Van Havien has been haunting me lately, so I decided to get my own back and put him in a ghost story. Or maybe it's a monster story. I'm not sure, really. Who is van Havien? I have no idea. His name just keeps coming up in my head at the end of phrases like "So we meet again, van Havien!"
The bigger question is, really, who is Aino? You'll find out in a couple of months, I hope.
Okay, I've tried this before and it didn't work, but I'm going to give it another shot.
I have a slight problem with finishing anything longer than a poem unless I've got some sort of external "incentive" (such as a deadline). This means I've got a lot of half-written things lying about the place, for which I've long lost the impetus of the story.
So, I'm going to try to serialise a story. I've nominally given myself a deadline of fortnightly posts, for which I'll have to have a rough draft of a chapter available for all and sundry. I'm hoping at least some of you will a) read the thing, and b) not let me give up on the story part-way through.
Once it's finished I'll think about what to do with it next. I don't think I've got the space on the server I'm currently using to have multiple chapters up at the same time, so I may have to rotate them. Hmmm.
Anyway, the first few paragraphs of each chapter will go up on my Siege Works blog, and a link to the chapter itself will go up at the end of those posts as well as being posted here.
Here's the first chapter: Aino, Chapter One: van Havien Tells His Story
Happy reading...
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Of Love and Janes
I've been reading Twilight these past couple of days, and I've noticed it's sitting in the same headspace that Charlotte Brontë's novels usually take up. That whole gothic-romance thing, the first-person narration, the inexperienced young woman and the strange and foreboding fear that her love will be unrequited - even if you know it's not the case - and that maybe it would be even more dangerous for her (emotionally) if it was...
You know, Jane Eyre was only 18 in her book. She's never been played "young" in any of the movies, so I don't think most people pick up on the fact that she's basically an inexperienced teenager who's never really spoken to a man (besides married clergymen) before being confronted with the strange and mysterious Rochester - a good twenty years her senior. She's not that far away from Bella, falling for her 100 year old mystery man. And Rochester? Trying desperately to recover from a past that has left him with a terrible secret, both wanting to be redeemed by Jane's love and struggling with the inevitability of ruining her life? He's not that far from Edward. Especially since his first name is Edward. I wonder how co-incidental that is?
There's a scene in Jane Eyre (if you've read the book, you'll know exactly which scene I'm talking about) where Rochester is clearly playing with Jane. You might not pick up on this at first, but on subsequent readings it's painfully obvious. He suspects what she feels for him. He knows she's inexperienced, unsure of her place in the world and desperately trying to keep in control of her reactions and her emotions. So he pushes her buttons - says things carefully calculated to dash what few hopes she may have and push her heart to breaking point - just to see what she'll do.
On the one hand, the guy's an absolute jerk and we should hate him. On the other hand, the scene is this massive exercise in catharsis. The fear of unrequited love reaches it's zenith, only to be rewarded by the fact that he does, indeed, love her and not the beautiful rich woman. Chapters' worth of longing looks quickly hidden, of the exquisite pain that comes from standing three inches away from someone you long to touch but can't, of the "could he possibly want me? No, I mustn't dare think it" self questioning... all of this is finally brought to a head in a way that is pure romantic fantasy.
It's all over. Hope is gone. He doesn't want me. But, wait! No, it's not! I'm wanted after all! O, frabjuous day! Callooh! Callay!
I've always thought it terribly interesting that the romantic novels (gothic or other wise) that we keep reading, selling and adapting for other media for over and over again for more than a hundred years were written by single women who never knew such love in real life. If what we know about Charlotte Brontë and Jane Austen is correct, neither of them found that love of their own. Jane may have had a romance that never went anywhere. Charlotte eventually settled for a man who made her feel "comfortable" (and then she died about a year later). Sure, we're starting to see more of Mrs Gaskell's stuff working it's way back into public consciousness, but she doesn't really grip the heart quite the way that Charlotte and Jane's books do.
I mean, have you read Villette? That scene where Lucy suddenly realises on an instinctual level that she's in love with you-know-who* but her brain hasn't quite caught on yet, so she just bolts like a frightened rabbit and can't figure out why she's hiding from him? Oh. My. God. That book is just drenching with unrequited love. Stupid, stupid ending. Must have stern words with Charlotte next time I see her.
I had this theory for some time that only women who had never known requited love could write about romance with such power. This was, of course, completely blown out of the water by Elizabeth Barret Moulton-Barrett - aka, Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
Okay, so this sickly woman who almost never leaves her house, isn't terribly attractive and has an active intellectual life manages to catch the eye of a young handsome stud through her talent? A popular, pop-star of a poet engages in a secret courtship of an older woman who might not live for very long because he loves her mind? They get married in secret and runaway to Italy together, and he sticks with her right up to her death and then never remarries? The entire real-life story is one of the greatest romantic fantasies I've ever heard.
And out of that we get the Sonnets From the Portugese - her love for him expressed in poetry heart-wrenchingly gripping. When you don't know the story behind the poems, the poems are brilliant. When you do know it... It's enough to make your head spin.
So my grand theory about unrequited romance was dashed. I'm not even sure I care.
Sorry for the weird, rambling post. Gothic romances do that to my brain.
*Um, this isn't exactly a mystery book, but it doesn't finish with the same romantic lead it starts with. Can't tell you who, why, or what happens in the end, just in case you actually read the thing. Ah, Villette - the novel that makes us go through the heroine's romantic angst twice, and then decides to kick us in the head in the end. We don't read it because it makes us feel good - but because it makes us feel bad in a way that's hard to ignore...
You know, Jane Eyre was only 18 in her book. She's never been played "young" in any of the movies, so I don't think most people pick up on the fact that she's basically an inexperienced teenager who's never really spoken to a man (besides married clergymen) before being confronted with the strange and mysterious Rochester - a good twenty years her senior. She's not that far away from Bella, falling for her 100 year old mystery man. And Rochester? Trying desperately to recover from a past that has left him with a terrible secret, both wanting to be redeemed by Jane's love and struggling with the inevitability of ruining her life? He's not that far from Edward. Especially since his first name is Edward. I wonder how co-incidental that is?
There's a scene in Jane Eyre (if you've read the book, you'll know exactly which scene I'm talking about) where Rochester is clearly playing with Jane. You might not pick up on this at first, but on subsequent readings it's painfully obvious. He suspects what she feels for him. He knows she's inexperienced, unsure of her place in the world and desperately trying to keep in control of her reactions and her emotions. So he pushes her buttons - says things carefully calculated to dash what few hopes she may have and push her heart to breaking point - just to see what she'll do.
On the one hand, the guy's an absolute jerk and we should hate him. On the other hand, the scene is this massive exercise in catharsis. The fear of unrequited love reaches it's zenith, only to be rewarded by the fact that he does, indeed, love her and not the beautiful rich woman. Chapters' worth of longing looks quickly hidden, of the exquisite pain that comes from standing three inches away from someone you long to touch but can't, of the "could he possibly want me? No, I mustn't dare think it" self questioning... all of this is finally brought to a head in a way that is pure romantic fantasy.
It's all over. Hope is gone. He doesn't want me. But, wait! No, it's not! I'm wanted after all! O, frabjuous day! Callooh! Callay!
I've always thought it terribly interesting that the romantic novels (gothic or other wise) that we keep reading, selling and adapting for other media for over and over again for more than a hundred years were written by single women who never knew such love in real life. If what we know about Charlotte Brontë and Jane Austen is correct, neither of them found that love of their own. Jane may have had a romance that never went anywhere. Charlotte eventually settled for a man who made her feel "comfortable" (and then she died about a year later). Sure, we're starting to see more of Mrs Gaskell's stuff working it's way back into public consciousness, but she doesn't really grip the heart quite the way that Charlotte and Jane's books do.
I mean, have you read Villette? That scene where Lucy suddenly realises on an instinctual level that she's in love with you-know-who* but her brain hasn't quite caught on yet, so she just bolts like a frightened rabbit and can't figure out why she's hiding from him? Oh. My. God. That book is just drenching with unrequited love. Stupid, stupid ending. Must have stern words with Charlotte next time I see her.
I had this theory for some time that only women who had never known requited love could write about romance with such power. This was, of course, completely blown out of the water by Elizabeth Barret Moulton-Barrett - aka, Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
Okay, so this sickly woman who almost never leaves her house, isn't terribly attractive and has an active intellectual life manages to catch the eye of a young handsome stud through her talent? A popular, pop-star of a poet engages in a secret courtship of an older woman who might not live for very long because he loves her mind? They get married in secret and runaway to Italy together, and he sticks with her right up to her death and then never remarries? The entire real-life story is one of the greatest romantic fantasies I've ever heard.
And out of that we get the Sonnets From the Portugese - her love for him expressed in poetry heart-wrenchingly gripping. When you don't know the story behind the poems, the poems are brilliant. When you do know it... It's enough to make your head spin.
So my grand theory about unrequited romance was dashed. I'm not even sure I care.
Sorry for the weird, rambling post. Gothic romances do that to my brain.
*Um, this isn't exactly a mystery book, but it doesn't finish with the same romantic lead it starts with. Can't tell you who, why, or what happens in the end, just in case you actually read the thing. Ah, Villette - the novel that makes us go through the heroine's romantic angst twice, and then decides to kick us in the head in the end. We don't read it because it makes us feel good - but because it makes us feel bad in a way that's hard to ignore...
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
je suis fatiguée
Und mein Gehirn ist kaputt.
Plus, je ne parler pas Français.
Noch Deutsch.
C'est la vie, Jah?
Plus, je ne parler pas Français.
Noch Deutsch.
C'est la vie, Jah?
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Mets Kohas
Yes, for some reason I'm still taking Juhan Liiv's poems and re-writing them as English sonnets.
No, I don't think this is a good idea.
I'm enjoying myself, though.
This one is a Spencerian Sonnet. It's the first sonnet I've written in Spencerian rhyme structure, so that was fun:
Mets Kohas
No, I don't think this is a good idea.
I'm enjoying myself, though.
This one is a Spencerian Sonnet. It's the first sonnet I've written in Spencerian rhyme structure, so that was fun:
Mets Kohas
Thursday, January 21, 2010
30 Years From Now
This is something I wrote back when I was in high school, but for some reason I feel it is appropriate for the day:
Just stand still for a moment
I want to remember the way you look
The way the world all around us is
Just right now
Life goes by much too quickly
We never think about the way things change
But bit by bit the world gets rearranged
And before you know it, it's thirty years from now
Just stand still for a moment
And spare a thought for all our yesterdays
The many times we should have stopped to say
"Just right now"
Life goes by much too quickly
We never think about the things we lose
But there's too much of life that we misuse
And before you know it, it's thirty years from now
Just stand still for a moment
And look around you at this place we're in
We may never pass this way again
Just right now
Life goes by much too quickly
We never think about the passing days
But all to soon we'll all be old and grey
And before you know it, it's thirty years from now.
None of the people who were at my 15th birthday were at my 20th. None of the people from my 20th were at my 25th. None of the people from my 25th will be at my 30th. I doubt the people at my 30th birthday will be at my 35th. These things happen in this modern world.
Look at the people who are in your life today. You can't keep them, but you can remember them - so pay attention.
Just stand still for a moment
I want to remember the way you look
The way the world all around us is
Just right now
Life goes by much too quickly
We never think about the way things change
But bit by bit the world gets rearranged
And before you know it, it's thirty years from now
Just stand still for a moment
And spare a thought for all our yesterdays
The many times we should have stopped to say
"Just right now"
Life goes by much too quickly
We never think about the things we lose
But there's too much of life that we misuse
And before you know it, it's thirty years from now
Just stand still for a moment
And look around you at this place we're in
We may never pass this way again
Just right now
Life goes by much too quickly
We never think about the passing days
But all to soon we'll all be old and grey
And before you know it, it's thirty years from now.
None of the people who were at my 15th birthday were at my 20th. None of the people from my 20th were at my 25th. None of the people from my 25th will be at my 30th. I doubt the people at my 30th birthday will be at my 35th. These things happen in this modern world.
Look at the people who are in your life today. You can't keep them, but you can remember them - so pay attention.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Somewhere else
There's another universe, not too far removed from this one. Just a couple of degrees, really, in the grand scheme of things. Far enough that we cannot see it. Close enough that we can sometimes feel it.
In this other universe, there's another earth - and on this other earth, there's another me. She's not that far removed from the me who's typing these words - only a matter of degrees in the grand scheme of things.
We followed the same path, made the same decisions and moved in the same direction for the first nineteen years of our lives. Then, at some point (I'm not sure exactly where or when) she turned left when I turned right. From that moment on a series of small steps, minor choices and insignificant decisions lead our paths further away from each other until, six months later, she was in a different place to me both physically and metaphorically.
And so it happened that she said "hello" to someone I've never met, under circumstances in which in I probably would have said nothing. Some weeks after that she said "yes" when I would have found a reason to say "no". A few months later, she took a risk I would have been too afraid to take, and it paid off. It wasn't long after that she found a reason to change her surname (something I've never particularly wanted to do), and as the years passed she made several more decisions and changes to her lifestyle that I have never been interested in making.
And now, almost ten years later, as we both stare down the barrel of a certain birthday, we are in very different place, both physically and metaphorically.
She lives in a different city, is married and has three children. She's recently gone back to work as a teacher aide in a kindergarten, doing her bit to pay off the mortgage they owe on a house that's been feeling too small for a while now. They're thinking of selling up and moving out to the country - somewhere further south, like Victoria.
She has this dream, you see, of a big, sprawling farmhouse somewhere in the country. A place fit for a large family (maybe as many as six kids) - someplace where their grandkids can come every summer and run wild. She wants a place in a colder climate - maybe somewhere where it snows in winter. And she wants a place big enough for a small orchard with apple and cherry trees and a large vegetable garden.
She envisions days spent tending the farm and taking care of her family - a life that rolls with the seasons: pruning, sowing, tending, harvesting. Sewing clothes for her kids and grandkids, making quilts for friends and family, bringing in the harvest and making vinegar, jam and cider.
She'll be involved with the local community groups, getting together with the other women to make and create and grow and do. To organise and plan and help make the town a home - a community.
And between these things - these acts of living - she'll write novels and articles for magazines. Maybe she'll never be a great writer, but she might get some things published and she'll amuse herself in the meantime. After all, deep down she's always wanted to be a story teller.
I know these things about her because we aren't so far removed, really - only a couple of degrees in the grand scheme of things. Occasionally, when the stars align, our daydreams overlap. I see these things she wants for her future, and I can feel them pulling at me. Things I don't normally think I want. Things that don't lie in my path.
If I had spent the last ten years living her life instead of mine, perhaps I could look forward to this future she dreams of. But I didn't, and I don't have the groundwork she has laid for herself. Maybe some of these things will fall into my reach, but many of them never will.
And, to be honest, if you asked me - me - what I want for my future, I couldn't really say this future she dreams of is the future I would choose. Especially if I was being practical and thinking about the steps that are logically available for me to take.
And yet, every now and then, I notice I have brought something into my life that really belongs to her. A blouse, a chair, a set of curtains. Every now and then, I notice that I've stopped looking at the apartments which would suit the life I'm likely to have, and I've started looking at the houses she would want for her family.
And in the back of my mind I realise: we are not so far removed from each other after all.
Only a matter of degrees, really.
In the grand scheme of things.
In this other universe, there's another earth - and on this other earth, there's another me. She's not that far removed from the me who's typing these words - only a matter of degrees in the grand scheme of things.
We followed the same path, made the same decisions and moved in the same direction for the first nineteen years of our lives. Then, at some point (I'm not sure exactly where or when) she turned left when I turned right. From that moment on a series of small steps, minor choices and insignificant decisions lead our paths further away from each other until, six months later, she was in a different place to me both physically and metaphorically.
And so it happened that she said "hello" to someone I've never met, under circumstances in which in I probably would have said nothing. Some weeks after that she said "yes" when I would have found a reason to say "no". A few months later, she took a risk I would have been too afraid to take, and it paid off. It wasn't long after that she found a reason to change her surname (something I've never particularly wanted to do), and as the years passed she made several more decisions and changes to her lifestyle that I have never been interested in making.
And now, almost ten years later, as we both stare down the barrel of a certain birthday, we are in very different place, both physically and metaphorically.
She lives in a different city, is married and has three children. She's recently gone back to work as a teacher aide in a kindergarten, doing her bit to pay off the mortgage they owe on a house that's been feeling too small for a while now. They're thinking of selling up and moving out to the country - somewhere further south, like Victoria.
She has this dream, you see, of a big, sprawling farmhouse somewhere in the country. A place fit for a large family (maybe as many as six kids) - someplace where their grandkids can come every summer and run wild. She wants a place in a colder climate - maybe somewhere where it snows in winter. And she wants a place big enough for a small orchard with apple and cherry trees and a large vegetable garden.
She envisions days spent tending the farm and taking care of her family - a life that rolls with the seasons: pruning, sowing, tending, harvesting. Sewing clothes for her kids and grandkids, making quilts for friends and family, bringing in the harvest and making vinegar, jam and cider.
She'll be involved with the local community groups, getting together with the other women to make and create and grow and do. To organise and plan and help make the town a home - a community.
And between these things - these acts of living - she'll write novels and articles for magazines. Maybe she'll never be a great writer, but she might get some things published and she'll amuse herself in the meantime. After all, deep down she's always wanted to be a story teller.
I know these things about her because we aren't so far removed, really - only a couple of degrees in the grand scheme of things. Occasionally, when the stars align, our daydreams overlap. I see these things she wants for her future, and I can feel them pulling at me. Things I don't normally think I want. Things that don't lie in my path.
If I had spent the last ten years living her life instead of mine, perhaps I could look forward to this future she dreams of. But I didn't, and I don't have the groundwork she has laid for herself. Maybe some of these things will fall into my reach, but many of them never will.
And, to be honest, if you asked me - me - what I want for my future, I couldn't really say this future she dreams of is the future I would choose. Especially if I was being practical and thinking about the steps that are logically available for me to take.
And yet, every now and then, I notice I have brought something into my life that really belongs to her. A blouse, a chair, a set of curtains. Every now and then, I notice that I've stopped looking at the apartments which would suit the life I'm likely to have, and I've started looking at the houses she would want for her family.
And in the back of my mind I realise: we are not so far removed from each other after all.
Only a matter of degrees, really.
In the grand scheme of things.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
White Skates
Okay, some of you might be aware of my entrenched hatred for gendered products.
For those of you who aren't, one of the things I hate most in the world is the idea of a Men's this or a Women's that. Every time, without fail, there is a product that comes in men's and women's versions, the women's version is usually weaker, less functional and more pointless than the men's version. Oh, and often in some ghastly shade of pink.
I refuse to accept the "fact" that, as a women, I deserve to have the crappiest version of whatever's going. I also refuse to accept the idea that there is a better, stronger, more useful version of this thing, but I can only have it if I'm also making some sort of comment about my own gender identity. Plus, I happen to like brown and blue. I find those colours much more appealing than those ghastly pinks, and more likely to suit my hair and skin colouring (redheads can't pull off most pinks - it's true).
I can embrace the idea of men's and women's versions only when there is an actual and physical difference between what men and women will do with this product or how they will wear it. Underpants, for example. I have no problems at all with men's and women's underpants being designed differently. I'm also quite fond of the idea that women's bicycle shorts would have a different shaped chamois to accommodate the wider pelvic bones most women have.
However, when those same women's bike shorts are more restrictive, made out of flimsier material and have smaller pockets which are less secure than the men's version... Well that make me cross.
Anyway, the latest thing to greatly annoy me is roller skates. I need a knew pair. This time 'round I want a good quality outdoor pair instead of a cheap indoor pair with plastic trucks.
Have you tried looking at the "good" roller skates? Let's just say that, as a woman, I am allowed to wear white skates with smallish wheels. The gents are allowed to wear black skates with a wide selection of wheel sizes. Oh, I could also get a pair of tan skates if I wanted to, but the wheel selection for those is pathetic.
Also, as a woman with big feet, I might not be allowed to wear skates at all. The sizes only go up to ten, and I'm usually an eleven, so I don't get skates. Not unless I go for a pair of men's skates - and, of course, everyone will know I'm wearing men's skates because they'll be black...
What if a man wants a pair of white skates? What if I want a pair of tan skates with the 100ml quadline wheels? These options should be available, but they're not. Why? because of product gendering.
If I want gender appropriate skates, I have to get a pair that will get dirty quickly if I dare use them outdoors (why would I want to do that with my outdoor skates anyway?) and won't roll as far or as fast as the men's skates (but why would a woman want to travel any distance with any efficiency anyway?) - and I'll have to get a pair with a boot that's a size too small (but, as a woman, I shouldn't have such big feet anyway).
Looks like I'll just end up having to do what I always end up having to do - choose gender inappropriate products. I'll be damned if I pay good money for the lesser of two products just because I'm a woman.
For those of you who aren't, one of the things I hate most in the world is the idea of a Men's this or a Women's that. Every time, without fail, there is a product that comes in men's and women's versions, the women's version is usually weaker, less functional and more pointless than the men's version. Oh, and often in some ghastly shade of pink.
I refuse to accept the "fact" that, as a women, I deserve to have the crappiest version of whatever's going. I also refuse to accept the idea that there is a better, stronger, more useful version of this thing, but I can only have it if I'm also making some sort of comment about my own gender identity. Plus, I happen to like brown and blue. I find those colours much more appealing than those ghastly pinks, and more likely to suit my hair and skin colouring (redheads can't pull off most pinks - it's true).
I can embrace the idea of men's and women's versions only when there is an actual and physical difference between what men and women will do with this product or how they will wear it. Underpants, for example. I have no problems at all with men's and women's underpants being designed differently. I'm also quite fond of the idea that women's bicycle shorts would have a different shaped chamois to accommodate the wider pelvic bones most women have.
However, when those same women's bike shorts are more restrictive, made out of flimsier material and have smaller pockets which are less secure than the men's version... Well that make me cross.
Anyway, the latest thing to greatly annoy me is roller skates. I need a knew pair. This time 'round I want a good quality outdoor pair instead of a cheap indoor pair with plastic trucks.
Have you tried looking at the "good" roller skates? Let's just say that, as a woman, I am allowed to wear white skates with smallish wheels. The gents are allowed to wear black skates with a wide selection of wheel sizes. Oh, I could also get a pair of tan skates if I wanted to, but the wheel selection for those is pathetic.
Also, as a woman with big feet, I might not be allowed to wear skates at all. The sizes only go up to ten, and I'm usually an eleven, so I don't get skates. Not unless I go for a pair of men's skates - and, of course, everyone will know I'm wearing men's skates because they'll be black...
What if a man wants a pair of white skates? What if I want a pair of tan skates with the 100ml quadline wheels? These options should be available, but they're not. Why? because of product gendering.
If I want gender appropriate skates, I have to get a pair that will get dirty quickly if I dare use them outdoors (why would I want to do that with my outdoor skates anyway?) and won't roll as far or as fast as the men's skates (but why would a woman want to travel any distance with any efficiency anyway?) - and I'll have to get a pair with a boot that's a size too small (but, as a woman, I shouldn't have such big feet anyway).
Looks like I'll just end up having to do what I always end up having to do - choose gender inappropriate products. I'll be damned if I pay good money for the lesser of two products just because I'm a woman.
Monday, January 11, 2010
An interesting sentiment
The inscription reads:
In the grave there is peace
In life there is trouble and pain
Is this meant to be a comfort to people who might be living short, miserable lives, or was the guy buried here just really grumpy?
Sunday, January 10, 2010
How do you measure success?
Well, there you go. The terrorists are officially winning.
Oh, sure, they haven't actually managed to blow up any aircraft recently, but they don't have to. I doubt it was ever really their intention.
What they have done, and done quite successfully, is prompt the US to create a world where people are less likely to go anywhere near North America.
I've completely crossed the USA and Canada off my list of places I'm likely to visit any time soon.
Note that, I said "and Canada". Why? Because I'm likely to need to change planes on US soil, and I'm just not going to do that. Oh, and any other country that would require changing planes in Hawaii? Yeah, I'm not going there either.
Mexico's off the list as well. I don't know if I have to stop over in the US to get there, but I'm pretty darn sure the US will be having a strong say in Mexico's security protocols.
South America, I don't know. It depends on whether or not the US bullies them into having similar security measures.
Now, there is, of course, the argument that I shouldn't worry about the security measures if I've got nothing to hide. I've heard that over and over again with the vox pops on the news: "Yeah, it's inconvenient, but you know, I've got nothing to hide so I've got nothing to worry about".
That's not the point. The point is, most of the security measures we already have are stupid, pointless, unlikely to make a true difference to our security AND strangely profitable to people selling stuff at airports. The new measures America is trying to bring in will just make it worse.
A full body scan that shows every detail of your body to whoever happens to be looking at the screen at the time? I wouldn't consent to a strip search without good reason and controlled conditions. Why should I consent to that?
And you will never - and I mean never - be able to convince me that the liquids thing isn't some money making scheme by airports. A 600ml, clear plastic bottle of water is not a threat. I can buy a 600ml bottle of water outside the airport for $2. Better than that, I can fill such a water bottle with water from my tap at home for next to nothing. However, I can't take that water bottle into the departure lounge. Once in the departure lounge, I can buy a new bottle of water for twice the price... but then I can't take it on the plane, which means I have to buy another, hideously expensive bottle of water at the next airport. If I'm catching a connecting flight, I won't be able to take that water bottle with me either...
There's a question everyone asks in those crime shows that clutter the TV schedules: "Who benefits?" It's not the travelling people of the world. It's not the countries which are now, thankfully, safe from water kept in clear plastic containers. It's the shops in the airport that sell the stuff we can't take with us any more.
And the thing is, the things they let us take onto the planes are no safer than the things they refuse. A laptop battery is a greater threat than a water bottle. The chain I wear around my neck, which never sets off the metal detectors, is a more useful weapon than the nail clippers I can't take with me... there's no real rhyme or reason to what you can and cannot do for "security purposes".
The fact of the matter is, anyone who actually wants to hurt people can and will, regardless of what conditions are placed on us all. These security measures are inconveniencing us for no good reason, and now they are completely invading our privacy for no good reason. Oh, these "security measures" look good on paper. You can hold them up and say "see what we are doing to ensure your safety?" But my safety is not ensured. It never can be. You are taking away my liberties and privacy to give me false promises in their place.
In its infinite wisdom, the US government has decided to punish the whole world for the actions of a few people. That's all this amounts to.
Now, I've been a teacher, and I've tried the "keep the whole class in" technique. In theory, the bad kids should realise they're hurting their friends, and their friends should beat them up in the car park for revenge, thus encouraging them to improve their behaviour. It never works. The bad kids don't change their ways for the sake of the others in the class, and the good kids realise they're trapped in a hopeless situation and start hating the person who is punishing them for being in the same room as the people who deserve the punishment.
That's where the US is heading with this. Eventually, more and more people are just going to say "stuff this, America has made travelling miserable and I hate them."
Thus, the terrorist have accomplished their goal of making the whole world hate America as much as they do. Rather ingenious, really.
Oh, sure, they haven't actually managed to blow up any aircraft recently, but they don't have to. I doubt it was ever really their intention.
What they have done, and done quite successfully, is prompt the US to create a world where people are less likely to go anywhere near North America.
I've completely crossed the USA and Canada off my list of places I'm likely to visit any time soon.
Note that, I said "and Canada". Why? Because I'm likely to need to change planes on US soil, and I'm just not going to do that. Oh, and any other country that would require changing planes in Hawaii? Yeah, I'm not going there either.
Mexico's off the list as well. I don't know if I have to stop over in the US to get there, but I'm pretty darn sure the US will be having a strong say in Mexico's security protocols.
South America, I don't know. It depends on whether or not the US bullies them into having similar security measures.
Now, there is, of course, the argument that I shouldn't worry about the security measures if I've got nothing to hide. I've heard that over and over again with the vox pops on the news: "Yeah, it's inconvenient, but you know, I've got nothing to hide so I've got nothing to worry about".
That's not the point. The point is, most of the security measures we already have are stupid, pointless, unlikely to make a true difference to our security AND strangely profitable to people selling stuff at airports. The new measures America is trying to bring in will just make it worse.
A full body scan that shows every detail of your body to whoever happens to be looking at the screen at the time? I wouldn't consent to a strip search without good reason and controlled conditions. Why should I consent to that?
And you will never - and I mean never - be able to convince me that the liquids thing isn't some money making scheme by airports. A 600ml, clear plastic bottle of water is not a threat. I can buy a 600ml bottle of water outside the airport for $2. Better than that, I can fill such a water bottle with water from my tap at home for next to nothing. However, I can't take that water bottle into the departure lounge. Once in the departure lounge, I can buy a new bottle of water for twice the price... but then I can't take it on the plane, which means I have to buy another, hideously expensive bottle of water at the next airport. If I'm catching a connecting flight, I won't be able to take that water bottle with me either...
There's a question everyone asks in those crime shows that clutter the TV schedules: "Who benefits?" It's not the travelling people of the world. It's not the countries which are now, thankfully, safe from water kept in clear plastic containers. It's the shops in the airport that sell the stuff we can't take with us any more.
And the thing is, the things they let us take onto the planes are no safer than the things they refuse. A laptop battery is a greater threat than a water bottle. The chain I wear around my neck, which never sets off the metal detectors, is a more useful weapon than the nail clippers I can't take with me... there's no real rhyme or reason to what you can and cannot do for "security purposes".
The fact of the matter is, anyone who actually wants to hurt people can and will, regardless of what conditions are placed on us all. These security measures are inconveniencing us for no good reason, and now they are completely invading our privacy for no good reason. Oh, these "security measures" look good on paper. You can hold them up and say "see what we are doing to ensure your safety?" But my safety is not ensured. It never can be. You are taking away my liberties and privacy to give me false promises in their place.
In its infinite wisdom, the US government has decided to punish the whole world for the actions of a few people. That's all this amounts to.
Now, I've been a teacher, and I've tried the "keep the whole class in" technique. In theory, the bad kids should realise they're hurting their friends, and their friends should beat them up in the car park for revenge, thus encouraging them to improve their behaviour. It never works. The bad kids don't change their ways for the sake of the others in the class, and the good kids realise they're trapped in a hopeless situation and start hating the person who is punishing them for being in the same room as the people who deserve the punishment.
That's where the US is heading with this. Eventually, more and more people are just going to say "stuff this, America has made travelling miserable and I hate them."
Thus, the terrorist have accomplished their goal of making the whole world hate America as much as they do. Rather ingenious, really.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Phone number
"I'm telling you this in an email", he says, "because I've lost your phone number again..."
And I suddenly have to fight the urge to laugh out loud.
Lost my phone number again? Lost my phone number again? My good man, I've given you my phone number no less than six times. You've never "lost" it - you've never "kept" it! Not that it matters, I can't remember you ever using it.
I'd just like to point out something. Just bring it to your attention. Every time we bump into each other and have a chat, you finish the conversation by asking me to keep in touch, and saying you'll call me later. Every time.
Not once have you actually called me later. I don't actually expect you to (which is probably just as well), but you keep saying you're going to. Why? There's no precedent for you calling me. You haven't done it before, I don't expect you to start doing it any time soon...
And as for the "keep in touch" thing? Well, it helps if you don't ignore most of my emails. I'm just saying. It may surprise you to know that people are more likely to keep in touch with you if you also keep in touch with them.
Unless, of course, you don't want to. I've long suspected the reason why you "lose" my phone number is because you don't want it. Just as I've long suspected the reason why you don't reply to my emails is because you don't want me to send them. I'm actually okay with this concept, it's just that every time we talk you finish up by telling me to "keep in touch" - and you sound like you mean it.
It's like some strange compulsion you have.
Tell you what, just to make life easier, why don't we establish a fallacy that can save us both some time and effort:
"Oh, I don't have a phone. Sorry."
And I suddenly have to fight the urge to laugh out loud.
Lost my phone number again? Lost my phone number again? My good man, I've given you my phone number no less than six times. You've never "lost" it - you've never "kept" it! Not that it matters, I can't remember you ever using it.
I'd just like to point out something. Just bring it to your attention. Every time we bump into each other and have a chat, you finish the conversation by asking me to keep in touch, and saying you'll call me later. Every time.
Not once have you actually called me later. I don't actually expect you to (which is probably just as well), but you keep saying you're going to. Why? There's no precedent for you calling me. You haven't done it before, I don't expect you to start doing it any time soon...
And as for the "keep in touch" thing? Well, it helps if you don't ignore most of my emails. I'm just saying. It may surprise you to know that people are more likely to keep in touch with you if you also keep in touch with them.
Unless, of course, you don't want to. I've long suspected the reason why you "lose" my phone number is because you don't want it. Just as I've long suspected the reason why you don't reply to my emails is because you don't want me to send them. I'm actually okay with this concept, it's just that every time we talk you finish up by telling me to "keep in touch" - and you sound like you mean it.
It's like some strange compulsion you have.
Tell you what, just to make life easier, why don't we establish a fallacy that can save us both some time and effort:
"Oh, I don't have a phone. Sorry."
Brontes' Garden Party
Amongst the T-Shirts I would buy if I could afford to buy T-Shirts from overseas just because they amuse me is this one:
I love Kate Beaton's take on history and literature. I particularly love her take on the Brontë sisters.
Everyone reads Charlotte's Jane Eyre, with the brooding, yet decidedly jerky and obnoxious leading man. Everyone reads Emily's Wuthering Heights with the brooding, yet decidedly creepy and disturbing leading man. No one reads Anne's Agnes Grey, where the nice guy gets the nice girl in the end.
Beaton's version of Anne Brontë, as the poor sensible girl who has to put up with her stupid sisters' poor taste in men, is just brilliant.
I love Kate Beaton's take on history and literature. I particularly love her take on the Brontë sisters.
Everyone reads Charlotte's Jane Eyre, with the brooding, yet decidedly jerky and obnoxious leading man. Everyone reads Emily's Wuthering Heights with the brooding, yet decidedly creepy and disturbing leading man. No one reads Anne's Agnes Grey, where the nice guy gets the nice girl in the end.
Beaton's version of Anne Brontë, as the poor sensible girl who has to put up with her stupid sisters' poor taste in men, is just brilliant.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
The Estonian Sonnet
You know how, occasionally, you read some piece of information you already knew and suddenly you make a connection you hadn't made previously? So that it's almost like reading old information has somehow magically provided you with new information?
The other day I read a description about the pronunciation of Estonian that mentioned the fact that the stress falls on the first syllable of the word. All subsequent syllables are, apparently, unstressed.
I have read this previously, and previously I have asked myself: "But what about secondary stresses? After all, they have really long words in Estonian." Well, most of the things I've read have neglected to go into that sort of detail (don't they know there are nerds and geeks trying to learn their language?), except to mention that compound words have stresses on the first syllable of each component of the compound. They don't mention if these stresses are equal to the primary stress or secondary in nature. Losers.
Anyway, that's old stuff. The connection I suddenly made was: "But that means they'd never be able to write a sonnet in their native language!"
Iambic pentameter relies entirely on having the stresses fall on every second syllable in the line. The entire iambic rhythm structure would be an artificial imposition on the Estonian language which would preclude sonnets from ever developing in that language.
You might be able to get away with trochaic meter, as long as you only ever used words of two syllables in length...
Then again, there may be words that are always unstressed in a sentence which may either help or hinder as the case may be. I really don't know enough about about the patterns of the spoken language to understand these implications. Does anyone write books or essays dealing with the stress of spoken Estonian and it's relation to rhythmic feet?
All I know is, sonnets are out. And quite possibly blank verse as well.
I am not sure I can accept this truth.
Well, actually, I can, I just felt writing a sentence in iambic pentameter. I'm nothing if not an annoying show-off.
It makes me wonder, though, whether or not Estonians would feel more naturally inclined towards English poetry in a trochaic or dactylic meter than one written in iambic or anapestic meter.
Or, maybe I should just remember that the only reason why I care so much about classic verse forms is because I'm a time travelling immortal and, back when I was young, poetry was cool and knowing about poetry made you attractive. Most people today probably wouldn't know an iambic foot if it kicked them.
The other day I read a description about the pronunciation of Estonian that mentioned the fact that the stress falls on the first syllable of the word. All subsequent syllables are, apparently, unstressed.
I have read this previously, and previously I have asked myself: "But what about secondary stresses? After all, they have really long words in Estonian." Well, most of the things I've read have neglected to go into that sort of detail (don't they know there are nerds and geeks trying to learn their language?), except to mention that compound words have stresses on the first syllable of each component of the compound. They don't mention if these stresses are equal to the primary stress or secondary in nature. Losers.
Anyway, that's old stuff. The connection I suddenly made was: "But that means they'd never be able to write a sonnet in their native language!"
Iambic pentameter relies entirely on having the stresses fall on every second syllable in the line. The entire iambic rhythm structure would be an artificial imposition on the Estonian language which would preclude sonnets from ever developing in that language.
You might be able to get away with trochaic meter, as long as you only ever used words of two syllables in length...
Then again, there may be words that are always unstressed in a sentence which may either help or hinder as the case may be. I really don't know enough about about the patterns of the spoken language to understand these implications. Does anyone write books or essays dealing with the stress of spoken Estonian and it's relation to rhythmic feet?
All I know is, sonnets are out. And quite possibly blank verse as well.
I am not sure I can accept this truth.
Well, actually, I can, I just felt writing a sentence in iambic pentameter. I'm nothing if not an annoying show-off.
It makes me wonder, though, whether or not Estonians would feel more naturally inclined towards English poetry in a trochaic or dactylic meter than one written in iambic or anapestic meter.
Or, maybe I should just remember that the only reason why I care so much about classic verse forms is because I'm a time travelling immortal and, back when I was young, poetry was cool and knowing about poetry made you attractive. Most people today probably wouldn't know an iambic foot if it kicked them.
Searching everywhere for something new
Okay, I'm quite happy to admit I'm really boring. I don't know anyone who throws fun parties, and if I do I don't know them well enough to get invited to those parties. Even if I did know people who throw fun parties well enough to warrant an invitation, I probably wouldn't get one anyway because they'd know I'm likely to sit in the corner of the room exuding vibes of boringness. Or, perhaps, boringality. Or any other fake nominalisation you can think of for the word “boring”.
Therefore, it should come as no surprise to you that I celebrated New Years Eve by staying home and watching a DVD of Disney's classic film, Bedknobs and Broomsticks.
Now, I love that film. When I was a kid, I used to borrow it from the video rental shop up the road from my grandmother's place and watch it at least three times in a week before returning it. That, and Mary Poppins. Maybe I'm a fan of David Tomlinson, who stars in both films. Maybe I'm a fan of Robert Stevenson, who directed both films. Maybe I'm a fan of Bill Walsh and Don DaGradi, who wrote the screenplays for both films. Maybe I'm a fan of Richard and Robert Sherman, who wrote the music for both films. I don't know. All I know is that these two films, together, represent all that was once right and good in Disney films. It doesn't bother me in the least that Bedknobs and Broomsticks was probably a prime example of Disney executives saying, “Well, that other film was a success, let's make another one just like it!” I still love it.
For a while there, you couldn't watch Bedknobs and Broomsticks. Once the rental videos died, there was nothing to replace them. It took a long time to get released on DVD and it was never shown on TV. Then it did come out on DVD, and I intended to buy a copy, but life gets away from you, doesn't it? Ah, but when I noticed on shop had a double set of Mary Poppins and Bedknobs and Broomsticks for less than $20... Well, there was no power in the 'verse that was going to stop me from getting my hands on that. I got the last copy in the store, but I got it.
So, New Years Eve rolls around and I can think of no better way to spend it that to crack open a favourite film from my childhood and wash in the nostalgia of it all.
But something wasn't quite right. There was a scene early in the film that didn't run exactly as I remembered it. A conversation I didn't quite recall. Perhaps I should have twigged at that point. After all, even after all these years, I could still recite a number of the lines with the characters as though I'd heard them yesterday (“my first brrroom!”). It wasn't until David Tomlinson launched into an entire musical number I'd never seen before that the penny dropped – the film had been “restored”!
Apparently the film I knew and loved had been cut quite dramatically to bring it under two hours running time. There was over half-an-hour's worth of material that I had never seen before. Songs that were cut, conversations that were halved, entire subplots that were excised. When Disney brought Bedknobs and Broomsticks out on DVD for the 25th anniversary they found as many of those bits as they could and put them back in. Even then, they didn't exactly find them “whole”. In most cases they found the picture, but obviously not the sound, so they had to record new ADR voices. They had to leave out a musical number (technically, the first in the film) because they had the sound, but not the images (they included it, with stills, in the special collections).
The film I watched on New Years Eve was a much longer film, but for the most part also a richer film. There was the subplot with the Rector trying to woo the witch (he didn't know she was a witch, obviously) because he wanted to get his hands on her house. There were shades to Professor Brown's character that were more thoroughly fleshed out. There were musical numbers I hadn't seen, and longer versions of the musical numbers I had seen. The romance between Eglantine and Prof. Brown was fleshed out a bit more (but still, somehow, not convincing).
Being such a fan of the film I should have been happy to see more of it, and, on one level, I was. I wasn't happy with the way they did the ADR for the restored scenes. I'm usually a fan of Jeff Bennett's work, but he didn't sound a thing like David Tomlinson – and his timing was off. Nothing drags you out of a story like noticing the main character's voice is different and his lips aren't moving at quite the same time as the sound. I suspect they got Angela Lansbury to do her own ADR for those scenes, what with her being not dead and all. That was my only real gripe with the way they did the restoration.
However, I felt vaguely cheated. I was all set to watch a favourite film from my childhood, and instead I watched something else. Something very similar, mind you, but not the same. And I have no other options. The only version of this film available on DVD is the restored version. If I want to watch the one I grew up with – the one where David Tomlinson's voice comes out of his face in every scene – I'm plum out of luck.
I felt the same way with the re-mastered Star Wars films. I didn't particularly like the newer versions more than the older versions, but for a while there you couldn't buy anything else. I think that's one of the reasons why I really can't be bothered with Star Wars these days.
I understand something similar happened to Blade Runner when the director's cut came out. The only version you could get was not the version you remembered from the cinema.
Maybe it's just being petty, but it would be nice if, in this age of almost unlimited choices, I had been given the choice of watching the old version if I wanted to.
That said, man I'd love to see that first musical number from the film if they ever found the images.
Therefore, it should come as no surprise to you that I celebrated New Years Eve by staying home and watching a DVD of Disney's classic film, Bedknobs and Broomsticks.
Now, I love that film. When I was a kid, I used to borrow it from the video rental shop up the road from my grandmother's place and watch it at least three times in a week before returning it. That, and Mary Poppins. Maybe I'm a fan of David Tomlinson, who stars in both films. Maybe I'm a fan of Robert Stevenson, who directed both films. Maybe I'm a fan of Bill Walsh and Don DaGradi, who wrote the screenplays for both films. Maybe I'm a fan of Richard and Robert Sherman, who wrote the music for both films. I don't know. All I know is that these two films, together, represent all that was once right and good in Disney films. It doesn't bother me in the least that Bedknobs and Broomsticks was probably a prime example of Disney executives saying, “Well, that other film was a success, let's make another one just like it!” I still love it.
For a while there, you couldn't watch Bedknobs and Broomsticks. Once the rental videos died, there was nothing to replace them. It took a long time to get released on DVD and it was never shown on TV. Then it did come out on DVD, and I intended to buy a copy, but life gets away from you, doesn't it? Ah, but when I noticed on shop had a double set of Mary Poppins and Bedknobs and Broomsticks for less than $20... Well, there was no power in the 'verse that was going to stop me from getting my hands on that. I got the last copy in the store, but I got it.
So, New Years Eve rolls around and I can think of no better way to spend it that to crack open a favourite film from my childhood and wash in the nostalgia of it all.
But something wasn't quite right. There was a scene early in the film that didn't run exactly as I remembered it. A conversation I didn't quite recall. Perhaps I should have twigged at that point. After all, even after all these years, I could still recite a number of the lines with the characters as though I'd heard them yesterday (“my first brrroom!”). It wasn't until David Tomlinson launched into an entire musical number I'd never seen before that the penny dropped – the film had been “restored”!
Apparently the film I knew and loved had been cut quite dramatically to bring it under two hours running time. There was over half-an-hour's worth of material that I had never seen before. Songs that were cut, conversations that were halved, entire subplots that were excised. When Disney brought Bedknobs and Broomsticks out on DVD for the 25th anniversary they found as many of those bits as they could and put them back in. Even then, they didn't exactly find them “whole”. In most cases they found the picture, but obviously not the sound, so they had to record new ADR voices. They had to leave out a musical number (technically, the first in the film) because they had the sound, but not the images (they included it, with stills, in the special collections).
The film I watched on New Years Eve was a much longer film, but for the most part also a richer film. There was the subplot with the Rector trying to woo the witch (he didn't know she was a witch, obviously) because he wanted to get his hands on her house. There were shades to Professor Brown's character that were more thoroughly fleshed out. There were musical numbers I hadn't seen, and longer versions of the musical numbers I had seen. The romance between Eglantine and Prof. Brown was fleshed out a bit more (but still, somehow, not convincing).
Being such a fan of the film I should have been happy to see more of it, and, on one level, I was. I wasn't happy with the way they did the ADR for the restored scenes. I'm usually a fan of Jeff Bennett's work, but he didn't sound a thing like David Tomlinson – and his timing was off. Nothing drags you out of a story like noticing the main character's voice is different and his lips aren't moving at quite the same time as the sound. I suspect they got Angela Lansbury to do her own ADR for those scenes, what with her being not dead and all. That was my only real gripe with the way they did the restoration.
However, I felt vaguely cheated. I was all set to watch a favourite film from my childhood, and instead I watched something else. Something very similar, mind you, but not the same. And I have no other options. The only version of this film available on DVD is the restored version. If I want to watch the one I grew up with – the one where David Tomlinson's voice comes out of his face in every scene – I'm plum out of luck.
I felt the same way with the re-mastered Star Wars films. I didn't particularly like the newer versions more than the older versions, but for a while there you couldn't buy anything else. I think that's one of the reasons why I really can't be bothered with Star Wars these days.
I understand something similar happened to Blade Runner when the director's cut came out. The only version you could get was not the version you remembered from the cinema.
Maybe it's just being petty, but it would be nice if, in this age of almost unlimited choices, I had been given the choice of watching the old version if I wanted to.
That said, man I'd love to see that first musical number from the film if they ever found the images.
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