A Lady of Exquisite Sensitivity, Pt I

I was not having my best day ever.

I had awoken with a raging headache, and had it been any other day (or had I been any other person) I’d have spent the entirety in my bed, hiding beneath the covers. But it was not any other day- it was thirty-fifth day into the diplomatic mission I was making on behalf of my father to a foreign kingdom in the hopes of arranging a highly advantageous political marriage- and we were expected to arrive that evening. And I was not any other person- I was Princess Arabella Gabriella Grisadella Isabella Emanuella Christiansen (known more practically as “Aggie” to my family), and not only had I been raised on my mother’s rigorous etiquette standards and thoroughly educated on the history and mores of the surrounding areas, I also was in possession of a rather large amount of Natural Charm, which meant that any diplomatic endeavor I was a part of tended to go better than those I was not. And Father really needed this alliance. And so I had gritted my teeth, gotten out of bed, and climbed back into the carriage I was coming to loathe. Just one more day, I had told myself.

I had not mentioned my discomfort as we embarked- a lady never complains, after all- but I had made it a point to shut all the curtains, greatly reducing the amount of light and noise that infiltrated. Thus I had been able to drift into a sort of half-sleep, which unfortunately meant I had not been entirely coherent when the bandits struck.

I will say this for them- they didn’t kill me. I’m not sure if this is because they knew who I was, or because they didn’t. Either way, while they’d taken everything else of value- servants, goods, even my clothing- they’d left me my under garments and- more importantly- my life. This fact, as far as I’d been concerned, had meant that I still had a chance to negotiate the alliance I’d promised Father. And so I’d squared my shoulders and started walking, comforting myself with the thought that at least it was summer: although I’d been robbed, and my head was aching and my bare feet protesting, at least I wouldn’t be cold. And as I’d slowly covered the remaining miles I had been warm…

Until the storm him.

And so there I was, standing in my undergarments, soaked to the skin, spattered up to my knees in mud and road filth, teeth chattering like a rabid squirrel as I knocked on the door of a stranger’s castle gate at midnight, about to make perhaps the worst first impression I could conceive of. As I've mentioned: not my best day ever.

She Dreams in Ink and Flashing Needles

My infatuation with needlework is a relatively recent development (it was kindled back in December of '08; one of Nathan's Commercialmas was a lovingly cross-stitched towel that says "NARDDOG") but I am fairly certain it's going to turn into a life-long love affair. I've had a recent resurgence in my interest, which means that not only have I been doing it, I've also been reading about it (as I am wont to do with my various obsessions). I came across something Jenny Hart said in an interview that really struck a chord with me: "I like that embroidery serves no function. It's unlike knitting, crochet or sewing in that regard. Embroidery is pure embellishment. It's the frosting of needle arts, but it's almost always secondary to a functional object. It decorates something useful like a jacket, a tea-cozy, a pillowcase."

Or, as I paraphrased it to my mother during the conversation that made up part of the inspiration for this post, "Embroidery is purely ornamental- it serves no purpose other than to beautify."

This whole concept is kind of a big Thing with me. Form versus function, I mean. I am very much a Divided Person on that topic- on the one hand, I have this very pragmatic side that is very much concerned with useful things, and so long as a thing does what it is intended to do, who cares what it looks like? On the other hand, I'm a friggin' visual artist- you're damn right I care what things look like. Well, things that I make, at any rate. But at the same time the pragmatic part of me (which has a voice mush like my grandmother's, come to think of it) can't help but be slightly scandalized that I would "waste" time creating things no one "needs", rather than putting time and energy into something "useful". Because let's face it- we don't need beauty to survive. We need water, food, and shelter. Beauty is a luxury. It feeds the soul, sure- but we don't need it to propagate the species.

And yet.

Every culture that I'm familiar with finds some way to to create art- or at the very least find it in the world around them. Food for thought.

But back to the conversation with my mom. I also mentioned that I feel there's a real kinship between embroidery and tattooing- the needle goes in and out, leaving behind beautiful marks. She made what can only be called a noise of distaste at this observation, but the more I think about it the more I'm convinced it's a valid comparison- what is tattooing, if not embroidering the skin with ink rather than thread? It serves no survival purpose... but we do it, anyway. We embellish ourselves, have been embellishing ourselves for far longer than we've been embellishing pillow cases (...as far as I know. If an anthropologist in the crowd would like to give me an academic bitch-slap, by all means please do- I like learning stuff...)

Anyway my point is that it makes sense that I should be drawn to the decorative art of embroidery, since I'm so utterly besotted by the decorative art of tattoo (someday, someday I shall wield a needle of a buzzing sort...). And of course my brain is just exploding with art projects right now... ways to tie together my drawings, my tattoos, and my embroidery. Ink, thread, and needles...




(I honestly think this recent surge in creativity is directly tied to my recent bout of depression. Muses are joy-vampires I swear it...)

Ocelli

Whenever you read about psychics, or see a movie about them or whatever, they have really cool powers. Useful powers. Things like Seeing the future, or the past, or even the present- but the present hundreds of miles away. They can read minds, or move objects, or even light stuff on fire. Sometimes they can do all these things.

...but I am not that kind of psychic.

Sure, I have the third eye- apparently it's genetic, thanks Mom- but do you think it lets me See anything particularly awesome? No it does not. Do you know what it lets me See? It lets me see Light and Dark.

Now, I will admit it's slightly more cool that normal eyes, which only see light and dark. Notice the lack of capitals. Yeah, my third eye taps into Light and Dark, proper nouns- specifically the amount of each that you have in your soul- or whatever it is you want to call the thing that differentiates you from a corpse. What I'm saying is, I can tell whether or not you're good or evil just by looking at you.

And yeah, that sounds pretty good- maybe even useful, if one is prone to attracting the Wrong Sorts of People- but the truth of the matter is that most people? Neither good nor evil. Nope, just a nice balance of Light and Dark, maybe shading to one direction or the other, but not really enough to make them demons or angels (the existence of which, by the way, I choose to reserve judgment on). Even at my school, the kids are mostly in the middle. Yeah yeah, I know, I know- if I didn't have this Sight I, too, would swear that the vast majority of adolescents are pure evil- but they're not. They're just... hell, I don't know what they are. That's the other problem with this little "gift" of mine. It just shows me what is, not why it is. Which means I don't have any insights into the whole Nature vs Nurture thing, which is too bad, because I'm actually kind of fascinated by psychology.

But I digress.


(Husk)

When Exactly Did I Develop Problems With Authority?

::sigh::

So I actually have a plethora of topics to pick from for this evening's post. In fact I had already begun crafting an excellent one inspired by my friend Tavish (he of the endless ideas). But in light of this afternoon's Events, I think I'll table that one for another day and instead talk about Me Bobbling My Temper. Not losing it entirely, mind you- but not having the best grip in the world, either.

The long and short of it is that I told off a doctor today. Yes, you read that correctly. Little Miss Goody-Two-Shoes gave a medical professional a tongue lashing. Let's not get into how or why (or even the specific words used)... I'd rather address the fact that it happened it all, and the subsequent emotional fallout.

The worst part about it is that I don't feel better. I'm not proud of what I did, and I really want to be. It ought to make an awesome story- "That doctor thought she could just keep steamrolling me, but I gave her what-for!". And while yes, that is what happened... I'm not proud. I'm ashamed. Ashamed that I seem to be back-sliding in my spiritual development. Yes, the doctor needed to be told that her demeanor/words/actions were unacceptable- but I probably could have found a better way to do it. In fact, I shouldn't even have let it escalate to the point that it did- I should have stopped seeing her after my initial confrontation with her. I knew nine months ago that I did not like her- but for some reason I didn't feel I could change doctors. I will admit that the civilian medical world makes me feel timid- it's very confusing after you've grown up on military bases. But that's no excuse- I'm a big girl, and I should have just sucked it up and found a different specialist, rather than letting it get out of hand.

Again I say, ::sigh::

And like I said- I don't feel better. And if you don't feel better after telling someone off, then what's the point? If I thought my words might have had an impact- that she would suddenly realize she can't treat people that way- then maybe I could feel righteous. But the fact of the matter is that I don't think that. I think that she is the sort of arrogant person to whom the opinion of others (let alone their feelings) makes no difference.

So once again I'm feeling lost and disillusioned with the world. Growing up we're taught to respect the men and women in fields like law enforcement and medicine- that they are good and just people who will use their power, knowledge, and authority to take care of us. But that's not true... at least, it's not universally true. Many of them are bullies, and I don't know why it continues to break my heart, but it does. I feel so frustrated, so helpless, when confronted by people who abuse their power. I don't know what to do about it. They say you have to stand up to bullies, and I do, but in the end... what difference does it make? I have no power, I have no influence. That doctor doesn't care what I think about her- she didn't even care enough about medicine to do her job properly. So I stood up to her, told her off- but so what? It doesn't change anything, except making me sick to my stomach for sinking to her level.

That being said, the best part of my day became coming home to Nathan, and having him be 100% on my side. Being able to let everything come tumbling out- all the rage, and the shame, and the frustration, and the despair... and having it be okay. Having him think I'm a worthwhile human being, anyway. I put the entire rotten experience out there (and here) and now I'm going to let it go- and he's helping me do that. So yeah, there are shitty people in the world- but there are also good people. And for that I'm grateful.


(PS I guess the answer to the subject of this post is- "When people started abusing it.")

What, ANOTHER Post?

Truth be told, I'm starting to feel a little anemic, creativity-wise. I've been at this over half a year, now, and the muses' spring... well, it's not dry, exactly, but the water level has definitely dropped. Plus I feel like I possibly used up today's Artistic Allotment on thumb-nailing out ideas for the painting Nathan requested I do for our bedroom. It's going to be a diptych- the first I've ever done (which is insane since I really love that format... also triptychs, which is even more fun to say...). My subject matter is Cupid and Psyche (my favorite of the Roman myths and a particularly appropriate image for the bedroom, I think) and I'm definitely capitalizing on the fact that a diptych is incredibly evocative of the double-page spread staple of comic-books. Plus I put in some time on the Firefly pencils (I'm at that awful stage where I'm so close to being ready for inks that it just irritates the hell out of me that I'm not done already, which in turn makes me sulky and not want to work on them...). Sometimes I think it's gotta' be drawing or writing- but not both in the same day. ::sigh::

And then I was ruminating on the fact that part of the theory behind this little project was that I'd finally manage to finish something... but halfway in, not so much. Sure, I've done a few short-shorts, but those hardly count. I seem to have written myself into a corner on the few longer serials I've stumbled into ("Blue Menagerie" I'm looking at you) and all in all I'm wondering if I even have it in me to be a writer. Let me clarify- I do believe I have the talent to write well. My concern is that I don't have the follow-through. ::sigh:: How am I ever to live a life of artistic leisure if I never publish? (There was some sarcasm in that- I'm not so naive as to believe that publishing = instant wealth) (although of course that would be nice...)

But then I remind myself that another part of theory behind this little project was to force myself to write every day whether I feel like it or not. And I have stuck to that, so may hap there's hope for me yet...


(In spite of the tone of this post, I've actually been in a pretty brilliant mood today- a great relief after last week's depressed, listless husk of a woman...) (Hell, maybe that's the problem... good moods and epic creation rarely go hand-in-hand...)

MD(r)RC

As I've mentioned several times before, my mother and I have a little Mother-Daughter (re)Reading Club. We're currently making our way through the Harry Potter series, and our most recent conversation was regarding Order of the Phoenix. This was a particularly enjoyable discussion for us, because this is the point in the series where we both agree that things really get meaty.

One of the most interesting topics for us was Dolores Umbridge. I posit that this character is the most vile villain in all of Harry Potter- yes, worse than Lord Voldemort. I take this position because out of all the villains in those books, Umbridge is the most realistic. That is to say, she is a real-world villain. I've encountered her flesh-and-blood versions in my lifetime, and I'm sure you have, too. And the raw, helpless fury that such bureaucrats awakens in me... it just makes me sick that there are actual people like that in the world. Not a lot of snake-faced super-wizards, but plenty of people who abuse their positions and make sadistic use of their powers- especially against children.

We also talked about how we both like the way Rowling slowly peels back the layers of Neville. Really she does this with all her characters, but Neville was the one we were most excited to rehash (we're both big fans of Neville, my mother and I). The moment where he tucks the gum-wrapper in his pocket still brings tears to my eyes...

Which just goes to show what a wonderfully evocative writer Rowling is. On the one hand she writes villains that I don't just dislike- I loathe with physical discomfort. But on the other she crafts these wonderful little supporting characters whom I care about as much as I do the main protagonists. Characterization, my friends... very important no matter what you're writing.

Rare Sight

For the first few years after my accident, I avoided crowds. I found them to be just too overwhelming for me to deal with. Bad enough to be subject to the awkward complications of one-on-one interactions- the idea of having to deal with hundreds, even thousands of impressions at once... well, it was exhausting. And I didn't feel up to it.

But eventually my older brother decided he'd had enough, and he put his foot down.

"Jackie, I am taking you out to an event, and you are going to like it," he said. I tried to argue, but he threatened to hide all my books if I didn't cooperate (he's always fought dirty, even when we were little).

"Fine," I gave in with a sigh, but the burst of pleasure I felt radiating from him almost made up for the ordeal I knew was coming.

I could feel the whispers as we walked toward the stadium- kids, mostly, but the occasional adult, too. "Did you see her?" "Was that a cane?" "Why would a blind person go to a fireworks show?"

I'd asked Steve that, myself.

"Right," he had said dryly. "Because fireworks are a silent art, completely undetectable if you just close your eyes." And then he had pulled me out of my chair and steered me toward the door. Jerk.

He found us a spot in what he assured me was the center of the field, and we sat side by side on the itchy old blanket he'd stolen from Mom's house. It smelled of mothballs, and I told him so.

"Well duh. You don't have to have blind girl super-powers for that one, little sis." I stuck out my tongue in his general direction. "Missed me," he laughed.

"No I didn't." He laughed harder and I couldn't help but grin back.

The crowd actually wasn't as bad as I'd feared- by and large the emotions surging through it were positive, and for the most part not really strong enough to affect me, anyway. There was the occasional child about to burst with excitement, but that wasn't an unpleasant feeling, at all. In fact, I consciously let it feed my own mounting anticipation.

We had to put up with a live band and choir that weren't of the highest quality- and I could tell I wasn't the only one to think so. Most amusing was the dissatisfaction I could feel radiating off a few of the band members, obviously thinking back to bygone days of college marching. But there was a certain sweetness to the unadulterated joy coming from one off-key singer, so happy to be part of something, and it made me grateful for my strange "blind girl super-power" that made me privy to such a moment.

After that there was a speech or three I tuned out, until Steven poked my arm and told me to wake up.

"They've turned out the lights," he said. I wondered if he was going to narrate the entire show to me. I hoped not. A hush came over the crowd, and then-

I thought I would hear the crack boom first of all, but that's not what happened. No, light moves faster than sound, and thought faster still, and so my first impression was... like nothing I'd ever experienced before. I was caught in multicolored sea of wonder, spiked with the occasional flash of fear- every person in that stadium saw that first explosion differently, and I saw every one of their reactions all at once. It was staggering, it was overwhelming, it was drowning me...

It was beautiful.

By the time the sound hit, tears were streaming down my face- but good tears. This was better than seeing it with human eyes- this was... transcendent. And then it happened again... and it kept on happening.

"Are you okay?" asked Steven, and I suddenly knew he must have been watching my face instead of the fireworks, wanting to see if he'd done wrong or right by me.

"Yes," I whispered, and leaned my head against his shoulder. "I'm wonderful. And so are you."


(4th)