools, great 'networking potential' (or at least it did, but my theories on that are for a different entry, I think) and hundreds of other superlatives going for it . . . but it's also full of the rudest, snottiest people I've ever met in my life, kids not disincluded. Money, even old money, doesn't equal manners, though one (I) would think it ought. No, as far as etiquette goes, the kid from the poor town on the other side of the state, bordered on three sides by farms, is more educated than the doctors, lawyers and CEOs that surround her.
Anyway, I was eighteen. I was in love. I was young, and stupid, and countless other things that eighteen year olds are prone to be . . . and the first thing my in-laws did was discredit me to anyone that I came into contact with. For years, I was stupid, a whore, and . . . I don't think I've heard all the things they've said about me yet. I know I really don't want to. The first time I heard someone say something along those lines, it felt like a smack (not a slap, smack has a far more satisfying ring to it, and it's more like how it felt) to the face. I know I got very pale except for the apples of my cheeks and my forehead were, which were very red. I know that my eyes were very wide, and the dark, stormy blue-gray they only get when I'm about to cry or hit someone. I know my freckles stood out like braile, or maybe bas relief. I know these things because I was in the produce section of a produce store and I could see my reflection in the bowl-thing at the bottom of the scale. Didn't I see you with what's-his-name last night? If Jerry finds out . . . And then there was a lot of faux sympathetic, tell-me-more, unneeded and unwanted advice.
It wasn't the only time that, or something similar, happened.
When I got married, I was twenty. I'd had four male lovers (two of them were one night stands, one was a week-long fling, and the other was a 'real' relationship for several months) and one female (that lasted a year) who weren't my husband, and none of them before I was eighteen. The comments changed from what a whore I was to how stupid, or what a bad cook, or . . . whatever. Did Jerry teach you how to make that? I mean, if you made mashed potatoes out of a box . . . I know you only have your high school diploma, but . . . I don't even really pay attention any more, at least not until they get to a place where they discredit me in front of my kids.
I was twenty-three, or just a couple months shy of, when my older daughter was born. They started trying to take her (and other family members, but that's a different story) away from me that day - not physically, perhaps, but emotionally, mentally. To this day, they can't just admit she looks almost exactly like I did when I was a kid. Isn't it cute how much M looks like your sister, H? Look at that red hair, just like M's. As she's gotten older, it's escalated; now, they try to bribe her. Popsicles, candy, toys, money . . . it doesn't really matter what, so long as it's something she doesn't get from me on a regular basis. Love me more, they scream with each nearly forbidden treat they shove in her four-year-old face. Meanwhile, M's little sister, L, is all but forgotten in favor of M, who's nearly forgotten in favor of B, her cousin. And they wonder why they don't see my girls often.
So, yeah. Almost everyone hates their in-laws . . . add my name to that list, too.
Yes, I said hate.
I may even have meant it.
Eighteen. That's how old I was when I moved out here, away from home and friends into a strange new world (Mars is nice, I used to think as I looked around the suburb of Detroit I found myself in) that was exactly that, no exageration. In Kalamazoo and Portage, there aren't even neighborhoods that look like what I found in Grosse Pointe, or what I continue to see. Sure, the town's got great parks, great schools, great 'networking potential' (or at least it did, but my theories on that are for a different entry, I think) and hundreds of other superlatives going for it . . . but it's also full of the rudest, snottiest people I've ever met in my life, kids not disincluded. Money, even old money, doesn't equal manners, though one (I) would think it ought. No, as far as etiquette goes, the kid from the poor town on the other side of the state, bordered on three sides by farms, is more educated than the doctors, lawyers and CEOs that surround her.
Anyway, I was eighteen. I was in love. I was young, and stupid, and countless other things that eighteen year olds are prone to be . . . and the first thing my in-laws did was discredit me to anyone that I came into contact with. For years, I was stupid, a whore, and . . . I don't think I've heard all the things they've said about me yet. I know I really don't want to. The first time I heard someone say something along those lines, it felt like a smack (not a slap, smack has a far more satisfying ring to it, and it's more like how it felt) to the face. I know I got very pale except for the apples of my cheeks and my forehead were, which were very red. I know that my eyes were very wide, and the dark, stormy blue-gray they only get when I'm about to cry or hit someone. I know my freckles stood out like braile, or maybe bas relief. I know these things because I was in the produce section of a produce store and I could see my reflection in the bowl-thing at the bottom of the scale. Didn't I see you with what's-his-name last night? If Jerry finds out . . . And then there was a lot of faux sympathetic, tell-me-more, unneeded and unwanted advice.
It wasn't the only time that, or something similar, happened.
When I got married, I was twenty. I'd had four male lovers (two of them were one night stands, one was a week-long fling, and the other was a 'real' relationship for several months) and one female (that lasted a year) who weren't my husband, and none of them before I was eighteen. The comments changed from what a whore I was to how stupid, or what a bad cook, or . . . whatever. Did Jerry teach you how to make that? I mean, if you made mashed potatoes out of a box . . . I know you only have your high school diploma, but . . . I don't even really pay attention any more, at least not until they get to a place where they discredit me in front of my kids.
I was twenty-three, or just a couple months shy of, when my older daughter was born. They started trying to take her (and other family members, but that's a different story) away from me that day - not physically, perhaps, but emotionally, mentally. To this day, they can't just admit she looks almost exactly like I did when I was a kid. Isn't it cute how much M looks like your sister, H? Look at that red hair, just like M's. As she's gotten older, it's escalated; now, they try to bribe her. Popsicles, candy, toys, money . . . it doesn't really matter what, so long as it's something she doesn't get from me on a regular basis. Love me more, they scream with each nearly forbidden treat they shove in her four-year-old face. Meanwhile, M's little sister, L, is all but forgotten in favor of M, who's nearly forgotten in favor of B, her cousin. And they wonder why they don't see my girls often.
So, yeah. Almost everyone hates their in-laws . . . add my name to that list, too.
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