Synesthete

2004-07-11T02:18:00.000-07:00

*whimper*

What is WRONG with the world? I have gotten used to bad fiction over time, especially after I joined the GodAwful Fan Fiction message boars. I have read some pretty depraved stuff there (linked to and commented upon, not posted - we're not sick). But this... this... insanity. Why politicians? Why politician slash? Just, why?

Thank god (figuratively speaking) for stupidity

2004-05-18T13:12:00.000-07:00

"We are not talking retarded people here, but a couple who were brought up in a religious environment who were simply unaware, after eight years of marriage, of the physical requirements necessary to procreate" i.e. actually having sex.

It's not only amusing but good for the environment and for the gene pool. Finally, religion which traditionally accelerates overpopulation does something beneficial, even if unintentionally. And anything that discourages fanatics from breeding is allright with me.

Spring Game at OSU

2004-05-17T00:30:00.000-07:00

Daniela: Who are those peppy, Type-A people running with the flags?
Sanjay: They have to be peppy. They are the cheerleaders.
Daniela: Oh.

Now This Is Insipid

2004-05-16T13:40:00.000-07:00

U.S. athletes told to cool it at Olympics - The Washington Times: Nation/Politics - May 16, 2004

And here.

How is celebrating a victory at a sports events a sign of "jingoistic behavior"? Especially if athletes at said sports event are actually meant to represent their countries? And, generally, what the hell?

So, it appears, people with genuine reason to celebrate the country which has given them so many opportunities in life and in sport (oh, it has, go live in Eastern Europe for a year and then oppose me on this point), are not allowed to do so because others before them fucked up in so many different ways.

Methinks, some are trying to play the poor, oh-so-great, and so misunderstood American and are drumming that throughout the press. And the U.S. Olympians are suffering as a result. "Humble pie", my ass. Mentioning humble pie in an article which mentions how all else but Americans should be able to celebrate triumphs as they please (and of course, the "Osama, Osama!" idiocy in Mexico), smells a lot like passive-aggressive mentality on the press' side.

Of course I think, *gasp* surprisingly, that this will incite a backlash throughout the U.S. I don't know if this is the result the U.S. Olympic Committee is looking for but they'd be stupid not to expect it. The question is, what exactly are they trying to do?

Edited to Add:
You know, as a European, I resent the implication that seeing a U.S. athlete celebrating a win draped with the stars and stripes would somehow make me hate America. Heh, if the Repurblican environmental policy hasn't done that so far, nothing will.

Should I ot Should I Not?

2004-05-15T15:52:00.000-07:00

See it...the video... You know which one I am talking about. Most of the people I know have seen it. Even cautious Rashmi from whom I would not have expected such thing (she said she saw it by accident). I have read every single piece of news and speculation I could get my hands on ( this being the latest). But I still cannot make myself click on that particular link that says "Nick Berg video".

My fingers were twitching, you know. Over my laptop at home. I nervously ran my thumb over my lips and planted it thoughtfully between my teeth where it stayed until it wrinkled just behind the red line left by my incisors and still could not left-click. I right-clicked though. Read the properties.

I do know that when I see it I will cross some sort of a line. Stylized TV violence cannot inoculate one to the organic experience of watching a real murder (despite what many might say). And knowing that person in the orange overalls is really dead and you cannot do anything about it. Video as a media is evil that way. It combines immediacy of experience with temporal remoteness in a most frustrating way. I know I will be different both for seeing it and for choosing to see it.

Not that I have a lot of faith in people to be afraid of losing. In fact, crazy environmentalist that I am, I believe people as a whole have fucked up most everything they have gotten their grabby little hands on. But that is a tangent too long for the topic at hand. The feelings involved here are more complex for the simple explanation of misanthropy or of humanism.

I know I will remember the day thirteen year-old me dicovered my best friend lying in the back yard, the only thing moving about her the flies in her fur and the fly I chased off her eyelid before I covered her with a blanket. Or the withdrawing light in the eyes of my dalmatian, Lisa who had run after me on my way to school and been hit by a car; the asshole fled in his shit-colored cheap car without an offer of help. Even the little gecko squashed by the log I had dropped when it startled me and its tiny little caviar eye popped out which I tried to push back in but it didn't help any. Then again I just remembered these without any visuals so that must not be it.

The problem is I might discover myself akin to both killers and victim. I don't want to see the fanatics bumbling about, or scratching themselves, or burping, or displaying any gawky behavior which could betray them as corporeal members of my species. I don't want to be forced to feel the primal fear of the hostage, and I know I will if I see the video. On the other side, I might be able to extract some insights about myself in the context of my belonging to a species capable of such depravity.

In any case, I know humans are adept at killing and being killed, so watching the video won't be about anything but self-discovery. That is, you see, why I am so hesitant.

Ann Coulter - bloody hell?

2004-05-13T23:21:00.000-07:00

Scoobie Davis Online

Seriously, I know that the question of what exactly is wrong with that woman has been discussed over and over but I just can't even begin to fathom her motives. My newest theory that that she is secretly a liberal and behaves like a schizophrenic spider monkey, flinging her feces at anything that moves in a tangled plan to discredit the republican way of thinking. Please, oh God, let it be so. Just so that humanity might have a future.

General TV gripes

2004-05-10T12:10:00.000-07:00

Why is it that most people in ads are people with whom one would never want to be associated? And would never, ever, eh-ver want to be? When did a new race of boundlessly idiotic and criminally selfish people maniacally munching on McDonalds and drolly downing Diet Cokes all the while fanatically focused on Football games evolve on TV? When did we go from enjoying the impishly happy to idealizing the nafarious self-serving?

The problem is farther reaching than a few (or not-so-few) TV ads. Everywhere I listen in on a conversation or do some of my trademark people-watching (oh, I do that, mea-fucking-culpa) I notice this incredible sense of entitlement, this self-granted license to ignore any consideration of our social and physical surroundings.

It usually starts with a declaration/complaint and a martyr sigh:

"I walked for two miles this afternoon, I..."
"Have had a trully awful day, I..."
"My life has been so hard, I..."
"I haven't had sex for so long, I..."
"He fucked up with my brain, so I...

And the second part:

"...can afford a (insert name of a pastry)."
"...deserve to win the lottery."
"...have earned a new liposuction."
"...deserve a weekend off."
"...needed to blow off some steam."

See if you can mix and match.

Now, all these can be legitimate complaints but it's the second part I have a problem with. People expect to receive immediate and tangible gratification from some invisible entity: God, Goddess, Destiny, Karma, or Mother Nature as a reward for their misfortunes. And that is fucked up. Life does not work that way. Life does not reward you. Ever. Anything good that happens is either a coincidence, or a result of one's actions. The latter being almost as random as the former.

...

Next: Can an unhappy child become a radiant pageant contender? The Swan

Eyridice

2004-05-09T20:28:00.000-07:00

I was not really drawn to him, as he would later sing in his melancholy couplets. That I met him when I did was of my own doing.

The leaves were changing color and everyone was out picking, hunting, harvesting anything that could be harvested in preparation for winter. Housework was commonly neglected and long shreds of spider webs drooped from our ceiling beams. "You'll hang yourself on one of those," grandmother would say plucking each as she found it.

Tired of being around people, especially my cloyingly cheerful friends, I felt a tickle of irritation spreading from my groin to my chest each time a spontaneous outburst of laughter shook the heavy air around. That day, I told my mother I was going by the Eye Lake, the closest of the seven Rhodope lakes to gather herbs. If she disapproved of my going off in the middle of the great harvest she did not say anything. Vexation did not hide well in me.

The familiar climb to the lake slowed my thoughts and I relaxed my jaw. Soon the sounds of the forest disappeared into a strange song coming from the nearest lakeshore. I reached the small clearing atop the peak and saw him. He was so concentrated and seamless it seemed he was teasing not the lyre itself but the air around it. The song was something plaintive about love, the words themselves trite, but all the forest, every creature inside listened to him in silence. As for me, every string felt as if it were attached to my flesh and, when plucked, tore it painfully apart. My stomach turned over. The song stopped, he got up and I noticed he was a young man, thin, and hunched over ever so slightly. He was rather mousy looking.

"You are Orpheus."

"That I be." He tried to hide the smile, which gushed under his face. "You know me?"

"We have all heard of the man who charms beast and nature alike with his songs here. I am Eyridice from the town of Erikstes. Pray stay the night with us. We are in the middle of a harvest and your songs would be a welcome respite from the hard toil of the season."

Without a moment's thought he accepted my invitation, gave a belabored speech about his gratitude, and followed me down the mountain and into the town.

-*~*-

The arrival of so celebrated a song master interrupted the harvest, for everyone wanted to be close to Orpheus, hear Orpheus sing, watch Orpheus relieve himself in the nearby groves. And the bard reveled in the town's attention. His ballads became more wistful and tormented with each passing day. He sighed and his breath turned into song upon leaving his lips. Soon melancholy fell upon Erikstes like fog. The young brooded on the streets, shoulders folded in. Lovers readily accused one another of wrongdoing. The elders sang shakily of loss and despair.

When the moon grew from a sickle to a cat eye Orpheus announced his decision to leave the town and head for the sacred Kogaionon Mountains on the following day before the Eriksteans gathered in the center square. Women who had received his attention, and they were not few, wept openly. I noticed my sister's eyes darkening and suddenly realized she was grown up.

"You could not have fallen for his act."

Her eyes narrowed in my direction.

"Don't be a hypocrite. I have seen you listen to Orpheus's songs gaping-mouthed yourself. You are only happy because once he leaves people will be asking your stories again. Then you can play reluctant and let them praise you until they tire before you tell a story."

I shook her criticism off.

"That his songs hold a sway over people, I cannot dispute. That so many women have caused him grief is hard to believe. Look around you."

"All those are but girls caught up in the crowd's emotions and emotion is too fleeting to be love."

"And you think you are different? You have witnessed nothing but his misery. You cannot base a complex feeling on a single trait. And if he is naught but misery…"

"Better to live with a misery than with anger."

Slowly she let herself smile and we both broke into a laugh.

"I am angry because you are always an irritation."

"True, though I may not be an irritation for long now."

Shading my eyes from the sun with my hand, I tilted my head questioningly.
"I cannot tell you now but I promise you will be the first to hear tomorrow," she said.
I did not pursue an answer. Bendidora, gift of Bendis, was as clandestine as the moon Goddess after whom she was named. If she said tomorrow, there was no way I could find out today.

My father found her wandering empty-eyed near the city walls the next morning. She could not say a word, nor did she speak since. Instead she shook her head from time to time and hummed something happily to herself. The priest of Bendis said the Goddess has taken her gift back because we had not performed the necessary sacrifices after the great harvest but did not say what we had to sacrifice. So I helped my father slay our entire herd over the altar of Bendis while my mother poured ceremonial libations from gold rhytons over the smoldering animal flesh. We offered so many sheep and cattle that scavengers fed upon the remains for an entire moon.

After Bendidora was buried we saw that we had nothing left but our winter reserves and the sympathy of Eriksteans. I thought this a suitable time to announce my decision to leave the city. I wanted to go after Orpheus. A girl had disappeared in the same evening as my sister and was never found. The bard had left the following morning. "One is Gods' doing, two – a coincidence, three is a pattern," I remembered my grandmother's words. I needed to know what had happened to my sister. My parents had not the strength or will to protest. For the last two moons their vitality had drained away as if it was their blood that had flowed from the slit throats of our cattle.

I packed a spare set of hardy clothing. My mother and grandmother competently rubbed salt into a large amount of our stored meat, expertly pressed it into a rather small and surprisingly heavy bag (and would I please not travel the forests at night, especially in a snowstorm, and might I bother to talk reverently to my elders, and how could I be doing this to them after all they have gone through this year). I exhaled with relief when I threw the two bags over my shoulders and stepped out of the city walls and into the forest, the chorus of my family's goodbyes chanting in the distance.

-*~*-

Luckily, the day I had chosen for my departure was cool and sunny. The crisp air was starting to smell of snow and snow made me happy. I had but a day's walk to the city of Apros located in the central lap of the Rhodope Mountains but I had more than halved the distance by noon. In the afternoon I slowed down, enjoying the feel of pines brushing against my outstretched hand. Even though I wasn't hungry I took a strip of meat out of my bag and thoughtfully chewed upon it for the longest time. The salt which seeped into my mouth made me thirsty and I stopped by the river whose bed had carved my path for a drink. Untying the pigskin laces I took my shoes off and cautiously dipped my feet into the biting water. A corpse laid just a few paces downstream, long hair billowing in the water. With my eyes fixed on the body, I patted the bank around for my shoes, grabbed them and backed away.

I ran the length of four stadia through the forest before I stopped; my feet now dry and scratched. I set my back against a flat rock with my chest heaving and quickly put on my shoes. Under me, Apros was visible though still faded out in the distance. Shepherds and goatherds headed up for the last remaining patches of grass greeted me by and I felt safe enough to slow my pace and brush off the twigs and pines from my back. My face was probably feverish as I felt cheeks burning and eyes dry but the physical strain had organized my thoughts. Rhodope Thracians were dark-haired and green-eyed, precious few had the pale hair I had seen waving in the water…and the icy water was known to preserve fruits and meat without a trace of decay for entire seasons. Even though I had not seen her face, I knew who the dead girl was.

-*~*-

The sun was just retiring for the day when I walked through the fortified walls of Apros. The city was larger and far richer than my hometown and, consequently, the target of many failed invasions both foreign and neighborly. I walked to the gate of a large and well-kept estate and offered my stories in exchange for a shelter and some dinner. I was quietly ushered into a crowded dining hall where the floors were slick with wine and littered with what I took to be food. The wine was decanted with Bacchic flourish and soon my gregarious neighbors on the small table I was seated became rather animated. I used the opportunity to guide the conversation to Orpheus and his stay in the city.

"Orpheus, a good man. A good, good man," the greasy-haired man on my left assured me. "Very talented."

"Indeed," I said. "I have walked from far away to hear Orpheus sing. I learned he was headed to Apros and came in search of him."

"Very sad his songs."

"Hey, you're a woman," the man across the table shouted. I held my breath for his stank of exceedingly fermented alcohol and rotting food most of which was deposited between his teeth. "Tell me why you all hate Orpheus."

"I hate him not. I have come a long way to hear his songs." My protest went unheeded since he was already busy accusing the servants of offering him watered down wine.

"Do you…" I tapped my neighbor on the shoulder. "Do you know where Orpheus was headed?"

"Beos. A small town between Rhodope and Kogaionon. Good man, Orpheus. Very talented. No, Orpheus. I was talking about Orpheus," He shouted in the direction of the woman who had opined that the bard presently entertaining the family of the house was as melodious as the rotting bowels of a dead bitch.

I turned to my other tablemate.

"Has it been long since he left?"

"Orpheus? It has been but half a moon. He stayed in Apros for a whole moon, entertaining our ruler Zalmoxis and his guests. I heard he kept one of Zalmoxis's long-limbed daughters very entertained in fact." He laughed at his own joke and threw a chicken bone at the dog which was sniffing for scraps nearby.

-*~*-

As Beos was much farther away, I left with a group of merchants heading for a large city somewhere beyond Kogaionon. Snow covered the entire mountain and I cursed it rhythmically as I waded, step after step after burdensome step. After many days traveling through the hushed, luscious pine forests, we came by a small settlement of no more than a dozen black cottages. As we approached we heard a wailing and saw an elderly woman, not more than forty years of age tearing her clothes and beating her chest in the familiar custom of mourning. Used to the disinterested weeping of professional mourners, I was strangely irritated by the wretched undulation in the woman's voice. The scowling people gathered around told us a hunter had just found the body of her daughter frozen black in the snow.

We fled the village very early the following morning and walked quietly on. Over time we passed a number of small communities, stayed the night after replenishing our food and drink supplies, and left. When we all grew weary of conversation I told stories of gods, and titans, and heroes. Once we reached Beos, I thanked the merchants for their protection and friendship and we exchanged warm farewells for they had grown as accustomed to my stories as I had to their company.

-*~*-

The city appeared to be larger than I was told it would be. Enjoying the sight of the myriad people strolling by busy in conversation I sat on a small bench by the city wall and drank the last of my wine. Once I warmed up, I got up, brushed off some of the dust deposited by travel and smoothed my clothes somewhat. Despite that, I must have looked a mess judging by the disdainful looks of sympathy in the faces of the servants of the estate where I spent the night. Since I had arrived around midday I was not invited to eat in the hall but instead shown to the kitchen and allowed to eat as much as I deemed necessary.

As busy as the servants were in preparing the dinner feast their mouths kept busier chatting about the famed Orpheus, who was invited to the feast with his Beotian host, some influential member of the ruling family. I asked for a bucket of water to clean my face and hands and changed into my clean clothes but unwilling to see Orpheus that evening, I stayed in the kitchen for dinner, entertaining the cooks with the story about the Thracian king Tereus who raped his wife Procne's sister and cut out her tongue. Philomena, the sister wove a tapestry of her woes and showed it to Procne and the two swore revenge. When I reached the part where the sisters cook and serve Procne and Tereus's son to the king, the servants gasped and involuntarily glanced at the two boars slowly roasting in the fire. Basking in their attention I continued with the bloody story of Medea and the tragedy of Tantalus both of whom had killed and cooked their own sons. I finished off with the story of Kronos swallowing his children to prevent them from taking over his throne. Morbid stories always commanded more attention.

While being shown to my room, I passed by the dining hall, which was uncharacteristically quiet save for the mournful voices of Orpheus and his lyre. The song rang in my ears throughout the night.

I had not thought of what I was to do once I found Orpheus. I could certainly not approach and question him about three dead girls. For a while I bid my time and followed him around, one of many who did. For days he did nothing but stroll around the city sighing and glancing at the beautiful women with sad limpid eyes.
At the end of winter Orpheus announced he was heading for the temple of Bacchus located in the lap of the Kogaionon Mountains for the Spring Bacchanalia, which drew hundreds of worshippers. He left the next morning, as did I.

-*~*-

And a beautiful morning it was. The sunrays stalked the last patches of mud drying them right before my feet. I could just see the bard's white peplum gleaming between the emerald oak branches. I swerved off the road to relieve myself as all the wine consumed in Beos was making me quite restless. I took a little long so I was surprised to see white fabric disappearing behind the trees ahead when I got back on the path. I continued down until the road broadened to a small expanse, surprisingly occupied by Orpheus and a young girl whom I had seen around Beos. Hidden behind the trees, I could not hear what they were discussing but saw her pick a small, seemingly heavy bag and follow him along.

And so they walked until the sun dove behind the distant blue peaks at which time they left the road in search of a place to stay the night. Myself, I chose a place not too far from them hidden in the shrubs, deposited my bags, and crept back until I found a suitable vantage point. I could see Orpheus pick up his lyre and begin a song. The girl was lying on her side with head propped up on her left hand, her face expressionless in its concentration. When he finished the song, he placed the lyre carefully on the rock beside him walked to the girl and knelt beside her. She smiled at him; he smiled back, covered her face with his right hand, and slit her throat with the left.

He had not done it well because she thrashed about for some time, her blood flowing black in the moonlight, while he slashed indiscriminately trying to make her still. Finally succeeding, he walked back to his lyre and picked it up and sang of the story of Bendis who died and was reborn as a goddess and a consort to the Horseman God. When the song ended, he propped his head on a bag and fell asleep.

I looked down at my body hunched in the shrubbery, shivering in the cold, unable to look away from the two listless bodies in front. I tried to will it to crawl quietly back to the place I had chosen for sleep, take the bags, and run back home, but it wouldn't. I fell into a dreamless sleep from which I awoke when the first rays of the morning sun tickled my eyes. For a while I lay still, drawing small staccato breaths, trying to recognize the strange feeling in my stomach. Then I remembered last night's events and turned around to inspect Orpheus's camp.

The bard must have been worn out by the previous evening's effort for he did not wake until the sun was high in its day path. I had crept back and returned with my bags and was now curious to see what he would do. When his eyes opened, his head lifted up and turned to look at the girl and then, disappointed, fell back beside his body. With an irritated sigh, he got up and knelt beside the body, inspecting it for the longest time. I knew I should have eaten the moment my stomach growled its morning protest and Orpheus looked up from the body snapping his head up like a wolf whose meal had been interrupted. I was certain he had heard something but he calmly returned to his unceremonious inspection for a while before picking up his lyre and bag and walking off in direction of the road.

-*~*-

We stopped for a few days in Sevtopolis, a small but rather rich city about a dozen settlements away from the temple of Bacchus. Orpheus stayed at the palace of Seuthes the Seventh whose forefathers had built and ruled the city. I slept at one of the smaller estates close by. The day after we arrived, he was again determinedly prowling the streets beckoning the attention of citizens and non-citizens alike. In the afternoon he stopped in the center square, as he often did, and a lull swayed the crowd. He plucked at his lyre, tilted his head, and sighed. Then, I heard my name drip from his lips, sound by sound, and flinched mid-yawn. In disbelief, I listened to him sing about how he met and courted me, about a marriage and my death, and about my waiting for him in the shadows of the underworld. Clever. Though I could see him sighing sweetly in the middle of the crowd, I knew that if I turned around he would be there, knife in hand, beaming at me. I wondered just how long he had known.

But I followed him on in a sort of a desperate curiosity. His killings became more skillful as time progressed. Soon he was able to slit his victims' throats as expertly as I had once sacrificed my family's cattle at the altar of Bendis. Few times I caught myself being noticeably careless in my stalking but he never showed any acknowledgement of my presence.

Eumenes was the last Kogaiononian city on the way to the temple. I now knew that Orpheus never killed anyone inside a town he was visiting, opting instead to lure girls into leaving with him. We were greeted by a miserable weather and I decided I did not feel like following the bard around the city. Instead I stayed in for days and often entertained the daughter of my host with the stories of the Trojan War. The daughter, Erichtea, was a young thing, barely fifteen years of age and of a rather giggly nature. In the absence of her adoring parents, she clung to me in the most annoying way, repeatedly questioning me about my travels and all the marvelous (so she thought) sights I had witnessed. She would try to convince me to go follow Orpheus around with her and would always be disappointed upon my refusal. As irked as I was by her friendship and the close-knit atmosphere in the estate, I was disappointed when I heard Orpheus had announced (with great pomp, as usual) his imminent departure.

Why he chose Erichtea this time I was not sure. Maybe it was intended to prove something to me. Naturally, he knew where I was staying and who my hosts were. And the stupid girl bought his entire routine. I watched her follow him and watched him pretend to be surprised when she tapped his shoulder. He was never surprised. I watched him charm her misgivings away and lead her off the road when the stars woke up at dusk. I watched her bleed away in the moonlight like many before her.

I leapt out just as he was about to pick up his lyre and sing about the resurrection of his newest bride. He could barely defend himself for he was a scrawny thing; surprise and a sharp weapon the secrets of his success in killing. I left him bleeding and bruised next to the murdered girl and headed back home.

Much later I heard that he had been found barely alive and had been able to explain away the scene as committed by a vengeful god. The disappearances did stop, from what I could find out when merchants or traveling musicians from larger settlements passed through my city. At least no one disappeared while Orpheus walked back through the Rhodope Mountains, carefully avoiding Erisktes. He continued singing about loss and betrayal and the increasingly influential Orphic Mysteries initiated men in the theory of female inconsistency and treachery. I shrugged it all off, preferring to concentrate on all the reasons the happy people around me annoyed me so much.

First blog (redux)

2004-05-09T20:23:00.000-07:00

Woo-hoo. A new blog. Let's hope this one will be updated more often than my other journal (okay, journals). I am sure I will have something newsworthy soon. In the meantime, here are few of my earlier writings.

First blog

2004-05-09T19:20:00.001-07:00

Let's see how the layout's going.