Elementary, My Dear

I am a little ashamed to admit that I haven't bothered to clean out my bookshelves since I was around 13. This means most of my childhood companions are still on the shelf - The Penderwick Sisters, Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry, White Ruff, The Trumpet of the Swan, Chasing Vermeer - all along those lines. I can't visit the library as often as I like, which means I frequently revisit these bookshelves. The stories are still as good as I remember, and there are constantly little bits that I read that I don't remember reading the first time. That's one of the best parts of rereading, right? You get to find new sentences you skimmed over last time. I still find new parts in my Harry Potter books, and I've thoroughly canvassed those. Thoroughly.

And yet, while most of them present unchallenging topics, I pulled from my shelf two days ago a book that was surprisingly advanced for its book cover and length. Super surprising, because this is one of those that I've reread many times - maybe five or six times? - and I've never picked up on so many subtle themes before. Is it my age? Am I finally "mature?" I can't believe that was the reason - I remember thinking nearly the same as I do today as I did back when I was thirteen, and yet even I can't help feeling a little condescension towards those in their early double-digits.

But I digress.

This book is called The Shadow Guests, by Joan Aiken. The last time I read it was, oh, maybe two years ago? Back when I was still a sophomore. The basic plot (I'm trying so hard not to spoil) is that Cosmo Curtoys (pronounced 'Curtis' - Cosmo's a stickler about that) moves from Australia to England to stay with his Cousin Eunice, a mathematician. While there, odd occurrences happen and he discovers that he is part of a family that has a curse upon it, one that dates back to when the Romans began taking over what is now the U.K.

A pretty typical plot, very predictable, but that's not why I've brought it to light. Concentrated in the middle of the book are a lot of theories about mathematics, space, time, that sort of thing. Here, have a quote:

"I began to wonder why their maths was getting better and better but also wilder and wilder - they seemed to be grasping concepts that I'd have thought were far out of their reach; and then I went out to dinner with the local Laird and his family, and when I got back the students and the whiskey runners were having a great party, playing sardines all over the castle and hunting in the dungeons for the square root of minus one, which somebody swore he had seen down there." 

 

It's not just the students grasping at concepts. Aiken mentions quite a few; I dogeared the pages that stood out the most to me. A lot are about bending time and space. It's along the lines of looking at stars as they were millions of years ago, and if there were living organisms on those stars/in those solar systems, they would look on Earth and see the volcanoes covering the surface, or the ocean forming for the first time, or maybe even the first of the Australopithecus. In short, concepts I skimmed over when I was younger.

"Can we affect what happens in other dimensions? Or can those happenings affect us?... I honestly don't see why not... After all, even if you just see a thing, it can affect you in all kinds of ways... Seeing a film can change your life. And if the sight of a thing can do that to you, then the sight of you can affect it. There's a theory, you know, that no experiment can be wholly detached and scientific if somebody is observing it. 'Dear sir, it is not at all odd/ I am always about in the quad,/ And that's why the tree,/ Still continues to be,/ In the sight of,/ Yours faithfully, God!' " 

 

Seeing a film, yes, that can change your life, but can you change the life of the film? Not likely, unless it was by your approval that it was hugely popular or your condescension that lowered the net gain of the company. So, you can change an inanimate object's life, but I don't believe the pure sight of you changes them. Not directly, of course. I suppose I see the reasoning behind the theory mentioned - as long as someone is putting on the pressure to do well, there will always be a bias. Doesn't mean I agree with it. I further researched that interesting phrase and found this page. By reading this I realized it's a limerick. Much more sense. Of course, this theory is only valid when it is given that God is real. Wait, no, there's always something somewhere. They make it seem that everything's under observation by God, but if you count beings that aren't sentient (like the film) then we are always under observation by those things too. No need for God.

"I chose to go off into the desert because I didn't choose to die in some stupid war... Wars are an outdated way of settling problems."

Why doesn't everyone else understand this? This has been my mentality since nearly forever; I remember my 8th grade English teacher showing all the boys in my class a form they had to fill out in case the Army et al ever recruited them when they were older, and thinking, I'm glad I don't have to ever be forced to go to war. This is one gender stereotype I'm moderately okay with.

Don't get me wrong, I 97.6% (there are always some people with questionable morals who enjoy it) support those that go to war to shield and defend their families, and even especially those who are drafted into a war where they aren't defending anyone, but forced to by higher powers. I've heard of the ways some people who don't support a war (mainly the Vietnam War) treat those that were a part of it. No matter the reason the war was fought, those soldiers still put their lives out on the line. It is inexcusable behavior to treat them with disrespect and contempt. The majority probably didn't even want to go into battle.

This being said, I still think there shouldn't be wars at all. Alas, I probably won't live to see those days, if they ever do come.

" 'How do you suppose that circles differ from triangles?'
  'Well, sir: triangles are all different from each other. But circles are all the same. You could put them all inside each other and they'd fit.'"

One of those things that are so blatantly obvious and yet is still somewhat of a mind-blower when you realize it.

" 'Ain't she smashing with her hair done so posh,' said Mrs. Tydings fondly, and Cosmo noticed that Eunice had her hair drawn up in a great silver-yellow sweep and looked quite like a model of a film actress - not in the least like a possible Nobel-prize winner."

 

Perhaps it's the feminist within me that cries out that it is unjust to think that a woman can be either smart or beautiful, but not both. I'm a little put off by that voice; to me it's whiny. Ah well.

Eunice had told Cosmo about ogham: It seemed a very useful and beautifully simple writing system, twenty different combinations of straight lines meeting each other; what a pity it was no longer used.

 

Here's everything: link. I wouldn't call it beautiful, but it is quite interesting. 

" 'Teach you? Wh-what am I supposed to teach you? Geometry - stuff like that?'
   ' Nay, no magic. I am a very plain fellow.' "

 

To think that geometry and simple maths used to be thought of as magical. If the twelfth century could see our age now. Or if we could see the thirtieth. 

All this and more in a book aimed at middle schoolers. And here I am, a high schooler about to go off to college,  learning new advanced maths in it.

Maned Wolf (Chrysocyon brachyurus)

How gorgeous is this thing? Deer-wolf!

It's been a while since I researched an animal/plant, so I want to resume with this guy. I can't stop looking at dem legs.

They aren't very big, only about 3 feet at the shoulder and 50 lbs. Theirs ears are quite long, about 7 inches, presumably to catch even the smallest sound. They have a reddish-brown coat with black points (muzzle, legs, ears - they're called points on a bay horse (as well as other colors), I took some liberties with transferring the usage). Their throats and the tip of their tails are white. The long fur on the back of their necks can stand on end, giving the appearance of a "mane." They live in Central and Southeastern Brazil, Paraguay, eastern Bolivia, and northern Argentina, in the open forests, savannas, and marshlands. They are omnivorous, eating small mammals, insects, reptiles, birds, bird eggs, fruits, and vegetation.

They're not completely endangered, per se, but they're a bit too close to the line for comfort. They don't have many natural predators, but need lots of open space to claim as territory. This necessity proves to be their undoing, as habitat destruction is spreading over their homes.

Fun Facts:

• They can tap the ground with a front foot to flush out the prey so they can then pounce on it. 
• Maned wolves are monogomous. Though males and females generally live solitary lives and come together only during  breeding season, they share defended territories. 
• The maned wolf is the only species in its genus.
• The maned wolf’s fox-like characteristics – the shaggy, white tipped tail and large ears – have earned it the nickname of “fox on stilts.” ACCURATE.
• They like bananas, apples, and avocados.
• Many are hunted because it is believed, in some parts of the world (probably Asia), that specific body parts contain magical healing properties. Gee, where have we heard that before? The magical western black rhinoceros, with it's all powerful "cancer-healing" horn, was declared extinct on November 6th, 2013 due to excessive poaching. The last one was seen in 2006. Seriously though! People are basically eating placebos made of ground fingernails!

Enough depression.

This song seems accurate for this post: What's My Age Again?, by Blink-182

Running Amok

As senior year goes on, I find myself caring, in various and wildly fluctuating degrees, less about what happens. Or more. As I said, it fluctuates. I'm drawing in more from strangers, and expanding my boundaries for close friends. One of my past posts, 10 Myths About Introverts, talked about common misconceptions of the socially awkward. But I want to draw slight attention to Myth #4: They can count the number of close friends on one hand. It's my senior year, I've given up on making anymore true friends, so I've just focused on strengthening the friendships I do have, because I fully intend on making the best ones last my entire life.

“It's not all bad. Heightened self-consciousness, apartness, an inability to join in, physical shame and self-loathing—they are not all bad. Those devils have been my angels. Without them I would never have disappeared into language, literature, the mind, laughter and all the mad intensities that made and unmade me.” Stephen Fry

Mad intensities? Do breakdowns count? And I don't think I'm at the point where those devils became my angels. Yep, they're pretty much still my devils. But I agree, "they are not all bad." I do not dislike the solitude I am often confronted with, but neither do I believe that I can go extended periods without contact. A book sort of meets in the middle - I am completely alone, physically, but am surrounded by fictional friends. A perfect compromise. So I guess I am, to some degree, thankful for my "devils" - they gave me the books I treasure so much.

 “Solitude is a chosen separation for refining your soul. Isolation is what you crave when you neglect the first.” Wayne Cordeiro

Isolation is... what you desire when you.... ah, ok, that one took me a bit to understand. Ok, sure, everyone needs their alone time to sit and be. I guess the reason that took me so long is that I dislike just sitting blankly without something to occupy myself with. Even when hiking, I am content to sit because I can listen. Here's a tip, if you're interested: if you close your eyes long enough in an environment with just enough noise, the world gets a lot closer, somehow, with none of the claustrophobia. I think it has a much nicer effect in a natural environment, but if you like concrete jungles better, hey, that's your thing.

“As the new work fills my notebooks, I've come to realize that the characters in my stories were so real because I really did want to get close to people, I really did want to know them. It was just easier to do it on paper, one step removed.” Charles de Lint

TRUTH.

I've done a lot of self-examination throughout my angsty teenage years, and I have concluded that, though I call myself introvert, I actually can't stand being alone. Isolation scares me, especially in a setting where it seems no one else is as alone as you are. I guess dealing with it has taken the form in stories. My protagonists are always perfect: strong, badass, the witty comment always on the tip of the tongue. Essentially, what I flatter myself to be a perfect me. The more I created ( I can't say wrote, I've rarely finished any of the stories), I realized that these were all Mary Sue's and that that was kinda bad. I try to create characters now with flawed choices and imperfect personalities. I guess I do create my own friends sometimes.

“You are the salt of the earth. But remember that salt is useful when in association, but useless in isolation.” Israelmore Ayivor

In all seriousness, I'm not quite sure what this exactly means. I think it might be dissing introverts, though. Sounds cool. Have it.

So this was basically an excuse to save interesting quotes I've compiled over the span of a couple days. I'm tired.

Here is evidence of my imagination run amok.

A good song recommended by a good friend: Kryptonite, by Three Doors Down. The actual music video's a bit weird, in my opinion; if you truly want to see it, it's somewhere on YouTube.

Scattering of Stars

The stars are pitiful tonight.

Honestly though, when I was down south in Sequoia Natl. Park, I could barely make out the only constellation I recognize, Orion, because there were so many stars in between. And I could see the Milky Way. Faintly. Just barely there. But still, it's the first time I've ever seen just a hint of it, and it was gorgeous. The fact that I was surrounded by glittering snow both "above" and around can only add to the effect I was experiencing those nights.

It was a bit of a letdown coming back home. Hey, my eyes have to actually flicker to make out the next speck of light. Oh look, there's the big ol' neon orange city, glowing away. The one time I tried to take a picture of the stars in my backyard, with prolonged light exposure, three dots came through. Three. Really? Is this what we've given up for our beloved nightlife? The problem seems so much bigger than usual when you're right in the thick of it.

I don't want to rant anymore, not really in the mood. Jasmine hot chocolate does wonders for the mind.

---

I’m lying on some surface. I don’t really know what, but it’s something, because I can feel it beneath me. I hear a whooshing sound, so I must have ears. In opening them, I discover I have eyes. 

The first thing that registers is white: bright, blinding light. I squint and use the appendage at the end of my arm to shield the glare. Hand, I think dimly. This is called my hand. I wonder with vague curiosity where the memory comes from.

Once my eyes have adjusted to the light, I let my hand drop back down to the surface. Then I can’t do much more than sit paralyzed with stupefaction, because there are an infinite number of stars spreading above me, so thick I can barely tell one from the other. The great moon hangs off to the left, and I realize its light was what blinded me when I first opened my eyes. The stars cluster around it, swirling in thick streams across the heavens. 

A handy branch hangs next to me, and I lean on it, blinking around at the scenery. I see a jungle sprouting up not a hundred meters away. In front are these massive black lumps. I listen closely, and discern that the whooshing noises are coming from those lumps. Whatever those things are, they’re breathing. Like I am. One lump shifts, and the moonlight outlines a reptilian head, curled around its body. The whole thing is lying on top of a dirt nest.

 Dinosaurs.

 I don’t know where that word came from, but I know I have to get out of here. I stumble to my left, away from those dinosaurs, as if the moon were pulling me towards itself. I start to run, but branches still whip my face, scratch my arms, and finally one giant root trips me. I extend my arms, close my eyes, and brace for impact that never comes.

---

My eyes finally open again. I’m lying on a bed, with dirty linen sheets on top of me. The stars no longer hang above me; instead, I see dusty wooden rafters. Something clinks below me, and a voice mutters odd words. Carrots, lentils, celery. I sit bolt upright, because it’s a human voice. In flinging back the dirty sheets I realize I'm wearing even dirtier linen clothes. But no matter. I hesitantly climb down a rickety wooden ladder, turn around, and come face to face with the voice.

I'm standing in a wooden room. A small table is crammed into a corner, boxes of various objects are stacked haphazardly in another, and a fireplace with a mantle above it occupies the left wall. A figure with a spoon is stirring something in a pot that hangs on a hook above a fire.

Then something strange happens. Another image flashes above the homely one. The wooden room is now made of sterile metal. Instead of a small table, there is a sleek platform jutting out from the equally smooth wall. Instead of messily stacked boxes, there is a glossy silver filing cabinet, with one drawer open. And where the fireplace was, there is a countertop with random beakers and papers strewn across its top. The light comes from a fluorescent bulb on the ceiling. And the figure is in a stark white coat.  Instead of a spoon, it holds a syringe of clear liquid.

The image is gone as soon as it comes. I blink, unsure of whether I really saw that vision.

The figure turns, and I realize it’s a woman in a dirty print dress, with a stained apron tied around her waist. She smiles at me, and gestures to the table. I realize a bowl of food is sitting there, and just then do I realize how hungry I am. The food disappears.

The wind howls outside. I tell the woman I appreciate her taking me in, though I do not remember it. She smiles at me, the crow’s feet wrinkling around her eyes. I gather up my pack, put on a heavy coat she offers me, and open the door.

It is night out, and the moon sheds silver light on black lumpy haystacks, so much like those dinosaurs. The stars are still up there, but it seems to me a few of them have disappeared. I can actually make out the sky behind the lights now. I sigh, and take a step forward. 

---

Before I even open my eyes, I feel my body rocking back and forth. The movement is soothing for a little bit, and I keep my eyes closed and enjoy the sensation. There are clumping noises above me, though. The sound reverberates in my little area. I open my eyes, and see a flat wooden ceiling above me. Sloshing noises register in my ears for the first time, and I strain to decipher where it comes from. Everywhere, it seems.

I groggily swing my legs over the edge of the hammock-net I am lying in, and stumble towards the door at the opposite end of the stiff wooden room. The floorboards pitch me towards the door and before I can stop my momentum, I burst through the door.

I find myself standing in a short corridor, the air reeking of fish and smoke. There is a ladder at the right end of the corridor, with thick yellow light streaming in through the trapdoor at the top. Staggering and tripping all over myself, I finally make it to the ladder and pull myself up.

 The air up here is fresher, though the briny smell still lingers. The wind tears through my loose garments, and I shiver. Callous voices are shouting to one another, as people rush back and forth. The floor rocks under my feet again, and I grip the edge of a crate, staring, openmouthed, around.

 I’m on a ship. Thick timbers rise up like trees around me, their trunks heavily laden with ropes and rigging. Shadows cast by brightly flaming lanterns dance on the dark shapes. I’m facing the front of the ship, and I can see the prow ascending and dipping as it crests each wave. Barrels stand in groups here and there; one barrel has been knocked down by the ferocious wind, and a deckhand runs after it, slipping in the puddles of water.

 A stocky man swaggers up to me and asks me where I have been. Leaning back a little (he did smell rather strongly), I point down the trapdoor. He grunts and gestures toward one of the towering masts.

 There’s something about this man’s voice that differs from the woman’s. The cadence was off, the lilt was different, the accents stressed on different syllables. I just couldn’t place it.

I reach the mast and run my fingers across it, feeling the rough texture. I can count the stars above me with ease, but the black space between each glowing dot has grown bigger since I stepped out of that woman’s house however long ago. I squint at the stars, but the light from the scattered lanterns blinds me, and my eyes cannot adjust to the darkness needed to see those pinpricks of light. I peer carefully at the disappearing stars.

Fresh shouts split the air. I turn as a whistling sound comes toward me, turn just in time to glimpse a dark barrel, hung on a net of ropes, swing towards me. There is no time to do anything but stand and stare at the dark shape speeding towards me. In the split second before it hits me, my eyes catch the stocky man’s, and I see him with his hands above his head, his mouth open in a half shout. His eyes are wild.

The barrel caught me in the chest. I felt it crush my sternum, felt my spine curve around it, felt the briny air leave my collapsed lungs to make room for the unforgiving wooden boards. I fly, soaring backwards, my body a knife cleaving a path through the suddenly solid air. The lights speed away from me, then shoot upwards as I begin my fall towards the sea. The air scurries out of my way, and I hit the water with such force all the air I have managed to regain is pushed right back out again. My back screams dimly with pain, and I sink face up, the edges of my eyesight turning dim and wavery. I’m too surprised to obey my instincts to kick, to swim, to reach the air receding from my crushed lungs. I can’t do much more than think, there go the stars.

 ---

I don't, I- uffa.

At least I finished this one. It's time travel. That's all you have to know.

Seriously, I'm just sitting here, asking myself, where did this come from all of a sudden? I need a hobby. Well, one that I can carry out without a horse and an arena.

I'm going to stop explaining myself. Instead, I will share a song I found on Pandora, coming back from Sequoia. I had an irrational female connection with it, as in this song, quote-and-quote, "really got to me." Maybe it's hormones. 

The Script. "This=Love"