Noeth Dreamingfifi

Good God - Philosophizing on God and Religion

Thu, 30 Jun 2011 18:01:50 GMT

Why the hell am I writing this? Of all the self-centered, self-righteous, pig-headed crap I've done, why am I adding this to the pile? Why am I writing this shit when I know no one will listen, and no one wants to listen?

I think that I need to sort these things out in my head, and being a slightly visual person, putting the thoughts onto the screen will make it easier to organize them in some fashion. Or maybe, I just want to read my own words again.

Good God

I, as a five year old with messy hair, snotty nose, and a pretty blonde best friend who seemed to best me at every turn, was explaining an idea that I had just had. "My fingers aren't really touching," I said, pinching my forefinger and thumb together. "There's something invisible between them that's holding them together. Nothing actually touches anything else, you see, because invisible bonds hold everything together."

I might have been repeating something my Dad had told me about chemistry, but I recall it as though it was my idea. This is evidence of the way that my ... faith? religion? World View? POV? would develop to be quite different than that of my friends or acquaintances.

I grew up in a godless house. I don't mean that we had no morals, for rather, it was quite the opposite. My parents' moral standards were higher than many pious Christian family's of my friends whom I visited. It seemed to me that religion was used as an excuse for poor behavior, as if it could excuse one for all of the dishonesty and spite one laid upon the world. Our, and in turn, my moral code was so strict that many of my school friends and classmates believed that I was very pious and religious.

Much of my early analysis of the morals of religious people was based on two things. The first being that when my religious peers on the school bus discovered that I didn't have a religion; they were nasty little shitheads to me. At one point, they cornered me on the playground and threw big woodchips and their shoes at me shouting, "Witch! Burn the witch!" The other was that my nonna, an otherwise very gentle and wonderful woman, would follow any cursing or mean comment with "God bless them", as though it erased the malcontent in her words.

My later analysis only supported my earlier analysis. There only was more added to it. When I learned about the crusades and other such religious wars, I even came to fear it, despise it and the people who associated themselves with it. I couldn't see why people found so much solace in an excuse to hurt other people.

From my understanding…. And not being a historian or cultural anthropologist, what made three religions that worship the same god so prosperous is a very destructive, but very powerful and binding idea: us versus them. I’ve read the bible. I read it as a teenager, to find out what all of the hubbub was about. I found a consistent theme: WE fought THEM, and WE won. WE fought THEM, and THEY won, but WE persevered! Then WE snuck into THEIR houses in the middle of the night and slaughtered every man woman and child. It’s okay because THEY weren’t US. Oh yeah, and because WE won, obviously god was on OUR side! You’ll note that that’s the reason that Christianity was adopted as the state religion of Rome. But I digress. Most of the us versus them stuff comes from the Old Testament. The New Testament would be better, right?

Jesus reminds me of Buddha. He had great ideas, but his followers mucked it up. I liked Jesus until it got to the cannibalism. Yuck. And didn’t God say, “No more human sacrifices?” Wasn’t that a REALLY big point back in the Old Testament?

Islam also starts with some really good ideas on Muhammad’s part… then they decided to conquer the Middle East. Actually, in comparison, Islam is pretty sane. If you like Zoroaster’s god so much, Islam is a good way to go. Not to say that politicians haven’t found ways to twist Islam for their own uses… they have. Just like those nutcases who try to tell us that Leviticus is still relevant.

Recently I took a class in Japanese religions, and came upon a fascinating idea. Why couldn’t all of these religions just coexist? They cover the same ground over and over: fear of death, disease, strangers, the unknown; moral guidelines to deal with the few unscrupulous members of society, rules for keeping society running smoothly, and lastly and most importantly: how to keep adding to and protecting the ranks of followers. (The last part is where most of the conflict comes from.)

So far, all I’ve done is ramble about the problems I have with various organized religions. That isn’t helpful, or useful. And it all boils down to one thing: what do I believe? From all of this confusion and vague rage towards the ignorant brats that tried to stone me on the playground, how do I find the answer?

I have realized one very important thing: I am ill equipped to find the answer. I have never experienced a religious or even a supernatural phenomenon. I am not a brilliant mathematician or philosopher. But, there are some basic ideas that I have formed, through looking at the world and organizing and categorizing it in a typical linguistic fashion, with a touch of literary analysis.

The characterization of God(s), no matter the religion, are ridiculous as Santa Claus getting down every chimney on Christmas Eve. The God that I saw in The Old Testament was an asshole. He was violent and insecure and controlling as an abusive father, at best nothing more than a thug that you could bribe to fight for you, by giving him freshly slaughtered lambs. Because, you know, God is always hungry, and he particularly savors the taste of mutton. Joking aside, the beginning of the Old Testament and the other parts are incongruous. Why would one who made creatures who would not love him unconditionally, who would seek knowledge and question their surroundings (and him), and then force these people, by use of horrible, gruesome acts, to pledge loyalty to him, to make them ignore and beat down that part of their nature? Then to slaughter those who didn’t do exactly as he ordered? And later, all of a sudden he’s a loving God, who just needs a man to be put to death in order to forgive humanity for being exactly as he made them.

That is what I mean when I say the Bible is contradictory.

But, looking critically at a document that was obviously constructed by men who wanted power is kinda useless in trying to discern the existence, or non-existence of deities. How can we tell if there isn’t some sort of god(s) out there?

Looking at how prayers are completely useless, I can safely say that if god(s) exist, they don’t care about the trials and tribulations of individual humans. Looking at how humanity is aiming itself towards destroying itself and the planet it dwells on, it’s safe to say that these creators don’t care about what happens to humanity, or the rest of life on this little rock. We are alone, and the only ones who can help us is ourselves.

Could there have been a creator though? A creator that made the big bang and sat back and watched? Or perhaps, god simply is all of the matter in the universe; lacking what we think of as intelligence? But now, I am describing not something that could be called god, I’m describing the universe. The fact that we exist isn’t holy, it just is.

So, what do I believe? I don’t believe that god(s) exist as described in the multitudes of sacred texts and stories. In comparison to the many religions out there, I’d say that I am an Atheist. But, that’s not a description of what I believe, it’s a description of what I don’t believe. I don’t believe in god(s).

I have been asked before, “If you don’t believe in God, where do you get your moral compass? How can you live without a set of rules telling you what is and isn’t moral, and without serious consequences to you or your soul for breaking these moral codes?”

Again, the answer is simple. I want to leave the world that I live in a better place. Not just for my future children, but for everyone. Guilt is all the punishment that I need. If I do believe something, it is that humans don’t need Hellfire to be good people, and to make the world a better place. Humans are fundamentally good, and we want to live in peace. There are exceptions, but why should the few bad eggs make the rest of us rotten?

I wish there were some sort of all powerful bad-ass who would fight for my personal safety and well-being. Pity there isn’t. I guess I’ll just have to do that for myself.

My father told me that linguists should never stick their noses into philosophy. Sorry Dad. This is for you.

In Memory of My Grandfather

Sun, 30 Jan 2011 20:08:11 GMT

I translated the poem that was read in place of kaddish for my grandfather into Quenya.

The English version can be found here: http://www.wildmind.org/walking/inbeauty

I changed the poem slightly, so it would sound like I was addressing my grandfather.

Nai Vaniesse Patalye

Nai vaniesse, patalye.
Nai ter-árasse, patalye.
Nai tere pélala loasse, patalye.

Vanyave ata-haryuvalye.
Vanyave aiwi…
Vanyave alassie aiwi

Nai malurwa tiesse, patalye.
Nai ara pír os talunya, patalye.
Nai ara rosse os talunya, patalye.

Nai ara vanie, patalye.
Nai ara vanie epelye, patalye.
Nai ara vanie apalye, patalye.
Nai ara vanie orelye, patalye.
Nai ara vanie undulye, patalye.
Nai ara vanie oselye, patalye.

Íre nélye yára ar ranyala vanya tiesse, vecca, patanelye.
Íre nélye yára ar ranyala vanya tiesse, ceura, patanelye.

Etéliel vaniesse.
Etéliel vaniesse.

English:
May You Walk in Beauty

May you walk in beauty.
May you walk throughout the day.
May you walk throughout the revolving year.

Beautifully again you will possess.
Beautifully birds…
Beautifully joyous birds

May you walk on a pollen-laden path.
May you walk with insects about my feet.
May you walk with dew about my feet.

May you walk with beauty.
May you walk with beauty before you.
May you walk with beauty behind you.
May you walk with beauty above you.
May you walk with beauty below you.
May you walk with beauty around you.

When you were old, and wandering on beautiful paths, active, you walked.
When you were old, and wandering on beautiful paths, renewed, you walked.

You have finished in beauty.
You have finished in beauty.

Merin Essi ar Quenteli! Newsletter

Thu, 27 Jan 2011 10:18:18 GMT

Some of you may know this already, but last Saint Nicolas’ Day, my grandfather died. We were quite close. He was a brilliant anthropologist and quite gifted at learning languages. If you want to know more about him, do a search on Frank Bessac. I miss him terribly, to the point of distraction. Anyways, I’m taking a semester off of school to mourn, work on Realelvish.net, and hopefully to find a job.

I’ve been burying myself in my website lately, and there have been a lot of updates as a result.

The textbook is back up to date! (I think.) This has been what I’ve been focusing on the most lately. There are several new sections. It now includes a section on the diminutive suffix “-ig/-eg”, on the adjective-making verb suffixes “-ui” and “-weg”, a list of adverbal prefixes that includes the ones found in PE17 (that none of the Sindarin dictionaries have seen fit to include yet), the superlative prefix “ro-“, archaic plurals “-ir” and “-id”, two new types of mutation uncreatively named “H-mutation” and “DH-mutation”, and the abstract suffix “-as”. There also are new chapters on syntax and analogous change to grammar, and an entire chapter on writing in Elven scripts.
http://your-sindarin-textbook.realelvish.net/index.php?id=3

The lessons have been converted to a semester system. Every week students will turn in homework, then spend the rest of the week perfecting the homework and studying up on the next lesson. I’ve designed it to give students just enough of a push to keep working on the lessons, but spaced out so it won’t interfere with real life, hopefully. This should also encourage students to get together and discuss lessons on the forums.
http://your-sindarin-textbook.realelvish.net/index.php?id=4

The class starts February 14th. That is the first day homework is due. For a more complete set of dates, check out the forum calendar:
http://realelvish.proboards.com/index.cgi?action=calendar

Because of the work I’ve been putting into the textbook, I’ve been updating the Sindarin Phrase Book like mad.

The “Help!” phrases have been changed to “Rescue Mission” phrases.
http://www.realelvish.net/sindarin_rescue.php
I edited the format of many of the sections to match “Rescue Mission”s easier to search format.
http://www.realelvish.net/sindarin_intro.php
http://www.realelvish.net/sindarin_communication.php
http://www.realelvish.net/sindarin_bartering.php
http://www.realelvish.net/sindarin_warphrases.php
http://www.realelvish.net/sindarin_comeandgo.php
http://www.realelvish.net/sindarin_justforfun.php

Because of their new formats, I’ve discovered some weak points in the phrasebooks and have been slowly filling in the gaps. Eventually I’ll do the same for the Quenya Phrase Book.

Speaking of Quenya, there’s finally a Quenya Pronunciation guide!
http://www.realelvish.net/quenya_pronunciation.php

The Sindarin Name Lists have been updated with hundreds of new names, stemming from the new name suffixes Tolkien described in PE17, and some research that I did in Sindarin agental suffixes.
http://www.realelvish.net/sindarin_namespeople.php

I’m now going to the same college that the creator of I Lam Arth, Aaron Shaw is. Actually, we grew up about 10 miles apart, but never knew it. What an odd coincidence, eh? We’re also about the same age. Something about the Gallatin Valley must make bored teenagers dive into LotR. Anyways, we’re going to discuss my textbook and his articles, maybe produce a few articles of our own.

Galu!

Merin Essi ar Quenteli! Newsletter

Fri, 16 Jul 2010 05:10:53 GMT

As some of you may know, my website was kicked offline last month because it apparently had run out of bandwidth. To set the record straight: No it hadn't run out of bandwidth. There was a problem with the server's ability to tally the usage of my website, making it think that 6 months of traffic had happened in one day. It is true that my website is slowly eating up more and more bandwidth, but currently, we're only using 1/5th of our monthly allowance. When or if The Hobbit movie comes out, (I'm working on the Woodelven sections in preparation!) I might have to buy bandwidth, but until then, let's enjoy our free ride.

While the website was down, I made a new section of the phrasebook. It's a set of phrases for use in the Elven bedroom. I've often gotten e-mails from people writing intimate love-scenes for their stories, and I've long considered making a steamy set of phrases (the challenge being talking dirty with a language that has no dirty words) and I finally gave in. Of course, you must be 18 or over to view it.

You are 18 or over, right?

Hey, it says that Elves "delight in love-making" in the Laws and Customs of the Eldar, so why not?

Lately, I've been updating the textbook like mad. It was missing information from the latest publications of Vinyar Tengwar and Parma Eldalamberon (specifically, anything beyond VT#46 and PE#15) because I'm a poor starving college student who can't afford to buy things that aren't textbooks. This is really bad because tons of new information about Sindarin has been released recently, stuff that changes our understanding of how late Sindarin works. Especially the verbs. Anyways, I knuckled down and came to grips with the fact that I can't afford these things right now, and started using others' recent research that is based on the later publications. So, the verbs and pronouns chapters are completely rewritten, and I'm working on rewriting the numbers section (Tolkien liked to re-write the counting system often, and the latest version apparently is also in PE17, alas!)

Along the lines of editing the textbook... I recently got a fantastic e-mail from Damien of Tolkiendil that pointed me to the new home of I Lam Arth, as well as to some good articles to help me fix up the textbook. As it turns out, Damien has been rescuing excellent Tolkien websites that lost hosting from the death of Geocities. Three cheers for Damien, eh?

Eglerio!
Eglerio!
Eglerio!

I'm in a rush to get more updates done before the next semester starts up, so expect more soon!

Galu!

Merin Essi ar Quenteli! Newsletter

Tue, 30 Mar 2010 18:31:54 GMT

This month has been insane for me. I finished this lesson on IPA for the textbook, uploaded it, but got way too busy for the whole of March to announce it.

Beta version of the Textbook:
IPA Guide
Simple Version:
IPA Guide

So, here it is. I have a thread for critiques or comments that you may have for it.
Beta-Thread

Galu a gell!

dreamingfifi

Merin Essi ar Quenteli! Newsletter

Sun, 24 Jan 2010 20:51:47 GMT

HEY ROLEPLAYERS!

I've put together a roleplaying section on my forum, and it needs participants, and mods.

The Long March

It's centered around the Elves' march from Cuiviénen to Aman.

Galâri! (Common Eldarin for "Blessings!")

Merin Essi ar Quenteli! Newsletter

Sat, 22 Aug 2009 17:30:57 GMT

Hello folks! It’s about time I made another newsletter, isn’t it?

While I haven’t been writing newsletters, I have been making updates. Lots of them.

In January, I attempted to switch servers, because some of the pages were mysteriously disappearing. The server change didn’t help anything, so I went back to Awardspace and asked the support staff. As it turns out, the pages that linked to Amazon were the ones vanishing; because the bot in charge of searching for spammers thought that all Amazon links are evil. So, I found a different way to cite books, and it’s all better now. Funny thing: it also removed the Telerin Wordlist because the word “porn” (from Teleporno, Celeborn’s Telerin name) appeared in it.

I made a wordlists page! It took about a week of staring at thousands of lines of code, but I finished it, and posted it. The Wordlists were put together by Gildor. They are of Nandorin, Doriathrin, Mithren, Telerin, Khuzdul, Adûnaic, Westron, and various other human languages.
http://www.realelvish.net/wordlists.php

I’ve extensively updated the Sindarin pronunciation page and the pronunciation lessons. It now has a recording of Tolkien speaking Sindarin!
http://www.realelvish.net/sindarin_pronunciation.php

The namelists have had a makeover. I split them into sections to make them easier to download, and Phil put together some fancy Javascript coding to make the gender specific namelists much easier to browse. I’ve finally put the “Our Names translated into Sindarin” section up, and am continually adding to it. I’m also in the process of adding several hundred Sindarin names to the list, which will be available pretty soon, depending on how the start of classes treats me.
http://www.realelvish.net/namelists.php

The Sindarin and Quenya phrasebooks also received a makeover. They’ve been reorganized into more situational collections of phrases.
http://www.realelvish.net/phrasebooks.php

The essays page has been reorganized; taking a bunch of links from the Trustworthy Websites page. I also wrote a new essay: Vampires and Werewolves in Middle-earth.
http://www.realelvish.net/essays.php
http://www.realelvish.net/vampandwerewolf.php

Other than that, I started putting ads on the website, hoping that they would make the website pay for itself. Vote in the poll about how to fund the website here:
http://realelvish.proboards.com/index.cgi?board=guestbook&action=display&thread=97

Galu a gell!

dreamingfifi

Ivan just got out of surgery!

Fri, 21 Aug 2009 19:04:02 GMT

According to my dad, he's groggy and incoherent at the moment, but the surgeon tells us that the surgery was easy and successful!

I think I just stepped into a soapopera...

Wed, 05 Aug 2009 02:24:26 GMT

This past spring/summer has been like a TV drama. There's the overall plot, the episode-by-episode plot, and the surprise season finale.

I've been fighting depression again. I suffered from it in 2006 when my grandfather died, failed all of the classes that year, and I've been fighting to recover my mental balance and my GPA ever since. But, I got better. I got married, and I spent two and a quarter years on top of the world. Then, my two best face-to-face friends left for Japan. One of them, Julia, is the main person who helped me get out of depression last time. I was locking myself in my dormroom, unable to get up for anything but going to the bathroom, and she forced me to get out at least once a week to teach Sindarin in a classroom. It changed my life. I found so much joy in it that I ended up changing my major to Teaching English as a Second Language. She saved my life. We'd spend hours talking on every subject; we'd meet every day for lunch.

Suddenly, I was alone. I don't have a good understanding of what's happening in my emotional part of my personality. I've never been very much in touch with it. I have to work hard to be tactful because I often don't realize how harsh I am. I didn't realize I was depressed until I couldn't get out of bed in the morning.

My symptoms of depression are quite boring. I'd always thought there'd be dramatic cutting or weeping to sad music, but no, my depression is boring. I just can't get the will to do things I need to do. How lame is that? I'd lay in bed, not sleeping, but not really awake, all day long. That, and I hoard things, which is just messy.

So, we've got me, all depressed and on meds. I've been getting better these past few months. I can get things done; I'm answering e-mails; I'm visiting my relatives; I'm sewing again; I'm eating again; things are lookin up. My mom came to visit; we hung out, and we went swimming in Harper Lake, where she delivered to me some news that she'd just received by phone moments before I picked her up to go swimming.

My youngest brother, Ivan, had gotten diagnosed with cancer that morning.

You read that right. Cancer.

Apparently, the surgeon who took out Ivan's wisdom teeth spotted a funny lump over one of the wisdom teeth, so he biopsied it and sent it to a lab. It came back as a small low-grade mucoepidermoid carcinoma, an oral cancer. Apparently it's very slow moving for cancer, and Ivan won't have to do any chemotherapy or radiation. The most dangerous part of the whole thing is that the surgeon might have to cut out part of a nerve that controls half of his tongue.

We don't know what caused it, other than random chance. The most hardcore thing Ivan chews is cinnamon flavored bubblegum.

Ivan is chipper and optimistic about the whole thing. He's romantically thinking that if he and his current girlfriend stay together through this, they might make it long enough to get married some day. The biggest downer for him is that he can't bring his girlfriend to Seattle, where the surgery is taking place.

So, we came home to Belgrade, Montana to give Ivan hugs and hear what the surgeon recommended. We had dinner with Trevor's folks, which was cheery and lighthearted, until his 18 year old sister dropped a bomb on us. She announced that she was pregnant with a guy she'd dated for two months. She's scared and confused. I don't know what she's going to do. I don't know what to feel about it.

Now, we're just waiting for an evil twin sporting a goatee to show up; or someone to disappear and return with amnesia.

Just when I thought I'd found a new GAFF...

Wed, 10 Jun 2009 21:29:27 GMT

*sheepishly wanders back to Deleterius*

Howdy all ye GAFFers adding me to their friends. The snark must go on.

See! See! I didn't rant about the ridiculousness of deleting the entire board just to... ahem. No bitterness here. None at all.

At least I have an excuse to use my LJ again.

The Bluesman of Baghdad

Sat, 30 Aug 2008 16:54:40 GMT

Great news for my friend, Ghassan! He's a musician from Baghdad and has been trying to make it into the 'States. We've been hearing about this character claiming to be from a radio show called Studio 360 interviewing him for a few months. We were really suspicious especially since the guy was talking a lot about Baghdad. For a while, we even thought he could be some sort of spy. It turns out, he wasn't! He put Ghassan's story on National Public Radio!

The Bluesman of Baghdad

We've been working for years trying to get him out of Baghdad and into the United States. We got him enrolled at the University of Montana, but his visa application was still denied, and he got stuck in Syria. I'm hoping that this radio broadcast will help him somehow!

Everyone, keep him in your thoughts and prayers!

An Early Start for the Montana Fire Season

Thu, 10 Jul 2008 01:38:44 GMT

The view from our apartment window:

CHECK OUT THE WEDDING WEBSITE!!!

At my very own apartment!

Sat, 02 Feb 2008 00:48:07 GMT

Getting set up in our own apartment has been a fun adventure. Fir the first couple days, we were sleeping on an air mattress that was flat by the time we woke up, and the only chair in the house was the toilet. All we had to eat was the "Chow Mein" my nonna cleaned out of her pantry, which is basically expensive ramen noodles. Yetch! We had an electric stove, but nut no pots or pans... so we were using nothing but a hotshot. At least now we can whine about it to our future children.

Then, all of the donated furniture arrived, and suddenly I could cook! First meal: Pancakes. They were heavenly, but maybe that's because they were the first.

The best part of it all? I get to wake up to this.

Other than that, I've been drawing like a maniac. Tons of portraits:
Jethro Atop a Cliff
Ivan, Five Years in the Future
Jethro in the Car
Ivan in the Car
Jethro Reading
Random Transsexual
Random Anime-style Portrait
Rianna, Pres. of the Anime Club

And some Fanart:
Ghost in the Shell
Fullmetal Alchemist
Blood+

And finally, the best out of all of them! Another picture from The Coffin's Occupant!
Bagheera

Now, I've gotta go home to mooch off my parents a little. Sayounara!

AAAAAAARRRRRGGGGGHHHH!

Tue, 15 Jan 2008 20:54:27 GMT

The server for my website is starting to piss me off. Well, not starting to, it officially does. No matter what I do, I can't get the server to display the Naming Traditions or the Essays. It behaves as if the files don't exist! So, I have to set up camp somewhere else and link back to them. The thing is, I don't have any other ad-free places to post my website on besides the one I'm on now. Looks like it's back to tripod with my tail between my legs.

I still have a mountain of updates to do on the website too... *groan*. The textbook is almost ready for reposting, (I really ought to take it offline while I don't have the time to correct student's homework) and I have new material to put up in the Time section. I have several essays to finish too... That, and tomorrow I'm moving into my first apartment with my fiancé. I have no time. I really shouldn't be posting here right now.

I've officially severed myself from the fanfiction writing community. I just don't have the time to write fanfiction anymore. If I write, it has to be papers for class or something that'll earn me money. *pats The Coffin's Occupant* However, I'm going to keep my website online for everyone. I won't be able to write as much of the content, but I'll accept essays and such and post them. I'll keep the beta readers section going too.

Anyways. I have to finish packing.

じゃあ!

I'M BACK!

Fri, 28 Sep 2007 23:30:23 GMT

I've actually been back for a while, but I've been far too busy to keep up all of my internet stuff. Seriously, I don't have time to do everything. At the moment, I'm just kinda letting my linguist friends care for the visitors to my website, I've dropped all of my fanifiction communities (yeah, I went into withdrawals for a little while there) I post art on DeviantART every once and a while. All of those classes means that I can sketch while I'm taking notes, so a lot more artwork is on it's way. Lately, the pictures I draw are scenes from Oroboros. L O O K Y! It's heavily inspired by some of my friend's art styles. One is very anime, the other is is very comic-book like. I've got a sort of middle ground going on here.

Anyways. The Coffin's Occupant. Not having a computer for a month really slowed my progress. I'm getting back on it slowly but surely.

I love learning Japanese. After French, it feels so easy! Everyone says that it is so hard to learn, but I like its structure. I think French was harder for me because it was so close to English. I surprised myself by how quickly I learned the new alphabets. Kanji is hard, but not near so bad as everyone makes it out to be. It's like learning what all of the little roadsigns mean. This language is very tidy. I like tidy languages. English upsets my nit-picky nature. Too many exceptions! I want a language that follows rules, gosh darn it all!

I also love my linguistics class. For all that stuff with Sindarin, I taught myself linguistics. I'm finally learning all of the proper terms for concepts that I have been using at an unconscious level, which means that I developed a good linguistic competence for a language I could only imagine hearing... which is a really weird idea, now that I think of it.

Now, I know how to say "I love Trevor!" in one more language.
Toreboru-san ga daisuki desu!
ﾄレボルさんがだいすきです｡

Life is busy as all heck, but I'm loving it.

New scenes from The coffin's Occupant as I finish them.

I hate computers.

Mon, 03 Sep 2007 18:33:12 GMT

I just received my sparkly new computer. Well, it's not new; it's my dad's old work laptop. I was in the midst of installing Windows XP when the CD drive broke down. I had just finished reformatting the harddrive too! WAAAAH!

What makes all of this worse is that I'm taking 18 credits this semester and most of my classes require me to download my homework off the internet. Et tu, drama?

/wankery

So that's why I haven't been answering my e-mails or attending to forums or other things like that. I have no working computer unless I beg off someone else.

Getting Around Writer's Block

Thu, 23 Aug 2007 20:57:47 GMT

Believe it or not, I've been trying to get through writer's block on The Coffin's Occupant. All I've been able to do lately is change the story with massive background story changes. So, I decided on a radical movement. I'll write the story backwards, end to beginning. The end is what changes the most often anyways. I've written at least a dozen climatic scenes. Most of them are pretty good, but it means that the rest of the story would have to change significantly. At least, this way, I'll be building the story around its result.

Of course this has several problems. The characterization might end up not being as fluid or strong moving this way. I'll have to comb through it carefully, and make notes on what all I need to accomplish in the earlier scenes. Luckily, I don't have to do much of the mystery this time. We won't know the whole backstory by the end. Marianne's dreams will be significantly shortened. She'll see brief glimpses of him from other times and lives that she's met him.

Without further ado:

Marcus stood abruptly. "Brother!" he exclaimed. "Why, you've hardly changed! A little sickly, I hear, since your arrival."

Alex nodded. "Marcus, I..."

Marcus cut him off with a hand gesture. "Come, sit besides me, brother. Surely, you want to know how everyone has been doing during your absence."

"Yes, I have wondered often," Alex said quickly. "Father said he had something important to discuss, but then... I think I fainted."

Marcus' face blushed and his knuckles turned white.

"Do you know what happened that day?" Alex whispered. "Do you know what he meant to say to me?"

"When did you mean to tell him the truth?"

Alex looked confused for a moment, but then shrugged. "When he asked. I think he was beginning to suspect. He must know by now. Why didn't he come here himself?"

Marcus struck Alex in the face so hard that blood exploded around his fist. "You killed him!" he hissed, glaring daggers and Alex as he stumbled back, his eyes watering.

"I didn't..." Alex began, but Marcus cut him off again.

He held a small black book in the air. "This is my father's journal. In it, he describes how you twice rose from the dead, the second time, in some sort of demonic form. That day, I returned home to find everyone in the house torn to pieces! And you!" he was screaming now, "you were curled up on the floor, their blood covering you, shreds of their clothes still tangled in your fingers. You were asleep. At first I thought the murderer had attacked you as well, but then I found my father's journal, open to the last entry." He flipped through the pages to one towards the end, and showed the bloodstained paper to his audience. "When I pulled the knife out, his eyes changed color. They are now a startling green and the pupils are shaped like spear-points, standing on their ends. I hear him stirring behind me..."

Everyone turned towards Alex. His face had lost all color. "I didn't kill them, but I know who did," he whispered.

"Evil has many faces, even friendly ones," Marcus said. He tossed something soft and limp onto the table, wrapped in a bloody handkerchief. "Do you know what this is?" He pulled an army knife out of his pocket and stabbed the object. Alex doubled over, grabbing his chest. "Perhaps you've been ill because there isn't a heart in your chest!"

"Stop," Alex moaned.

Marcus ignored him, and stabbed the heart again, this time twisting the blade, making Alex fall from the chair, shaking.

"He'll come again; he'll kill everyone!" Alex shouted from the floor.

"Are you possessed, or did you make a deal with the devil?" Marcus laughed. "Well, I know how to deal with that. I've been studying these past months." He signed a cross over the pitcher of water and dumped it over Alex's body. Then he took a silver cross necklace and fastened it around Alex's wet neck.

"Material things can't stop something that isn't made of material."

Marcus ignored him still, and pulled out a smooth, wooden rod that had been sharpened to a point. "One thing I am curious about," he said testing the point on his finger. "How old are you actually?"

"Don't do it!" Alex yelled. "I'm older than India!"

"Foolish claim," he muttered, and plunged the stake downwards, towards the place Alex's heart should have been. Alex lifted his hands to protect himself, and the wood pierced his right hand and pinned it to his chest. Alex's back arched and his mouth opened in a silent scream. Then he fell limp.

His eyes were open wide, gazing at the ceiling. Everyone crowded in for a better look, but Marcus shouted, "Stay back! Stay back until we are sure!" The room held its breath, waiting and staring.

Marianne's skin suddenly prickled, as if the room was icy cold instead of stuffy from the many people inside.

An hour passed, and nothing happened. People began to wander away, their faces blank. Had they witnessed murder or redemption? Marianne wondered. When finally Marcus made moves to pack up, Marianne slipped to Alex's side and touched the pierced hand. It was still warm.

"When you bury him," Marcus whispered behind her, "Make certain that the stake is still in his chest." She looked up at him, and found, to her surprise, that Marcus was crying. "He was my brother too," he muttered and turned Marianne away from the corpse. "He must have been possessed, thank God he can find peace now."

Marianne tried to say something, but her throat choked her words.

"What peace?" a deep voice said behind them. They spun around. Alex stood up and yanked the stake out. "His own brother killed him."

Every muscle in Marianne's body begged her to move, but she couldn't. From Marcus' stricken expression, she could see that he couldn't move either.

Alex walked smoothly over to the table, unwrapped the heart and stuffed it into the hole in his chest, which healed itself in seconds. "Now he won't have to use mine," he said cheerfully. He put the hand with the hole in it in Marcus' face and laughed at his expression as the hole dripped blood onto his shirt.

Then he turned his attention to Marianne. "Oh, this is interesting!" He walked a quick circle around her. "No doubt, you are her reincarnation. No wonder he stayed by you. Tell me, can you see who I really am?"

She felt her voice and lungs relax so she could speak again. Marianne studied his face, but all she could see different were his green eyes, which practically bulged from his head, they were so large. "You aren't Alex!"

"What am I then? You could see me when you bound me to your husband, can't you see me now?"

Marianne shook her head.

"Disappointing. They must not have trained you properly. I'll show you. I am Deva-Baghira, the god of war. No weapon has pierced my hide, and none shall ever do so. Bow before me, or be struck down!" The wounds vanished instantly. Alex's body sprouted a luxurious black coat of fur and lengthened. His clothes ripped apart at the seams as his body swelled and took a new shape. He fell onto all fours, a monstrous black panther.

"Bow!" the beast roared, the echo of dying men could be heard in its voice.

Marianne fell to the ground right away; her knees couldn't have held her upright no matter how hard she tried. Marcus however, still stood, a cross dangling from his fingers. The great beast swatted Marcus across the room easily. He struck the wall with bone-shattering force. When the paw touched the floor, Marianne heard the echo of war drums. It rolled her over and brought its face close to hers. "He would try to commit suicide if I killed you again."

"Where's Alex?" Marianne whispered.

"He's asleep. He won’t awaken until he’s healed enough."

"Where?" she began to say, but her body froze up and she couldn't move. The panther bound out of the room. No matter how hard Marianne tried, she couldn't move to warn any of the screaming voices in the halls below.

When the screams stopped, the beast returned. Its fur dripped with blood that glistened in the moonlight. It sat there for a moment. A distinctive rumbling, like thousands of charging feet striking the earth, came from its throat, a god of war’s version of a purr. Finally it walked over to her. As its paw descended, as though to crush Marianne underfoot, it transformed back into Alex’s injured hand and landed softly on her chest. Her head and neck relaxed so she could turn and look up at the transforming beast. The fur turned into Alex’s long, unbraided hair, stuck to his skin from the blood Deva-Baghira a bathed in. All that was left were the bulging cat’s eyes.

“He won’t wake up for a week, in the least. Don’t let them bury him.” He leaned over Marianne, blood dribbling from the hole in his chest onto her white apron. "Understand? Don't let them bury him for a week. He can't wake up until his heart beats on its own."

Marianne nodded. The cat's eyes shrank away into Alex's brown ones. Alex crumpled to the floor like a discarded rag doll. His blood-covered chin landed on Marianne’s chest, his eyes wide but staring at nothing. They disturbed her, so she quickly closed them. His skin was still warm to the touch. As she stood up, she realized that that was all that he wore. The beast had ripped the last shreds of cloth off. She left the room with the intentions of finding a blanket to cover him, but all thoughts of Alex's modesty vanished as she wandered the halls.

Everyone was dead. The lord and lady, who had been preparing for bed, their daughters, the butler, the footmen, the kitchen staff, they all were murdered, but not just killed. They were shredded. Were these mounds of flesh she really saw truly people? This couldn't be real; it had to be some sort of nightmare. She stumbled away from the mansion in the darkness, cutting through the gardens to the fields. An hour later she trudged through the front door of her house. Her mother almost passed out when she saw the blood on her clothes. Marianne was numb; she couldn't answer her mother's questions. She couldn't get her voice to obey her at all. The only sound she could make was a strangled sob-like moan. She hardly noticed the constable speaking to her. She didn't even know when he had arrived.

The doctor came too, and the priest, and the entire village. She was looking at the world through some sort of hollow cage that she couldn't break out of. She didn't care if she got out or not, but instead let herself sink father into her mind. She didn't stop them when they buried Alex among the victims of the massacre. Three months later, she stopped eating. Mrs. Addison spent the days talking to her daughter, knowing that Marianne's spirit had moved on long ago. Midwinter, Marianne's heart finally stopped beating.

Hmmm... better not let my mom read this one. She hates anything violent. I'm not set on how Marianne leaves the story, except that she doesn't stop them from burying Alex. This end seems almost too passive for her, but how do I end it otherwise? I'll let that sit while I work on the scenes working up to it for now.

Excerpts from the journal of Charles Branbury

Tue, 21 Aug 2007 03:13:37 GMT

Well, I decided to write some backstory. This'll never appear in the final version of The Coffin's Occupant, but it's nice to have it written out anyways.

It takes place in some little mountain village, somewhere exotic and extremely isolated. The dates aren't set yet either, because I'm not settled about the timeline quite yet. Anyways, for this, the setting isn't as important as what happens emotionally. I might end up made this a short story, however. It'd be cool, don't you think?

Excerpts from the journal of Charles Branbury

Today we finally reached our desolate destination. The natives are friendly here, if not frightened, from what I see in my observations. They are not Muslims like the people at the bottom of the valley, which I give to their isolation. They are happy to trade with us, and have an extensive goldware craft here.

Today I walked amongst the people in the village and came across a skinny young man nothing like the villagers. His skin is of a far paler tone, and if I had to guess, I’d say he came from Asia, perhaps northern tribe in Indian. He was dressed very richly; some of the finest gold jewelry decorated him. Even his braid was jeweled. He ran away from me upon seeing my face. I asked one of the village elders, through two translators, who the young man was. According to them, he has some sort of god or demon living inside him. The most astonishing thing, however, is that they claim he has lived over five hundred years. No one can recall if he came to them or was born there, but they all agree that he hasn’t aged a day beyond 17 years. The two versions of the story are that his mother burst into flames upon giving birth to him, and the other version is that the wind dropped him by the village gates, covered in burn scars. According to them, the scars have now faded away, and that he will heal quickly and completely from any injury. I have arranged to meet him tomorrow.

After a long description of how exactly I am supposed to act towards him, I was brought before him. He sat on an alter covered with fine cloth and jewelry. The translators introduced us, but the young man didn’t do anything but stare at us for a long while. We knelt there so long that my knees began to protest. Finally, the young man said something, which was translated to me as “I wish to see them.” He hopped down and walked straight up to me. He touched my beard, which is blond, and inspected my face closely, peering into my eyes for a long time. Then he began to babble, but not in the native’s language. One of the linguists’, John Missingham’s, mouth dropped open, and he scrambled to my side. “He’s speaking in some form of Gothic!” The young man stopped, confused, and repeated what the linguist said to me. Then, he started talking in Latin. I have no gift for languages, but I studied Latin at Oxford, years ago. I understood enough to know he was asking us questions about the meaning of our presence. John and he spoke for hours in Latin. From what I understand, John was telling him what had happened after the fall of Rome. When we left, John explained to me that the young man knew European history up to the fall of Rome, and that his Latin name is Pardus, the Latin word for “leopard”. He has requested that we call him by that, and that he will come to see us.

Today, the young man came to us. He spoke with John most of the time, though he is picking up English at an astonishing rate. He has begun to ask me questions. The English word he seems to love best is the word “why”.

Another surprise: Pardus can read! He demonstrated for us Latin, Greek, Hebrew, Arabic, Chinese, Cuneiform, Egyptian, Sanskrit, and some form of hieroglyphics that none of us had seen before. He is mastering English so quickly that we no longer need two translators; we only need him. His insight into their culture has made documenting it far easier, and we will be able to leave a good deal earlier than we originally thought we would. Surprisingly, he can’t speak French, German, Dutch, Spanish, or Italian.

I have little time, as we are packing everything as quickly as possible. Today, a tragedy has struck the village. People are panicking. From what I hear, Pardus was walking along the cliff’s edge, and the wind picked him up and took him away. We have been asked to leave.

Our trip down the mountain is grim. It’s hard to believe or understand that Pardus is gone. John is particularly grieved. He hadn’t finished writing a summary of the native’s grammar.

God is truly mysterious. Today, a rockslide buried two of our pack mules and killed John. He moved slower than all of us when we heard the rocks coming, and one of the native boys swears that he saw John stop the mules all together. We dug him out and buried him with a wooden marker. We also found Pardus today. He was as the bottom of a little gorge, tangled in the bushes. The most astonishing thing is that he is still alive. He’s broken many bones; we guess that he attempted to land feet first. He can’t move, and our doctor assures us that he will soon be dead. Never the less, we’ve decided to bring him with us. The doctor put splints on as many of the breaks as possible and bandaged his abrasions, telling us at the same time not to keep our hopes up. Pardus smiled at me, but I don’t know if he recognized me or if it was the laudanum.

We finally have reached the valley. Pardus is healing very well, and miraculously has no infections. He can move a little now, but he doesn’t speak to anyone.

Today we asked Pardus if he would like to go to England with us. We were hoping he would say something, but instead, he only nodded.

We’ve reached the port! Adam built Pardus a wheelchair, seeing as his arms are now healed enough to pull himself around. His abrasions are nothing but scars now, and his arms and legs and mostly straightened out. His lower back was completely crushed in the fall. The doctor believes that Pardus will never walk again.

Today, Pardus spoke to me. He asked me why I was taking him England. I told him that we wanted to learn more about him and the village, and he seemed satisfied. He then asked me if he would be living with my family. I asked him if he wanted a golden throne as he had in the village, but he laughed. “I am no God,” he said. “I’m unlike you, but I am human.” He put emphasis on this word, as if its meaning was something precious. “I would like to be part of a family, not a slave, in a chair.”
“You are still in a chair,” I pointed out.
He shrugged. “Not forever. I will walk again.”

I’ve decided to adopt Pardus. He thanks me at every chance he gets.

We have reached London at last. Tomorrow, I will introduce Pardus to my wife, Julia, and my son, Marcus, who must be 12 by now. I haven’t seen him in so many years! Pardus is excited. He smiles constantly and puts on his English clothes with pride, but he refuses to cut his hair. He rehearses manners and proper greetings at every chance he gets. We have covered the script for introducing him to my family countless times.

I no longer know if adopting Pardus was the right thing to do. My son and wife are furious with me. Julia thinks that I have been unfaithful to her, and Marcus thinks that I have tried to replace him as the first son. Pardus tries to be friendly, but they refuse to speak to him.

Marcus’ tutor arrived today. Pardus and he get along very well, and he is truly amazed at Pardus’ fluent understanding of Latin. Pardus has volunteered to help Marcus with his Latin studies. I think this is a marvelous idea. If my son takes a liking to Pardus, my wife will surely follow.

Today, we were surprised to find that Pardus enjoys needlework. He embroidered a pillowcase with cross-stitches, and asked Julia to teach him more. Marcus teased him, but Pardus shook off the comments by saying that he couldn’t do much else in a wheelchair. I think they are getting closer.

Pardus told Julia that he remembers his father faintly, but that his parents died so long ago he hardly can’t recall their faces, and he had been wandering ever since he was a little boy. The stories he tells of his adventures are truly wondrous and sometimes exaggerated. I told Julia that he has a very active imagination, and not to believe much of what she heard. I think she is starting to believe that Pardus isn’t my son. She told me that I didn’t have half the imagination to come up with stories like that.

Five years ago, falling down a mountain crushed Pardus’ lower back so horribly the doctors agreed that he’d never walk again. They said that his back had been broken. Today, he was able to stand. He confided in me that he had been slowly regaining feeling in his legs ever since his arrival in England. His legs are weak from disuse, but his insures me that he will soon be walking. The doctors don’t know what to tell me, besides that it is a miracle.

Five years later:
Marcus has just returned from Oxford, for the holiday. He speaks of poetry constantly. When he set eyes of Pardus, he exclaimed, “Why Brother! You haven’t changed a bit!” The more I think about it, and the more I turn back to the page that I drew the first picture of Pardus, the more I search for some sign that he has changed. He no longer has any trouble with his back, and he still appears no older than 17. I can’t help but remember what the villager’s believed. I asked him about the day that he fell from the mountain, and he smiled faintly. “I had hoped John would find me,” he said.
“How did you know you would survive to see John again?”
He thought carefully for a long while. “I didn’t know.”

Today I asked him how old he thought he was, but he didn’t answer. 27 simply didn’t seem likely.

Pardus should be thirty years old today. Something is different about him, perhaps even supernatural. Maybe not a fallen god, he’s too humble for that, but something. I can’t help but think that he speaks Latin fluently because he lived in Rome. We know so little about our world, even with the wonders of science. I recall myths about fountains of youth and stones that grant immortality, and suddenly they seem logical. I need to test my theory, however. He should have died from that fall. I will attempt to kill him, and watch what happens.

What have I done? Pardus lies at my feet, a knife in his heart. He has been dead for twenty minutes. His eyes stare up at me in disbelief. What have I done? I will pull the knife out now; hide my crime somehow.

Perhaps not all is lost. When I pulled the knife out, his eyes changed color. They are now a startling green and the pupils are shaped like spear-points, standing on their ends. I hear him stirring behind me__________________

The End

Waddiya think?

Goin' Camping and Gettin' a New Computer!

Fri, 10 Aug 2007 22:32:27 GMT

Well, today we meet some people that my dad is friends with online, and we go camping in Yellowstone with them. This is another record-breaking forest fire season, so I'm a little nervous.

Good news though: once my dad is done fussing over his old laptop, I get it! It's from 2000, unlike what I'm using now, which is from 1998. It's much faster and has lots more memory.

Gah, gotta go pack my sleeping bag. Be back in a five days! (Then I have to pack for college, which I leave for on the 25th. Where did summer go?)

Where have I been?

Tue, 31 Jul 2007 19:15:05 GMT

Well, I've been at college. I just finished an intense immersion French course, and I'm happy to announce: Je ne dois pas étudier maintenant le français! I'm moving onto Japanese.

I've already figured out my name: アルビニフィオナ or 白白美. In Rōmaji: Arubini Fuiona or Shiro Shiromi. My name means White of the Whites. Fiona comes from an old Celtic man's name, "Fionn". When the Latin-speaking conquerers took over, they thought it made a good woman's name and added the feminine A at the end. That's why I added "-mi" for good measure. Albini is easy to figure out. Albini-Albino... duh. The Japanese word for "White" is "Shiro", et voilà: Shiro Shiromi. Interesting fact: My grandfather, Frank Bessac, speaks Mandarin Chinese fluently and studied it in China right before the communist take over. His adventurous escape from China is one that surely a movie will be made of someday. There's already been a book or two written about it. To set the record straight: he wasn't in the CIA or OSS. He was just a translator that caught up in the fray of a collapsing country. Surprisingly enough, he was given a Chinese name, which was also "白" (but pronounced "bai" if memory serves me correctly. It also means "white"). It's an interesting coincidence, don't you think? Kanji are cool!

I just realized something. Japanese will be my fourth serious human language. Go me!

I've been rewriting The Coffin's Occupant again. Yes, again. I promise that this version will blow you away. I'm changing the POV from 3rd person omnipotent to 3rd person limited: Marianne's POV. I'm also expanding the story significantly. Things that were glossed over in the beginning before will be gone into detail, and the discoveries that lead to the end will be staggered. There's a completely new end to the story now, and it brings back Marcus Branbury! It also gives Marianne and Deva-Bagira more active roles, and takes away the Deus Ex Machina problem that the story has been fighting with. It also goes into more of how Devika locked the God of War into Hanatiza.

What do you think of a series from The Coffin's Occupant? He's lived through a lot of history, five millenniums of it, to be exact. I think I'd call it "Oroboros", and it would work backwards from The Coffin's Occupant. Next would be "Death of Cesar" or something like that. Alex would watch the collapse of Rome, and somehow meet Devika's spirit again. His name at the time: Pardus. Then we would travel even farther back in time, and witness Hanatiza in the depths of despair, traveling around China in its Golden Age, trying to find a way to die, then giving up and deciding to try his hand at learning as many trades as he can. It would be called something like "The Secret of Silk", and Hanatiza's name would be "苗" or "Miao". At some point, he'd meet Devika again. Then even farther back. Hanatiza is fighting for control over his body with Deva-Bagira during a series of bloody wars in India that would become the mythos of Ramayana. He's called Kumbhakarna, a Rakshasa. This one would be called "The Defeat of Ravana". And finally, how Hanatiza managed to get a God of war trapped inside him: "The Plague's Messenger".

Waddiya think?

The Engagement Ring

Wed, 04 Jul 2007 23:44:33 GMT

Isn't it beautiful?

I'M GETTING MARRIED!

Sun, 01 Jul 2007 02:54:26 GMT

He proposed to me! I have a ring! I'll post a picture of it when I get my hands on a camera.

"I love Trevor!" in every language I can think of at the moment:
J'aime Trevor!
Se amo Trevor!
Melon Drevor!
Melanyë Trevor!

A Good Omen

Sun, 01 Jul 2007 00:35:21 GMT

I don't believe much in omens, but today is the day that I think my boyfriend of three years will propose to me. Two weeks ago he took my parents out to a fancy restaurant, I haven't been told what exactly about, but else could it be? He also asked me what color of metal I prefer in jewelry.

While making him a clover crown like I always do, I found SEVEN four-leaf-clovers and one five-leaf clover.

Do you believe in omens?

A New Writing Project

Fri, 29 Jun 2007 18:38:13 GMT

I have another story with the same sort of tone that The Coffin's Occupant has, except it has a female enigma. I started writing it a while back, but never got beyond the first chapter. Should I continue it?

“Sold!” the auctioneer bellowed. A statue was wheeled off stage and another one took its place. The statue that was being rolled onto stage was of man in full Victorian dress, sitting in a fancy chair. His arms hung laxly by his sides and wagged back and forth as he was moved. His head was tipped forward as though he had simply nodded off to sleep, and a large hunting knife protruded from his chest. A girl watched its progress in the television, intrigued by the statue’s grotesqueness. The image was fuzzy from the UHF channel the auction was being held on, yet it was clear enough to see that the statue was wearing a rich brocade jacket and complementing breeches.

The auctioneer began to drone loudly, “This next piece stands on itsown. It is titled ‘Adieu to the Gentleman’, nicknamed ‘The Greeter’ because he was the statue that sat by the door in the exhibit.” The girl felt a shiver up her spine, imagining opening a door to a dead body.

“What’s this?” the girl’s mother asked sharply, making her jump.

“Some artist is auctioning off all of the statues in her gallery.”

“Yetch,” the woman said looking at the grotesque statue on stage. “You’re too young to see stuff like that.”

“Isn’t eleven old enough?” the girl pleaded, turning back to the television screen.

“Nope.” The mother hit the “off” button. “Eleven is 26 years too young.”

“Just because it creeps you out doesn’t mean it creeps me out,” the girl mumbled under breath, listening to her mother leave the room.

Once her mother was gone, she turned the volume down on the television set so she had to be right next to it to hear it.

“Sold!” The statue was wheeled off. “This next piece is a set of two. It is titled ‘Isolde and Tristan’. Isolde, nicknamed ‘The Sleeper’ for the number of people who have fainted in front of her, is on the right. Like her partner, she is made out of painted clay. She hangs from two thousand minuscule threads in this iron cage to give her the appearance of floating.” The camera zoomed in on Isolde. Her arms were extended like bird’s wings and her hands curved like claws. She wore a tattered grim-reaper-like robe, and her long, straight, light brown hair hung dramatically. More disturbing than her aggressive posture was her face; it was plain and looked as though she was passively asleep, simply enduring her cage.

“Tristan, nick-named ‘The Soldier’, is made from painted clay and encased in a block of plastic, seen on the left. He kneels with his arms bound behind his back and his head bowed in tragic prayer. Starting at 500 dollars…” The camera zoomed in on Tristan. His colonial soldier’s uniform was splattered with mud, and a noose hung around his neck. There was a deep cut on his left cheek, and some of his curly, dark hair escaped his ponytail and stuck to his face.

The girl sat up and touched Isolde’s face in the television set, enthralled, and half wishing she could grow her hair that long. Suddenly Isolde began to sway back and forth on her strings, and attendants in black t-shirts with the word “STAGEHAND” stenciled in white rushed out to stabilize her.

The little girl leaned closer to the television set, suspense built as the statue rocked wildly in its cage. A few people in the audience screamed as it hit the sides with loud clangs. The attendants reached through the bars and grabbed it, stopping it in mid swing. The camera zoomed in on Isolde’s face again. The statue’s eyes opened and looked directly into the camera, right into the girl’s eyes. In that moment, she heard a voice with a heavy Irish accent speaking inside her head.

“MY NAME IS MÁIRE.”

Fifteen years later:

The girl was in front of a television set, but now she was a security guard in a government building. She was watching the hall monitors in a bored way, waiting for something or nothing to happen.

“You know,” her coworker said, massaging his eyes. “In movies, the security guys are always the first to go. It’s like we’re expendable or something.”

“Yeah,” she agreed, half listening.

“Maybe one of us security folks have confiscated a few too many of them Hollywood Folk’s drugs.”

“Yeah.”

“Therefore, if an alien gunman arrives, we know that we are toast.”

“Yeah.” Her coworker looked at her and smiled.

“Addy, you’re falling asleep again.”

“Ye-huh? Whadamiss,” she mumbled.

“An old lady picked a wedgy in corridor 3a, and a woman dragged a screaming kid from the Department of Motor Vehicles and gave it a spanking. Other than that, not much.”

Addy rubbed her forehead, trying to clear her mind. She had been having a daydream, about what, she could never remember. Whatever it was, her mind wanted to return to it. A name slowly drifted back to the surface of her memory. “Máire,” she whispered to herself. Máire had been her imaginary friend from the moment that she floated out of the television set. Addy and Máire had enjoyed each other’s company, until Máire had started telling her to do things. At that point Máire started being mean, making things happen to Addy, making her get sick. Finally, Abby told her pediatrician about Máire. The doctors took her to a psychiatrist, and Addy was diagnosed with schizophrenia. They forced Máire to stop talking in her mind, but she was always present. She had always loved and envied the way Máire’s hair floated around her, affected by every tiny breeze but unaffected by the wind. She had been so jealous of Máire’s hair that she had grown her hair out like Máire’s, but Addy’s hair was a darker brown and subject to being oily. Suddenly she felt nauseous, and a sharp pain rose in her stomach.

“Oh, good God!” she exclaimed.

“What?” her coworker said, leaning over to see her monitors better.

“It’s that time of the month.”

“Thanks, I needed to know that,” he mumbled, settling himself back into his chair. “I’ll watch your monitors while you go to the bathroom, d’accord?”

“Thanks,” Addy said, and made a run for the bathroom, praying that she had a pad in her purse. The feeling grew worse, and she tried to remember if she still had any painkillers with her. Her mind entered a thick fog of confusion, and Addy panicked, breaking into a run to the restroom. As she shoved the door open, her knees gave out. A figure appeared, a clear face in front of her. The face had long, light brown hair and eyes that stared down into her soul.

“DO YOU REMEMBER ME, ADDY?”

Addy passed out.

When Addy awoke, it was dark except for the lights on the computer that measured her pulse and made sure she was still alive. “Good evening Adelaide,” a cheery voice said; a cool hand touched her forehead. “You gave us quite the scare. How do you feel?”

“I dunno,” Addy moaned. “How long have I been asleep?”

“A little over a day. One of your coworkers found you unconscious on the bathroom floor. I have a question, were you taking any prescriptions?”

“Yes,” Addy said, trying to remember its name. “Whachamacallit… something another for schizophrenia.”

“It appears that you forgot to take your pill yesterday.”

“That would explain it,” Addy said, remembering Máire’s appearance.

“Explain what?” The pleasant voice came closer.

“Máire came back,” she said closing her eyes tightly. “My imaginary friend. She forced me to memorize an address. I don’t understand why. Why do you want me to go there? What will I find?” she yelled at the air. “You’re not real; you’re just a chemical imbalance!”

“I AM REAL. COME, SEE ME FOR YOURSELF.”

“You aren’t real! Go away!” Addy screamed, curling into a ball, shutting her eyes tightly.

“I WON’T.”

The kind voice became louder, whispering in her ear, “Ignore Máire. Your doctor is coming; you will be safe very soon.”

Máire laughed. Her voice changed; it was soft and gentle.

“COME AND SEE ME; I’M LONELY.”

“I won’t!” Addy hissed. She closed her eyes tighter, but she saw an image in her head. A great iron cage stood at the end of a barren hall, and Máire was inside, covered with dust, suspended from thousands of pieces of fishing line. Her hair had cobwebs in it.

“RELEASE ME.”

Or should I spend my effort on The Coffin's Occupant instead?

An Experiment/Án Ekspirément

Tue, 26 Jun 2007 17:02:59 GMT

Aþor’z Not:

Ðés áktcuəli éz Iñgléx. This actually is English.

Many years ago, when I was in highschool, I realized how convoluted spelling in English is. At the time, I was starting my linguistic studies, and fell in love with the idea of the letters on the page actually standing for the sounds in the language. So, I made a new English alphabet, with 36 letters. Eventually, I translated this alphabet onto the keyboard. For a lark, I transcribed a Mary Sue parody I wrote a while back into this new alphabet. So, here it is.

This may look like a foreign language at first, but sound it out, and it will make sense. The original: “The Tenth Wraith.”

Of course, I am from the USA (Montana), and I might pronounce certain words differently from you. This is the downfall of a completely phonetic writing system.

To make this a little easier, I listed the alphabet with comparison words for quick reference.
A/a-Father, Octopus
Á/á-bat
Ä/ä-ray
B/b-bed
C/c-church
D/d-dream
E/e-bet
É/é-bit
Ə/ə-but
F/f-fun
G/g-gate
H/h-harness
I/i-happy
Ï/ï-eye
J/j-jump
K/k-cat
L/l-limp
M/m-mom
N/n-never
Ñ/ñ-sing
O/o-oat
Ö/ö-joy
P/p-packet
R/r-ravine
S/s-sorry
T/t-take
Ð/ð-clothing
Þ/þ-nothing
U/u-book
Ú/ú-music
Ü/ü-out
V/v-very
W/w-worry
X/x-sham
Y/y-yet
Z/z-zoo

Énjö!

Səməri: Ä Meri Su hops tu jön ðə kəmpáni əv ðə Wən Riñ tu fəlfél hər prafesïzd destáni. When xi kácez əp wíþ Frodo ánd ðə Wən Riñ an Weðərtap, xi gets whət xi disərvz.

Ðə Tenþ Räþ

Ádelïd, or Ádi, wəz ä trájék keráktər. Bət frst, xi wəz biutefəl. Xi hád ä pərfekt kəmpleksxən ðát xi ləvd tu ádmïr én ði onli miror én al əv Bri. Ánd hər her, dark brün, senxual riñlets ðát dánsd əpan hər xoldrz wéþ ðə slïtest əv muvz. Ánd hər ïz! Lïk pərpəl juelz əv ðə Noldor səm hád sed. Ánd əv kors, xi hád ðə ablégetori kərvz én al ðə rït pläsez. Hər perents wər kéld én ə méstiriəs ánd rándəm ork räd, ánd jəst áz méstiriəsli ánd rándəmli ðe orks hád let hər lév. Səmþiñ əbüt fəlféliñ hər destáni. Nü, áz xi kráxd þru ði əndərbrəx én pərsut əv Strïdər ánd ðə habéts, xi nu hər destáni. Ét wez ðə Wən Riñ.

Xi hád sin ét én ə habét’s hánd áz xi sərvd kəstəmərz én ðə Pránsiñ Poni. Ét wəz so xïni, so pərfekt, ánd ét spok tu hər. Rimembəriñ ðe Wen Riñ’z wərdz, xi kwéknd hər päs. Ðä, ðoz por, əgli habéts ánd ðát sméli ränjər, nided hər.

Ðə buxez grábd át hər her ánd fäs ánd snágd hər kút ütfét ðát xi hád cozen jəst for hər destáni. Ét hád yardz ánd yárdz əv deləkət matiriəl, ánd ét mäd hər luk Elven fer when sin át jəst ðə rït äñgəl. Ðə brámbəlz hád no mərsi, ánd ðə dres tor tu xredz an ðə þornz ánd brámbəlz əv ðə wïld, bət nən əf ðés mátərd, Ádi nu. Iven hər prfekt kəmpleksxən dédn’t mátər. Xi hád tu get tu ðoz habéts. Xi hád tu get tu ðát riñ.

Nït wəz faliñ. Xi wəz berli ə xádo əv ðə biuti ðát rán frəm Bri ərliər. Hər dres wəz nəþiñ bət mədi rágz, kəts ánd skräps kəvrd hər fäs, armz, ánd legz. Hər her hád énəf twégz én ét tu fúl ə banfïr. Ét wəz ðen, when xi almost forgat wï xi hád cəm al ðés wä, ðát xi sa ðə dánsiñ lït an ðə héltap. Ə kámpfïr! Xi kud si ðə létəl habéts, so tïni ánd wərþles, küəriñ əgenst grät blák fégərs. Xi pət én ə fïnəl bərst əv spid.

Jəst áz xi käm skrámbliñ əp ðə hél, wən əv ðə grät blák fégərs käm frəm nowher ánd stábd hər hart wéþ ə smál dágər. Xi stəmbəld, sərprïzd. “Bət, bət,” xi wäld, “ðə Riñ told mi ét wud mák mi itərnáli biutefəl! Ðát ét wud fəlfél mï gloriəs destáni!”

“Ét ház fəlféld yor gloriəs destáni,” whéspərd ðə xádos.

Ðə xádo-men bikäm klir én hər sït áz darknes féld hər trájék sol. Ðä wor krünz, ánd réc juelri kəvərd ðer floiñ kloks. Ë habét krïd üt, “O Elbereth! Gilthoniel!” Ðə wərdz stəng, ánd xi stəmbəld əwä frəm ðə brït fïr ánd ðə näm əv ðə Valië. Ivél kansumd hər badi, liviñ onli ə xádo ánd hər ləst for ðə Wən Riñ.

“Wik, ləstfəl mäden, yu ar nü wən əv əs!”

Wouldn't English have been easier to learn if it was phonetic? O, ï kán drim.