Lazy Day (Sort Of)

Woke up this morning before my alarm went off, which I seem to be doing with regularity these days. The nice thing is that I didn't have anything on my personal agenda until about noon, so I got to remain in bed, reading the latest Temeraire novel. Eventually Nathan woke up, and we discussed the fact that both of us had a hungerish sort of thing going on in our bellies, and that it had been rather a long time since we'd indulged in some Original Pancake House goodness. (We are very glad we don't have to give it up when we move back to the PNW.)

It says something about the temperature that it did not even occur to me to suggest that we walk; OPH is only a mile from our house, but baby you'd better believe we drove that mile. Normally when we go we try to go early (before nine) because it's a very popular place, and the wait time can be outrageous. This isn't so bad on a pleasant day, when you can sit outside on the fountain and watch the Crazy People of Birmingham creep out the tourists, but today was the sort of day that has you squeezed into the minuscule yet air-conditioned foyer, getting unintentionally snuggly with a bunch of strangers. Anyway getting there before nine tends to reduce your wait time, but apparently getting there after eleven has similar results, so that was fortunate. We only had to wait about ten or fifteen minutes before we were herded back to a little window alcove (from which I could conveniently carry out the people-watching I'd missed out on earlier). I never bother to look at the menu in OPH- I long ago gave up pretending that I'm going to order anything other than french toast- and Nathan already had his Final Contenders in mind (he opted for blueberry pancakes) so we managed to get our order in as soon as our waitress showed up.

Brunch was absolutely splendid (minus the part where the waitress kept trying to refill Nathan's "coffee"- which was actually hot cocoa) and after we waddled back out onto the street we decided to pop into Golden Temple to see if they carry dandelion coffee. Nathan made noises of trepidation, but I promised to protect him from my hippie brethren. As it turned out the did not have what we were looking for, but I did notice their lovely variety of non-peanut nut butters, so I'll have to go back once I've finished the almond butter jar I'm currently making my way through.

From there we headed home again, to pick up laundry and for me to change into my painting clothes, for today was the day I'd promised to go over to Jeff and Elizabeth's and paint a tree on their nursery wall. I spent about five or six hours on it, and I'd say it's looking pretty good- although I'm going to go back and look at it with fresh eyes tomorrow to see what needs touching. Plus it doesn't have any leaves yet... need to go by Michael's and buy stuff to make a stamp, 'cos damned if I'm going to paint all of them by hand.

So I have this weird feeling of not really having done much today, even tho' I guess I did. Five hours of drawing/painting is definitely doing much! But it didn't really feel like work... it's been a long time since I've gone into the kind of painting trance where you lose track of time; Elizabeth had to scold me for not drinking any water! She's a good sister-in-law. She says I could do that sort of thing for a living, and I guess I could. But it just seems weird to charge money for something that, to me, is so easy. Meh.

Cradle

I hear that back in the days when interstellar travel was the subject of nothing more than wishful-thinking sci-fi people called what we do "cold sleep", and other such frozen variations. But the scientists never did figure out how to make it work with "cold", so when they finally developed the process that let us sleep away the distance between hops, people without specialized degrees just started calling it "wet hibernation". This in turn was eventually shortened to "wet-hi".

The scientists like to tell us grunts that we don't dream in wet-hi, that our brain waves have shut down with the rest of us. We grunts smile and nod and let them keep the comfort of their rational fables- because every last one of us has dreamed while in the cradle, to greater or lesser extent. Makes you think that maybe there's something to those cultures that thought dreams were the soul taking a break from the body. Makes sense, don't you think? I mean, if our bodies are shut down, and our brains are shut down, what does that leave to hold things together? The soul. And I figure the soul's gotta' get pretty bored with nothing more entertaining going on than a warm red glow and the hypnotic hum of maintenance droids. So out it goes, in search of adventures to keep it occupied.

This last hop I dreamed of Home. Sort of. I mean, it wasn't my literal home that I grew up in (the sky warrens of Ateel) but it was one of those dream-scapes that feels like Home. All the more-so because she was there, waiting for me. Not charred and crippled as I'd last seen her, but whole and young... no, not young, really- ageless. And so was I. And she had something to tell me, something about the mission; she leaned in close to whisper in my ear and all I could think was that she smelled just like blackberries, real blackberries, not that fake perfume crap... and then I realized I'd missed what she was trying to tell me, so I tried to get her to repeat it, but the bees were buzzing louder and they kept distracting me, telling me I had to wake up now, I had to wake up...



(Cradled in Light)

Silence: Ten-String Coda

My parents rejoiced when I was born a boy. Less than a year married and they had their heir. I was to be the next king, and it is what I spent my life preparing for. It was so much a part of my identity that after my sister was born- after the curse came down- I was never able to fully surrender to my swan form. I was twenty: a man grown, and I knew I had a purpose in life- had I not had my younger brothers to look after, I might have gone mad from the schism in my brain.

Now that we are human again, I am expected to take up where I left off- heir to a kingdom I am no longer intimate with. I sometimes wonder, after having woken from dreams of flight, if I am man enough for the task.

***

We were more than our parents bargained for. They had their heir- what a shock to come out with not one but two spares, just one year later! It might have been a disaster, had we been born first- but we weren't, and so we were more of a marvel than anything else. Identical twins- what fun we had!

It's likely that the years of practice we had in one another's thoughts are what helped us with the transition to swan form. We were used to communicating without words- it was less frustrating for us than for any of the others- well, except perhaps the other twins. But we were the originals, around for a good six years before they showed up! We still marvel, sometimes, at the way what was once our private means of communication is now open to all our siblings. But we don't mind, really. It's nice to have others who understand.

***

My life is strangely balanced- half man, half swan. Eighteen years of each. I had always been intended for the Church, but now... I find myself full of thoughts that the Fathers would find blasphemous. I feel God gave me my life to live twice, once as a man and once as a beast. Perhaps He felt I needed a better understanding of His plan for us, and for the beasts over whom we are said to have dominion. Perhaps now I enter my third life, a strange hybrid of both.

***

I was sixteen when my sister was born. The girl that I should have been. Oh yes, I know what my parents were hoping when they had me- they had their heir, their spares, their one for the Church. It was time for a girl, time for an offering to be bartered off to some other kingdom in exchange for trade routes, or some such. But instead they got me. I was their first disappointment, although certainly not their last.

In a way it was very freeing to become a swan, to leave behind the vague embarrassment of my gender. No one cares if a swan is male or female. No one feels they have to make up a role for it to play. It can just be whatever it is.

Some days I miss that.

Every day I miss that.

***

I was already the middle child, even before my sister was born and we became thirteen. By all rights, up until her birth I should have shared that middle spot with the next youngest, but he went and had himself a twin, thereby denying me of my chance to have a partner in crime. My next oldest brother wanted nothing to do with me- he was two years older and a strangely solitary child. So not only did I become a middle child, I became a solitary middle child.

That changed with the curse. Oh, I was still the middle child- but suddenly I felt I was truly part of something. We were all in it together, a real family like we'd never been in human form. I loved being part of a flock, especially when it was my turn to lead the formation. I felt like I mattered, like I was important. I finally had something I could do just as well as any of the others- I could contribute.

I just wonder if they'll remember that, now that we're human again. If they even want to remember that.

***

We know we're not considered very original. The other twins were already six by the time we came along, and the castle was long used to their antics. That just meant we had to be craftier with ours- we never got caught.

We were thirteen when our sister was born, which we find interesting, since she was thirteen when she found us again. We're sure there's something to that- we just haven't figured out what. Yet. Magic has specific patterns, we've noticed- and we mean to learn as much about them as we can. We figure we have a leg up on most students of the arcane- how many of them can claim to have survived such a powerful curse? Not many, we'd reckon. But we'll find out. We always do.

***

It took my parents a few years to recover from the second set of twins, and when I came along they didn't even bother trying to pretend they didn't wish I was a girl. I can't blame them- they already had eight boys, which is more than enough to drive even the sanest of people a little bit crazy. Really I kind of felt bad for them... even once they had their girl, and we were swans, I still worried about them. Wondered what it must have done to their psyches to lose all twelve sons at once. Would they consider a daughter worth it? Somehow I doubted it, no matter how my fourth-eldest brother might think of them.

They seem happy now, our parents. All their children are safe and whole once more (mostly whole, anyway). Their daughter is queen to a powerful kingdom, their sons are reassuming their lost roles in life. It's as though the curse never happened.

But the curse did happen- and I worry about its affects on us, their children. Some of my brothers seems to have emerged less scathed than others. But my sister... of course its impossible for me to know what is normal for her. But still- I worry.

***

I was eight when the curse changed us. Eight when I finally got a baby sister. Wish I could have known her- I bet she would have been more fun than the little brothers I had. Everyone was bored of brothers by the time I came along- but I always figured a girl would have been able to come up with new mischief none of us boys had even conceived of. I used to try thinking like a girl- but I never could get my head around it. It's weird to think that I went from boy-who-tries-to-think-like-a-girl, to a man-who-tries-not-to-think-like-a-swan. Sometimes I can't help but laugh at myself- will I ever be comfortable just being what I am?

***

I'm pretty sure I was an accident. It had been three years since my next oldest brother, so I'm pretty sure I was unintentional. Maybe my little brother was, too- who knows. I don't remember much of the time Before. I remember that my little brother didn't talk much- which I guess is why he doesn't talk much now. I don't know. I'm still getting used to this crazy body of mine. Sometimes the balance just seems so wrong; swans were not meant to spend a lot of time walking around on dry land, but to tell you the truth humans don't seem to be much better at it. Plus this new body can't swim all that great, and it certainly can't fly.

Still, there are good things. Like cherry tarts. It's pretty good to have those again. And hugs. I like those, although people seem to think there's something not quite right about a fully grown man wanting to hug his parents all the time. But I don't care- I remember bobbing on the lake at night, and all I wanted was for my mother to kiss me goodnight. So now that I can have that again, I'm not going to let any court gossips stop me. No sir.

***

I was only three years old when my sister was born. Only three years old when the curse came down on my eleven older brothers and I, forcing us to take literal flight. Which, if you do the math, means that I spent six times as long in swan shape as I did in boy shape. Is it any wonder I cannot feel comfortable as a man?

Of course, the single wing I bear in place of a right arm might have something to do with it, as well.

My family pities me- they think I am deformed because of this wing, less than whole. I am the unfulfilled prophecy. What they don't understand is the wing is the only piece of me I have left- it's the rest that feels like a deformity.



*************

(Note: this ties in to this entry, as well as being inspired by today's photo)

(Gaggle)

(Yes, I realize they're geese and not swans. Hush.)

Living Ink

Once, in my youth, I found a magical pen. It was a pen that would write the true story, past, present, and future, about anything- anything- you just had to dip it in the right ink. And there was no telling what the right ink was for any given object. It might be a romance in puddle of rainwater, or maybe a mystery in a few drops of whiskey. You never knew what kind of story you'd find, when you dipped your pen.

Well, that's not strictly true. It was pretty easy to find the right ink to write a biography: each and every one of us carries our own in our veins. But that's what led to me giving up the wonderful, terrible pen. Long before that happened, back when I thought it merely a sort of mystical toy, I tried dipping my pen in a rainbow, and learned the true story of the creature that men called Iris...


(Living Ink)

Happy August, By the Way

I'm stumped for what to write about tonight. Although I enjoyed Nathan's photo, it didn't really inspire a story seed. And although part of me is tickled as hell at the fact that someone came across my blog by googling the term "impossible cock", I can't find much of an entry in that, either (although Nathan pointed out that I could write about "plausible cocks" instead, which is kind of tempting... you know, totally believable roosters. Might be boring for non-chicken fanciers, tho'.)

Anyway.

The past few days just absolutely flowed from my fingers to the screen, with very little effort on my part. I assume it's because I was writing about surfing, and I've never had any difficulties writing about surfing, or feeling inspired to write about surfing. It may just be that my true calling is a journalist for a surfing magazine. Maybe I ought to submit something one of these days... I've got quite a bit to choose from, and most of it's pretty damn well written.

Maybe the trick isn't so much writing what you know as writing what you love.

Of course, if I stuck only to that rule you'd end up with endless variations on the theme of Nathan's beard, and nobody wants that. Well, Ben, maybe.

Also? It was 102 in Birmingham today, never mind the heat index (which was like 118). We're under an "excessive heat warning" through Thursday. And no convenient ocean to jump in. Bleh. Come on, Universe! Let's align on some fabulous PNW jobs...

Parameters

Back when I lived near Portland I drove out to the coast just about every single Thursday to go surfing. Two hours to get there, two hours to get back. Assuming traffic is good. So that’s a four-hour round-trip, for anywhere from two to eight hours of surfing, depending on conditions and how quickly/badly I injured myself (there was this one time when I was pretty sure I’d broken my arm- fortunately I hadn’t, but it did bring my surf day screeching to a sooner-than-might-be-desired halt). Sometimes I’d only catch one good wave all day long, but I always, always felt it was worth it.

Today Mom and I made the drive back to Alabama. It took me about nine hours to get home to Birmingham. So that was eighteen hours of driving (although Mom did relieve me for two of them) for about six hours of surfing, during which I had maybe five truly good rides. Also I spent three nights sleeping on a floor with a sheet, which is not the ideal sort of rest for sore muscles.

Worth it?

I’d have to say yes. But I’d have to say it with the sort of hesitation that comes from waking up to an ankle you hadn’t realized was sprained until it stiffened up during slumber. Yes with the sort of hesitation that comes from being exhausted as hell after driving longer than you’d normally have spent working. Yes, it was worth it, but no- I couldn’t do it every week. Or even every month. But definitely more than once every two-and-a-half years. So I guess that gives us an idea of the parameters of my devotion.

To tell the truth I have a bit of fear in my belly, now that I’m back. It was so joyful to be surfing again (especially yesterday’s experience) and I have that joy still racing through my bloodstream, buoying me up. But the flipside to that is that I’m dreading the gradual loss of the joy. The way it will inevitably drain away and I will have to go back to longing for it. And not being able to have it. And crying because I miss it so badly. And I know I shouldn’t think about that- I should focus on the now-happiness rather than the coming-despair, lest I taint the Now, but it’s hard.

Hubris

I did not get up early to go surfing all by my lonesome today- instead I managed to coax some companionship in return for a promise to let them sleep in. As such, it wasn’t until just before 1500 that I hit the beach with my mom and aunt (the girls elected to nap- darn screwy teenage circadian cycles). It turned out for the best, however, because the waves were far superior to those I was dealing with yesterday.

Of course, first I had to make the appropriate sacrifice to the Oceanids. Remember all that smack talk from yesterday about gentle waves and being able to surf with my sunglasses on? Um, color me hubristic. I went leaping into the water for a little pre-surf frolic whilst wearing said eye protection, and guess who Took Their Due. Yup. So I forfeited my sweet shades in return for some truly surf-able waves. I’d call that a damn good return on my investment.

Mom and Steph elected to watch my performance from the relatively safe confines of their beach loungers, and I’m pleased to report that I gave them something worth witnessing on my first attempt. Beautiful, perfect, lovely wave that I caught and rode like someone who actually knows what they’re doing. I even stepped gracefully off at the end, rather than my typical hapless bailout (from whence the epic bruising on my knees arises). So that was pretty fantastic, and they cheered, their mental preconception of my Surfing Prowess confirmed. I, of course, knew from previous experience that I had just officially blown my Talent Wad on the first wave of the day, and that from there on out it would be nothing but hilarious mishaps. I didn’t have the heart to shatter their illusions verbally, however- I knew my subsequent performances would eventually get it across.

No really- I wasn’t that pathetic. But I did pretty much hit my peak on that first wave. Plenty of flailing and falling and “I guess I’ll just surf this one on my knees as though I intended to flub the pop-up,” ensued, but Mom and Steph continued to be convinced that I was truly Epic. Bless their biased little brains.

There were a few other surfers out there with me, running the gamut from raw beginners to effortless artists. I was disappointed to find that the surfing culture does not, in general, appear to be as friendly as that which I’d grown accustom to in Oregon. I expressed my sadness at this to Mom, and she pointed out (and rightly so) that to be a surfer in cold-ass Oregon waters you have to really love surfing- you get out there to do it because you’re dedicated to it, and you’re necessarily stoked to meet anyone else with that same level of love and dedication (and okay touch of insanity). In Jacksonville people can afford to be sort of “Meh,” about surfing, because they can do it pretty much whenever the hell they get a whim- they live on the beach, and it’s warm all the time, and the waves trend towards the very-easy-to-catch (my latter performance notwithstanding). So the ratio of rude-holes is bound to be higher.

Still. I can’t help but be a smidge resentful that people take what is to me a great and joyous spiritual experience and turn it into an occasion to be an off-putting jerk. Now I guess I have an inkling of what a lot of my Christian friends experience on a regular basis…