Well, we had a joy-filled Christmas and now we're having a nice quiet Boxing Day. Of course, what's really cool is that we're going to the farm for dinner!
I was going to post a picture of my new Wa minority costume but Daddy hasn't uploaded it yet, grrr...
Oh, well. Have a nice Boxing Day, okay?
Except, you know, it's not Beta anymore. I just switched and I love it. It's great. And it's not too different, either.
I love to hear from you guys, but right now my commenting service, Haloscan, doesn't have official support for this. It says that it's coming, so I'm going to wait for a little bit. Thus, I've disabled commenting on my blog for right now. If you know me, you can send me an email. If not, I apologize for the inconvenience.
In the meantime, check out my cool new blog-works!
Okay, maybe not. But I have. And I'm not a big movie-person, at least not 'til we came here, so please pardon me, fans.
It happened like this. We were watching Singin' in the Rain and had stopped the movie after the studio dance sequence during which we decided we didn't like Gene Kelly's voice. Okay, Becky and I did. Oh, well. But as we stopped, we got to talking about the actors and actresses or something. The reason we'd stopped is that we were going to have popcorn. Anyhow, the conversation gets on Debbie Reynolds, and Daddy says, "Princess Leia's mom."
Okay. Now, I knew there were prequels out there where you meet Leia's mother, but I thought they'd come out rather recently, myself. So I said, "Wouldn't she be kind of old?"
"Not really."
"But, I mean, when did the Star Wars movies come out?"
"Oh, seventies, eighties--the prequels are more recent."
"So, wouldn't she be old?"
"What do you mean?"
"How old is Luke and Leia's mom in the movies?"
At this point, he finally gets it. "Oh--no. Debbie Reynolds is Carrie Fisher's mom."
So, not knowing much about Star Wars other than the first movie (A New Hope) at the time, I unwittingly mixed up Natalie Portman (who plays Leia's mom) and Debbie Reynolds (who is Carrie Fisher's mom). What next? Elaine Taylor and Julie Andrews?
I haven't written for awhile, but my grandma and my aunt are here so I want to spend time with them and/or make Micha's present, so I have no time to write. Sorry!
In the meantime, you can read the archived posts. Or check out something else.
Last night I fell asleep before I could hear "Dark the Night" by the
Crossing. You have not heard beautiful if you've not heard this. If
only my neighbors could play THAT, too. I just wish they'd play the
Russian song again. I have always associated it with a dance I did to
it at home one time, but suddenly this year I found myself listening to
the words and the music and the song just brought tears to my eyes, it
is so beautiful. I love to listen to it in the dead of night (we play
music to sleep by) when the space heater's off and I'm awake all alone
in a cozy bed and my thoughts wander.
Music changes associations with times. I don't think I'll remember
China per se with some of these Christmas-y selections, but I know I've
found secret places to visit with the accompanying music. I can picture
them without the music, but when I actually hear the music I am
practically transported there. For five seconds I can feel snow
crunching under my feet and see a quiet but beautiful and almost happy
graveyard from a Christmas movie (only it wasn't happy or peaceful in
the movie) while a bell sequence is going, and for three minutes I can
be in some nameless country in the dead of night, the sky clouded over,
except for a small cloud break out of which shines a star. Against the
sky is a steely tower with a flag waving in the wind, and a camel is
being prepared with finest metals, incense, and resins.
Or, for a few minutes my association ties still run deep, as I am
untangling lights and garlands and such in Grandma's living room. Ahhh,
much as I like it here, I know that once I can do that again my cup
will be brimful.
But it brims full here, in different ways. The joy of standing on a
high plateau among mountains with a tiny landing strip and a small
building with two waiting halls, standing in one, nose pressed against
the glass, watching the flow of heads for the two lao wai looking
utterly tired and lost but happy to be here at last. Or, if, this year,
I can't have that joy, I will have the joy of hearing my family's voice
in the hall, and see the sun-drenched, browning hills receive a new
regard in my eyes as I show them the wonders of my home.
Christmas is a time of joy, and a time of peace, and a time of love.
Every year it seems more wonderful (except, of course, occasionally a
"fallout" year).
Well, THAT was strange. I overheard a very familiar song from our
upstairs neighbors. But it wasn't QUITE familiar, you know, the way it
is when you hear a song you know from one artist with another artist.
Actually, that's what it was, I think. Balkanarama does some movie
tunes, and I think this was one of them. Either that, or it is a
cross-over from my mom's old Tetris games--Tetris being a Russian
computer game that played Russian music in the background. But I
distinctly can hear, now in my head, Eva Moon singing to that tune,
which she most likely would, if you know what I mean. Anyway, I have
neither knowledge of neighbors or language to ask if that was a CD or
if they are watching Russian (I'm assuming) movies. And they'd probably
think I was very strange, anyway.
Yesterday I wrote Haiku and discovered that it is a wonderful way to
veil your thoughts if you aren't bound by more than the five-seven-five
thing. No offense to the Japanese, but I think I'll probably take their
art and write on whatever subjects are at hand.
BLACK AND RED
Black and red color
Wild melody is calling
Wild rhythm cries, "Dance!"
Anyway, getting back to movie music, I am no fan of such unless it's a
VERY memorable score to a VERY memorable moment, or, in this case, if
it's done by some cool Balkan band and I dance to it. Enough said.
Hemming and hawing here. The new Blogger BETA sounds cool. I really would like to try it out. But you can't revert to the original blogger, and I don't want to take such a risk.
The only solution (besides forgetting my curiousity, of course!) is to create a new blog just to test it out.
Of course, that's just a waste of server space.
On a lighter note, Saturday was my birthday! I am now fourteen and still the center of the universe ;). When my dad uploads pictures from last night's party, I'll post 'em here. 
Winter Calling
Winter calls with varied breath
With a chill or with the sun.
With rain, or snow, or gentle dew
Or nothing wet at all
With drying hills
Or snowy fields
Or rain tossing through the evergreens
With browning leaves,
Or no leaves at all.
With chilly winds or warmer days
And nights seem always cold.
Winter calls with varied breath--
Dry, wet, snow.
Deep in Branches
I used to smell Christmas branches
And to do it, you have to bury your nose in the branches
(Being careful of the tinsel, of course).
And the eyes come along, too.
So when the branches don't smell I've learned to look
Deep in branches and past
All the glitter
And, sometimes there is where I'll find
The most radiant star.
Candles
One candle flickers
In the paling winter light
Bringing a promise of coming.
Two candles flicker
In the last fading light
Bringing a promise of love.
Three candles flicker
In the darkening gloom
Bringing a promise of joy.
Four candles flicker
In the deepening night
Bringing a promise of hope.
Five candles flicker
In the earliest morn
Bringing the coming of peace.
Actually, I don't know any swear words.
Balkanarama is playing at my favorite Balkanarama-venue this Saturday. And before you say: "What's so special about that?", may I remind you that I turn fourteen this Saturday?
Oh, well. What I suspected might happen did. Micha's birthday's on the eleventh, so we're having a joint birthday party. That'll be fun, I hope.
I hope Sherry comes on the hike on Saturday...:)
Matty Noble, Balkanarama's violinist, has been touring in Europe for ages, now. Will he ever come back? :( He adds so much to the music--he's a virtuoso at the violin. What I'd give to play that good!
Ciao for niao...
I think it's stupid not to cry (quietly, reasonably, in private, I mean). I mean, I was learning in science class that it's good for you. Of course after a good cry you're a miserable, snivelling hulk, but you feel strangely better.
But this is awfully strange. Last night I was feeling perfectly happy here, listening to Christmas music, and feeling like I could spend this Christmas perfectly happy here. I mean, part of what gets me through is knowing that it's temporary. I think maybe I could live longer than two years here or some other place, but I'd need to set it to two years, just think, it's only two years...hey, I could go for another one, but Christmas would always be hard. I'm wearing myself out coming up with new traditions and modifications of old ones, but that's what I like to do...why shouldn't I??? I'll get to rest come Christmas Day, and then I can see my success. Just like last year. It's the best way for me to spend Christmas.
Of course, now I know things. Don't play music of especial sentimental value until nightfall (when it actually looks like winter), don't get too hung up on stuff like that until then, and, finally, don't expect too much. I don't. I expect that once Grandma and Auntie get here and it draws closer to Christmas, things'll get very Christmas-y like they did last year. And, this time, I know I'll be happy even as they leave because I'm going to throw myself into everyday life that will be so restful.
Don't misunderstand. I'm really happy here even now and I also know what really matters in Christmas. But if there were no traditions, I would seriously celebrate Christmas sometime else...like in summer when it rains or something. Even in America, if everything traditional went out the window, well, Christmas in spring or something.
But why was I crying last night? I was happy. Everything was peaceful. My "depression" only sinks in when I try too hard at the wrong time of day or at night if I can't force myself to think of other things. In a little bit, the music shall become second nature again. After pretending to dance with the people in the song from Ghana (or Tanzania, I wish I had the liner notes with me!!!) or watching the snow, birds, and bells in that little interlude on the Fred Waring, I'll have to think of other things. But at night, awake, and not trying to sleep, or think, only to live and reading or something...I reread the Westing Game and it made me cry. And I was listening to Celtic music so beautiful you could burst. Heightened emotions here, I think.
But I love it when I have heightened emotions and I don't feel the need to express them, or I do in excessive writing, and no one stops me. It's a beautiful feeling.
Still, the Westing Game making anybody cry? I understand Return of the Jedi, but...the Westing Game...?
Please, nobody tell my dad about the baby water buffalo I got him for Christmas! He can't know. It's to be the best surprise ever!
And, for some of us--some of my extended family will know exactly what I'm talking about--it is the last day of the old year (not the calendar year). In Kunming we bought purple and pink candles and with some yarn and crochet hooks from a wonderful care package, I crocheted a circle of "greenery" (after a granny square, it was a cinch!). Tomorrow I shall set them up. Ah, my favorite time of year. And in a week...well, check the age on my profile in a week :)!!!
There's a really fun song on Atwater-Donnelly's latest CD (which we took with us completely, yay!!!) with the same title as my blog post. It is a really fun song. However, I have a runaway imagination, and so "Last Month of the Year" popped into my head as somehow being a very quiet, minor-key tune. Don't get me wrong--I love the real version. But nothing prevented me from writing some different words to this other tune I knew...
But actually, I decided I was going to stretch my storytelling skills a bit and tell a Native American legend about Mt. Rainier.
Extra! Extra! We interrupt this weblog for some important news. We, the Lao Wai Central--that is, the newspaper that reports on the strange customs and ways of the foreigners here in this little town, have been amazed at the way our foreigners acted today. We shall follow the American family at the college to see just what those foeigners are up to.
This morning, at 9:35 AM, our reporter, Guh Ja Di, saw the two girls in this family emerge from their apartment building, flushed and excited. The older girl had a folded piece of paper in her hand. She produced from her pocket a length of cloth (which she folded and tied 'round her sister's head) and a feather (which she put in the cloth to create a strange headdress). She did the same with a headband and another feather for herself.
Then they began their walk, giggling madly. They took the usual route to the Hua Shu and went through there to Qishan Lu. They crossed at the safest crossing, and then walked down to the newest apartment complex. They knocked on one door, still giggling madly. When the other foreigner opened it, they both said "Hah". The other foreigner (the one they call Kiana) giggled. Soon, more foreigners came and they commenced to painting stools with strange symbols abounding in orange and red and brown. "This is what we are thankful for," one of them said, when asked by the reporter what the heck they were doing.
The two girls skipped home and immediately went to lunch at the cafeteria where they ate vegetables that they say are good for preventing cancer. They seemed pleased with their lunch.
At 4:00 PM, the whole family set out with two other foreigners to the farm outside of here. There there were many people and everybody was caught up in the festivities. When they were asked what they were thankful for, they spoke of turkey, friends, turkey, China, turkey, Thanksgiving, turkey, happiness, and turkey. They also mentioned turkey. They are enamored with those birds, it seems.
All in all, they seemed to be very happy and celebrated quite a bit. Now, we ask you--what is it that foreigners celebrate that makes them so happy?
I have never wanted to be President or take a high political standing. Not only can I not stand politics, I just could not stand to have half the country think you're wonderful and half not or something like that. Also, being in charge of a whole country must be pretty tiring.
Still, I think there would be one nice thing about it...no, I'm not talking being in control or having a cool house (white) or a plane or stuff like that--I don't really care about that stuff (as I write this my family is not even in possession of a car, we're in a foreign country with no control over practically anything and in an apartment that is smaller than the first floor of our two-floor house!). But I think it would be fun to write proclamations for holidays.
My mom was just looking for this year's Thanksgiving proclamation, and that was actually the first time I'd ever heard about such a thing. It's interesting--to have to write all that in a manner that the whole nation would want to read it. And the whole nation might read it. Thankfully, to have this challenge and joy you don't have to be president (and thankfully, most people can avoid the job if they don't want to). If you write a book you want many people to want to read it and there might be a bunch of people from all fifty states who read it.
Oh, and thankfully there are people who seem to like being president or don't mind or whatever so that those who don't want to be president don't have to be.
Yes, I know Thanksgiving's on Thursday. I just like to be kind of "awares" of things to be thankful for most of the time (when I'm bummed I have to be plain old bummed first, before I can look on the bright side. Who doesn't?), plus, it seems so sappy to have to come up with things spontaneously when you're groaning from indigestion. I prefer to think about it, ponder it, and do it before the meal. You might be thankful for a lot to eat before the meal and still afterwards, but afterwards you might be too full to want to think about food.
So, aside from the obvious that you could probably list for me (e.g., food, clothing, food, family, etc.), here they are, in order:
Words
Books
Pencils
Keyboards (computer and musical)
Finale NotePad
Computer games (especially my new favorite, a science fiction one)
The fact that the Chinese people actually know how to cook vegetables, unlike most Americans (except they're tied in the potato department and Americans do tomatoes better)
I just realized that no one knows how exactly we spend our days. I thought you might like to know, so...
Monday, Thursday and Friday I wake at 7:00 or so and read my history over breakfast. Tuesdays and Wednesdays are the same, only I wake around 7:30. I then generally goof off until later in the morning, when I do science and English. Math is only for part of the year because the math curriculum is made for three or four times a week, instead of five. So I do five, skipping occasionally, so that around Christmastime my schooling will be light. Actually, to be fair, I don't do both science and English most of the time.
Twelve o'clock is lunchtime. We all go to the cafeteria and get some food there. Yes, it's Chinese food, but it's good for everyday. I generally get a vegetable, with or without rice, or noodles, topped with lots of green onions and crushed garlic.
After lunch Becky and I usually play or read until Becky's school starts and then I generally start doing the rest. After that I do other things until it's time to be "checked" (when it's really my schoolwork that's being checked, not me!). Then I have to pick up completely, and then I'm free 'til supper. After supper I'm also (generally) free.
Weekends are completely unstructured, which is the way weekends always should be. I mean, they may be structured to the hilt, but they're always different. Saturdays have a different flavor than Sundays, and we do a lot!
This week is as unstructured as a weekend, actually. Wednesday's a wedding, Thursday's Thanksgiving at the farm, and Friday is "do-school-early-pack-up-and-go-to-KUNMING!!!" day. How cool is that?
...my fair lady!
Yeah, I know, that's a weird way to announce that we saw a musical tonight. Can you guess which one? :)
Okay, this movie was okay...not great but not as good as I thought it would be. With a little bit of luck I might actually watch it again, you think?
I'll have to do some research and see if there is a plain in Spain that gets a lot of rain. Or, if I were to get really technical (spoiler warning!!!) how did Zoltan Karpathy "discover" that Eliza was "Hungarian". Hmmm... Zoltan Karpathy was funny, though.
Is it just me or does the style of hat that Eliza's father wears in the start of the movie ring a bell with anybody? It seems to me like I've seen it on folks in Seattle. But, then again, not since 2005 sometime, and here it is November 2006.
Oh, well. It's a fun movie. See it, but do yourself a favor and see it with subtitles...or in your primary language if at all possible...
P.S. I watched a musical and now I have "'Til There Was You" from the Music Man and "Papir iz doch vays" (sp?) from Folksongs and Footnotes by Theodore Bikel. No idea why...
I can make up so many jokes with that CD title from my favorite Celtic group. See, I have a favorite American folk music group, my favorite Balkan group, and my favorite Celtic group. If you aren't srict about initials it's A-B-C. If you are it's A-D-B-C. Whatever. Anyways, I made up a joke about finding people from the band dancing at the crossroads in a non-serious story* and telling the main character all sorts of dumb puns on their CD titles as they give her directions. This, unlike many of the strange people that wind up in non-serious stories, had no basis in reality--I have never met anyone in the band, unlike the other two. In all, by the way, I've met three people between the two but even that gives you a little more to work with. I haven't even seen this group live.
But I was just thinking about CD titles and how nice they would be as book titles (I always do) and I realized that there's another joke about "dancing at the crossroads"--my favorite Balkan group is impossible to sit still to, and the first time I saw them was at Crossroads mall in Bellevue (And I wasn't dancing, per se, but my feet were, and that sort of counts).
Yesterday, in desperation, Kiana and I got together to paint, though our teacher is all of a sudden a bit too busy every time a lesson comes up. Now, it could be that she all of a sudden had a work overload, or she could be putting us off. I suspect the latter, but mostly because Mum does so, too, and she's the best source of Chinese culture in my family. Of course, a Chinese person who was western enough not to mince words would be invaluable, but since you have to find a person, then become really close friends with them, and then take care of the rest, I'll stick to my mom, or another foreigner who's been here much longer than we have. Those are my best bets.
I didn't really know what to paint--so I started painting something from home. I enjoyed filling in every detail I could remember adn put down, though I did make the roof too dark, the windows too yellow, the sign too close to the main building, and skipped (intentionally) the "window boxes" that lined the walkway.
Then I decided that I would paint another picture (after a little break that involved a woman and her son and a duck going to America on a ship captained themselves, picking up some pirates who turned out to be Vikings and slept all the time, and finally sang a song about "Hey, hey, it's the New World!" In the middle of it, Kiana did something I used to do, and still do sometimes--sing prose to a very strange twist of melody like a recititave only singing it like an aria. And no rhymes. It was like I was playing with my past self for a minute). I didn't know what to draw, so I painted (contrary to watercolor style) a wash of the deepest, darkest blue I could mix, and then I painted a black hill, then I made a mix of green and black practically out of the tube and painted it on with very little water. Finally, I used white straight out of the tube to make the limbs snowy and the snowflakes falling fast. Ah, if only--sometimes I wish that we could live, not in Beijing, but in northern China where it would look more Christmas-y and we could have central heat. Oh, well, it's just an idle wish come Christmas and Easter time. Now, don't say that I haven't seen snow because it does snow in Seattle--every two years or so, a day or two in January.
Anyways, I now have got to work on Christmas presents--I have Daddy's practically finished, know what I'll make for the three women in my family, and am hopelessly lost on my sister. I asked her what she'd want and now I'm torn between giving my sister something she wants and would enjoy or doing less of a "sacrifice" but something she'd still enjoy. It sounds cruel, but everyone will understand when I tell them: She's awfully clingy and wants to sit on your lap and kiss you and hug you and everything and she won't get off even when we tell her to stop. I can barely stand it when I want to--I don't think a present has to be that much of a sacrifice. I am not selfish, I just don't think it will end the way she hopes (i.e. I'll be mad because I got into this, and she'll be mad because I promised and am not exactly keeping my word). Even though she said it wouldn't have to be Christmas Day...hmmm...maybe I could play EV Nova with her extra...?
I love to draw. In fact, I love to doodle more than I like to do practically anything else--it's right up there with reading.
I used to hate poetry and spending a long time looking at art, but now I like both, go figure. I also attempt to write poetry and paint nice--not stupendous--but nice pictures. I've found that if I'm really into a picture it has more life, more substance to it. Even if I decide I want to paint a picture of an animal (my worst subject) but I don't want to draw a night sky (now, they're easy), the animal will look better even though it's worse. You know what I mean?
Well, lately I've been looking at art and I am impressed with the symbolism in some art. In some it's blatent, and in some it's just little things you notice. I have a lot of respect for both, but more for the latter. Anyways, I once made up a little story-book (that I never finished) for somebody in my family with "blatent symbolism" in the illustrations. One page for each of our favorite bands, and a page for Star Wars, and a plain page. So. On the first page you have a very dumb book title (though broken up into CD titles it's perfect) How to Daily Grow in Simple Sentences (now, that's two CD titles, "Daily Growing" and "Simple Sentences"). The next page had some harder in-jokes about another band...the princess was playing a lute and singing with her eyes closed, there was a shoe on the table, the lady's-maid was sort of dancing, and one of them had sunglasses in her pocket. The fourth page was extremely dumb. The princess was wearing a white dress. Her dark hair was being coiled about her ears by the lady's-maid. There were two others, one reasonably tall and the other short and squat, in the middle of an argument. In the backround were a couple of crazed siblings swinging on ropes. Anyways, it was a way to pass the time, though the aforesaid family member never got it because it was taking too long and I needed something...
Anyways, great artists can do better than that, and I love looking for things like that in art. I think art is like a poem--which is like an onion, layers. No Shrek jokes, please. It is the outer skin and the heart which you must consider. And sometimes only the poet knows the heart.
That's what I like to do, though I don't do it very sucessfully. Take a private emotion and tell the world...but first, throw on so many veils that you can barely find it. And the veils change to emotion to something different, something beautiful.
Of course, it's easier to do in a painting, and a picture is worth a thousand words--but one must come up with those thousand words. So it's harder to be a writer...but more satisfying, in my opinion.
Anyways, I didn't mean to write this much, sorry. Have a good one
I just got into writing a short story (set in my latest favorite computer game, of all things) and realized that I am more suited to that than longer-length stories. At least for now. I have a million different stories I'd love to write, though, mostly set in a made-up time and/or place. It's like historical fiction but easier.
Anyways, if I ever write anything that I feel like posting online and that I feel comfortable posting online at this time it'll be here. Don't worry!
Ciao for niao...
------/\--/\--------
----(0------0)-------
-----(---o--)--------
---------------------- (Miao!)
Now I remember what it was I wanted to tell you. My dad and I like to make up new words for folksongs. Now, how many of you know "So Long, It's Been Good To Know You"? Well, we made new words up for this.
First the background story: I first learned this song out of Theodore Bickel's songbook--Folksongs and Footnotes. I then heard the song from the Weavers. It's got a different part in the chorus than the first.
At first, the Weavers version sounded awkward, and then I could sing both, but now I barely know the Theodore Bickel version. So here is a verse for "So Long, It's Been Good to Know You" that Daddy and I made up:
Now, the Weavers their version was so strange to me
And Ted Bickel's score was a joy for to see
But Ted and I parted--the Weavers hung on,
And now I am singing a Weavers-style song, and its
So long, it's been good to know you...etc.
I was sure that I heard rain on the roof this morning--then I realized it was the neighbor's shower.
I feel so guilty. I wish it would rain and be cold all winter. It was wonderful that it lasted as long as it did.
Don't misunderstand--I want what's best for the crops. But everybody wants something for himself, sometimes big, sometimes small, and I see no harm in wishing for something a little bit selfish--so long as it isn't wrong--if you know what's selfish and what isn't. And if your wish is selfish because it's not best for other people, you should only be half-serious. But otherwise I think it's fine.
Now--the connection has been down, and I really want to type down the random thoughts I had all formulated into a blog post last night as I was falling asleep. You know the problem with that? It gets connected to my dreams and when I wake up I don't remember the dreams.
Well, as soon as I remember it, connection or no I will make a cyber copy. Or at least type it into the computer. Don't worry!
I will wind up with a riddle:
Who can murder people, marry people, start and end wars and countries, and cure the common cold? (answers are on the comments page)
I know, I know, I said I wasn't gonna do book reviews. I meant it!
This is something else. It's a blog post about a book: Just Like Martin by Ossie Davis.
I've read it about six times. And when I read a book six times I'm either stumped for reading or enjoy it a lot. Or perhaps both.
I like it a lot. It's set in Alabama, 1963. It's a small town and there's this teenager, Isaac Stone, and the book is about him. He wants to be nonviolent. His mom died and his dad is really hurting about something from the Korean war. And Isaac's hero is Martin Luther King, Jr., and he really likes the speeches Martin Luther King, Jr. makes. Oh, and Isaac and his family and friends are Black.
Anyways, one day, somebody bombs the church and it kills two kids. And, anyway, well, it's hard to explain without giving it all away.
Anyways, I like this book because the characters are really interesting. They've got many layers. And when you start reading it it's like your immersed in the culture and ways of this little town. And it tells me about a time in history. I feel like I'm almost really there, invisible, able to maybe understand a little of what the people feel like.
Finally, I realize that people all over the world are alike. What made me realize this was actually the fact that the people in the town, even as they were different, were the same in so many ways. Like, there's this one woman, Big Mother, and one time Isaac's dad says, "Is there anything to eat around here," and this other guy says, "Big Mother's in the kitchen, and you know what that means." I guess they aren't exact quotes, but you get the gist of it. I know people like that :).
It's fascinating. I really recommend it. I sure hope it's in the Seattle library systems, 'cause we're returning it to Uncle John and Aunt Trish in a couple weeks.
Ai-yah, I am so bad at updating. Nothing really is happening, except for school--it's biography time these few weeks. I am currently reading Leonardo da Vinci and will finish it next week, when I begin on Luther. I am also reading The Second Mrs. Giaconda, which is a mixture of funny and serious and is really enjoyable, despite its low rating. Rrr.
But that's boring. Who cares a whit what I read? (Besides Mum, who makes sure I don't read bad stuff, and Daddy, whose interest in my school books I cannot understand, try as I might) So that's why I don't blog about that. My dad has book reviews, check them out, though they're heavy on the Sonlight side--no, that's spelled right. Sonlight is a curriculum. I don't have the URL with me now, but it's the curriculum they're using for me. And I like it a whole lot. But that's straying from the point.
Oh, I could tell you about my Christmas preparations, I suppose. Or Gail's, but that's another story. She asked my mom to write a simple Christmas skit and according to what she's told us, it's getting very interesting. I'm looking forward to it. Anyway, my Christmas preparations involve presents and programs (only one, and that's Becky's and mine to do) and, most importantly, trying to turn a few limp sheets of posterboard and make it into a suitable tree. Unless my parents take the hint and give me an artificial tree for my birthday. Or a Douglas Fir gets abandoned by the side of the road the way our palm branch was...
Let's see--I'm thinking aloud here--I'll need to make more snowflakes. Also, I'll need to buy or beg a sheet of red posterboard for a secret that will be very funny, and I want to decorate everything--this year I can use the TV. No specials this year. Rats. Ummm, what else do I need to do? Oh, yeah, somehow make some more suitable decorations. Hm. Well, that plus eight Christmas presents, half of which are not figured out yet, the other half are mid- or pre-production, and...well, Christmas is my time to get stressed.
And it's really not too early to start thinking about it. I do this every year and this year it's even more important. Pre-Christmas last year was a disaster, but Christmas was great. I want all of the Christmas season to be a success, even if I have to work my tail off.
Anyways, this was just an apology and "nothing to write about" post, so I will close here. Happy Thanksgiving, everybody!
(Oh, and if you think this is early for Christmas, the other day I was looking at St. Patrick's Day cards. But, then again, I'm in a Celtic mood...)
FINALLY! Yesterday Mum, with the help of her Chinese teacher, got my
violin fixed. The Chinese teacher's English is really good, and she
also teaches Japanese, if I remember correctly. She took Mum (I was
afraid to go) to a guy on campus and according to Mum he got the bridge
fixed and even tuned it. Gone are its fuzzy sounds! Oh, it sounds so
wonderful now!
I really want to play a joke on Mr. Yarr, my (former) violin teacher.
He jokingly said, "Send me some Chinese music" and I would like to pick
up a copy of the "Yellow River Sonata" or whatever it's called, which
is all written in Chinese musical notation as well as being Chinese
music and send it to him with an accompanying note about it being the
"real deal". Oh, well.
I just can't wait to start taking violin again in the States. Only, I
think I want to get some lessons in how to play in the Celtic style.
Vibrato and the other hand positions would be nice, too.
Now, I know your heads are probably muddled, but I will clear them up
by simply stating what the problem was. The violin bridge had slipped
(and if anybody is really experienced with the violin or has a teacher
who offhandedly mentions these things like mine did, you'll know that
it wasn't glued on in the first place) and I was afraid to play it,
thinking perhaps the violin would implode. I couldn't (and still can't)
remember what makes it implode, taking out the bridge, taking out that
post inside it, or taking off all the strings in the wrong way.
Anyways, we got it fixed and it's working beautifully!
Anyways, I was playing a few songs from the fiddle tunes book Mr. Yarr
kept bringing to class, and I was so wanting to play the other songs in
it that I finally went out and bought the same book! And I was just
wishing that there was someone to play the harmonies with. But since
the violin was sounding so bad I took most of my books and all of my
duet stuff home. Oh, well...
Becky is the Death Star for Hallowe'en! And it was her idea. I was so proud of her ideas...
Hallowe'en was "Interview your favorite Star Wars characters"--take your pick, Luke Skywalker or the Death Star?
My latest profile pic. I hate the way my face comes out on camera, so these computer paintings are a way to soften and yet tell the truth.
My sister, the cartoonist, is doing a (in her words) "boring comic strip" about astronauts going to Neptune. It's instead of a plain old normal report like I did about Venus when I had that assignment. (If I could go back, I would either do Uranus or Pluto because no one wants Pluto anymore). In her research, we discovered that it would take twenty years to do a round trip there.
Here I am, for two years on the same planet, with the same basic way of life, and sometimes I thought (and still think) that it'll be forever, that I will never live on the blue house on the corner again. But I got to thinking--and, understand, I hate to put things in perspective. Sometimes it does not help, but it was okay in this case because I am at peace living here--and what I thought was this:
I imagined myself an astronaut, on a voyage to Neptune (and I have dreamed of being an astronaut occasionally) and I was watching Earth get smaller and smaller, and I realized that I would spend twenty years away from any of this planet, the one planet that is habitable, going to a cold other planet I cannot even land on. Not even to the moon, where the comforting blue glow of earth would be there sometimes, and I could walk on its poor dead surface. Where other people have set their feet.
Right now, I am caught up in a computer game about space travel--the science fiction kind. I don't know how I'd like it if I were really there, but that is no danger. Instead, I play the game, shipping people's valubles, helping scientists, and looking for adventure (in this game, by the way, I have yet another name--Rhia, short for Rhiannon Carter). And, actually, although I can't stand most science fiction, my favorite movie is sci-fi, though for about three reasons--good story, one planet is forested with redwoods that for some reason remind me of Washington State, even though it's California, and it made me cry. But to be really tossed into space, to really live a life of danger...? I would not like that.
So I guess the point of this all is--Earth is home and that is where I will stay, even if I were qualified to be an astronaut; and there is a difference between wanting to be thrown into a book or a movie for a time and wishing to live it for real.
Names DO matter.
I am not kidding, for I have been four people, depending on my name.
There was Cathy, the little girl with the round glasses and the blond
hair who loved so many things. And the essence of her still remains
when one uses the name. But I don't like that name anymore. Of another
person, it is a good name all the way throughout her life. But for me,
it's finished; outdated.
There was Ga Dai, the girl who doggedly studied Cantonese and loved the
characters, but frustrated herself trying to commit them and their
meanings to memory. There were people who called her Ga Dai and they
addressed another person entirely.
And now there are two. Catherine, the girl who has so many faces in and
of herself...a girl who fiercely loves books, music, and movies that
make her cry, a girl who loves to play and be silly no matter how
grown-up she looks, and yet likes to be the "quiet" girl in front of
strangers--no matter how annoying it is, it is a complement to have me
talk a lot to you.
And then there is Ja Di, the girl who can't speak more than a couple
words of Mandarin, but loves to draw and is delighted that her art
teacher calls her by her Chinese name. Ja Di is the one who, with help,
painted the Wa women dancing, and the Christmas star shining in an icy
dark sky.
It's interesting, you must fully accept a name or nickname before it
becomes part of you and highlights a part of your many-faceted
personality. Then, you must use it consistently and constantly, and it
will become you and yours. And THAT'S what's important.
Sometimes I think I need a fifth name to cover a fifth facet. I have a
pondering, poetic streak that fills my serious stories and poetry, the
ones I want to publish someday.
And it makes me wonder. Do people still publish under pseudonyms? It
may be that my creative streak will be highlighted in the future by a
pseudonym under which I publish. I don't think a pseudonym is exactly a
lie. I think it's a way of distancing one part of yourself from
another, keeping your, say, gardening streak away from your, say,
musical streak. Just for an example. Janet can garden, be the real
person and the person of the heart. But Leah can be the person who puts
her soul into music and something.
Forgive my ramblings, they're probably very boring. I just like to
ramble. It's interesting for me, and that is what I believe my blog is
for. Me. But I would be very happy to take you along on the ride.
"My Friday regulars."
"My Monday regulars."
"My Wednesday regulars."
Only the first was actually spoken to us by any bus driver, but I think
they probably all had that feeling. I am not saying we are the center
of the universe, I am simply saying that people tend to notice people
that ride the bus often.
Of course, the guy who drove the 24 probably had a lot of regulars. I
tend to notice individual people, and who knows? Perhaps more than one
bus driver noticed the quiet, often serious little Chinese girl, the
quiet, often serious middle-aged woman, and the girl who read or wrote
or drew and was sometimes serious, often quiet (yammering away inside
her head like she often does when confronted with a crowded room full
of strangers). For those were the "regulars".
Or perhaps they took no more notice of us than they did of the Chinese
grandmothers shouting across the bus in lyrical Cantonese what they
bought at the markets in Chinatown. The markets! From our passing on
the bus, I could not smell the fresh produce, but I could see and hear
the little old grannies. Oh, how I would miss them! But I do not.
Instead, they chatter away in a lyrical dialect as unknown to me as
Cantonese and I meet them everywhere.
And they knew my mother--here it is always, "hello Eunice" from the
younger crowd, but in Seattle, once a week or more we would meet a
little old grannie who came to her community English class and could
say a few things to her in broken English. Those Saturdays were often
days of Chinese delicacies, brought home from generous students. But I
digress.
Whether it was to downtown from the bus stop up the hill from our
house, filling with Chinese grannies and then filling with other people
from all walks of life, or back up from downtown, often on a sunny
evening or a dark cold night, when I was only too glad to get on and
hope to squeeze a seat, or if it was to Rainier Beach from the bus stop
on Walker Street (an ongoing joke between me and Becky) or
back--through the greenbelt, of course--or sometimes taking the Kinnear
bus to the Seattle Center, the 36 route (changing to the 1) was and
probably still is my favorite.
You'll never know where you'll meet a bus driver (and I won't go into
that now). We have met a bus driver we're pretty sure has driven us on
the 36 once or twice. We don't remember every bus driver. But we do
some of them.
I know at least SOME drivers might have noticed us...I recognized all
sorts of regulars. A British woman from Magnolia on the 24...long blond
hair, a strange but almost beautiful face; a man on the 55 to West
Seattle--always in a thickly lined coat, bald, and sort of belonging
among coat like a snowy owl. People like that. And our bus drivers,
too. The one who noticed us was somewhat nice and a bit heavy, with a
beard and looking like a cross between Henry VIII and my violin
teacher, who, by the way, bears a striking resemblance to the aforesaid
Bluebeard. In looks, I mean, not personality!
Now in my head is "Shule Aroon". And I know why. Once off the bus and
home for good, what better than to play a CD or two? And I know what
CDs we played often enough. What little music I have I don't play
enough of...I popped in our meager Atwater-Donnelly collection last
night and tears stung my eyes as the memories flew back and socked me
in the face. I should play them more often. Then again,
Atwater-Donnelly always makes me cry, even at home under perfect
"playing conditions" ("Where the Wild Birds do Whistle"--hot summer
night, "Culled from the Garden"--sunny morning, late night, or, best of
all, down to Portland). Well, not CRY, but my eyes are certainly not
dry. Whatever.
And, all those who I've seen on the busses and remember so clearly, and
others as well--I'm thinking of you.
ARRGH!!!
I am so bored!!!
Hallowe'en is tomorrow, but meantime there is absolutely nothing to do. I am sick of waiting, waiting, waiting. Waiting until Becky's school is done so we can play, waiting until she finishes reading her book, waiting for someone to do something interesting, waiting for supper...and nothing to do!!!
SIDE NOTE: my November profile pic will be a modification of my Hallowe'en costume, in which I will for obvious reasons not be wearing my glasses. Obvious tomorrow, that is.
Sometimes I wonder (and there is more to this than I'm setting down) if it's all my fault I'm bored. Certainly most of the time it is. But sometimes I think that sometimes other people do have a bit of fault (sometimes). In those cases (like some of today wouldn't be so boring if it hadn't been for...well...never mind) it's hard not to be mad at the person in question. In this case the keyboard is getting the brunt of it, simply because it's not quite fair to be mad at the person in question.
As this year wanes, I realize that what I've definitely learned is that most rules (and I mean rules, not laws, not commands) are flexible. More on that later.
Please no one comment and say I could read books. Truth be told, I can't. And nobody tell me I CAN, because I CANNOT.
Hellooooo! Anybody here? I don't blame you for not being here. It's not like I've posted or anything. After a long time of debating and an assurance from my father that this probably fell under "fair use", I have decided to post my best Beatle album cover spoof:
Please click on it to get it better. And remember, I'm not trying to break copywright. If I am, I am completely unawares. By the way, L-R: John "Chewie" Lennon, George "Han" Harrison (coincidence!), Ringo "Leia" Starr and Paul "Luke" McCarteny.
But other than that I have been barely writing. I think I will do a little bit o' writing about Seattle's busses, soon, though. Stay tuned, and let me know if you have good ideas (for writing, not Beatles albums!)...
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This is my frog smiley!
A lot happened on Saturday when we were out at the farm. I simply had no time to explain it all.
The get-together consisted of everyone who lives and works at the farm and was home at this time. There's two sides at the farm, divided by a small hill. On one side it seems that Holli's family and another American family lives. On the other side, there are animals and such, and I think that everybody else lives there. Now, there's three ways to get from one to the other. One is to climb up and over the hill. Another way is to walk on one of the terraces (everything is terraced here) around the hill. A third is to walk out one gate and walk in another. My favorite is the terrace route, though the over route is fun, too.
Anyway, at the start, they were still getting ready and Holli and I chatted up a storm about so many things. We compared "life in China" notes. She's had more adventures than I have, which I don't begrudge her, but I haven't asked her yet: has she ever fallen into a rice paddy? I have. It's way too muddy. I've also fallen into an irrigation ditch, and who knows? I may fall into the river one of these days. Anyhow, we chatted about our adventures and how mistakes our age (I had a girl who was, maybe my age or a little younger ask in reasonably good English: "How old are you?" "Thirteen," I answered. Then she's shouting through the whole bus, "Shi san!" which is thirteen in Chinese. Holli went to the doctor's and had a long stressful time, then they found out she was thirteen so she had to go to a different doctor and have another long stressful time!). We hung out for awhile, comparing notes. She didn't have to get evacuated. Anyways, after a time it was time for dinner, so Holli and I went over to the other side and she told people it was time for dinner. She introduced me to a few people, one being a young woman who spoke a little English. We sort of made a threesome. Holli invited me to sit with her and this woman and a couple others, and after awhile the others started moving off, but the three of us talked, like "Where have you been in China?" This city, Kunming, Guangzhou, Maoming, and Hong Kong. Oh, and Yun Xian. Holli argued that Hong Kong wasn't in China and I said, "Yes, it is, it's a Special Administrative Region." So we got into a mock-argument which ended with throwing grass at each other. Then after that it started to rain so we went into the house and some people played dominos, and some Uno. Knowing the hectic-ness of playing Uno with too many people and new rules explained in a different language, I opted for dominos. After awhile I got tired of saying "I don't have one" in English and when "may-yo" means the same thing and is easier to say, and everybody understands it. Then, of course, I had to re-explain that no, I don't speak Chinese. What little I do is probably Yunnan accented which I like. I do not like the Beijing accent. I mean, it's okay, but I'm not going to speak it unless I'm aware of it and I'm in Beijing. Why speak it here? I'd speak the dialect of this city to people who spoke it themselves if I only knew it and I had something to say. Why speak Beijing in Yunnan? I already have enough of an accent and can't say much. But I digress.
When people started going home, this young woman (I can't remember her name) gave me a hug and taught me to say something which I repeated in my worst accent and promptly forgot, though I wanted to. On the way home, Holli and her Dad drove us, and Holli and I sat together and text-messaged (okay, Holli did, but I made a few suggestions) a student that we both know, Sherri. She is convinced that Holli should be a fashion model. That's one good thing about being short and squat instead of tall and slim. She doesn't say I should be a fashion model and doesn't "talk me out of" being a writer. Oh, well. I have about four different occupation dreams, two of which I can combine, and the other two can be avocations or semi-occupations. I wonder how many different countries I'll be in...
Well, Holli and I had a visit and had a great time!
Our latest joke is "Save the Giraffes!" It all started last time we had a visit. Hence the blog title.
This time Holli called me Cyphrus and told me to call her Poopkinshani. O-kay? That's weird. Unless it's a Cherokee name, 'cause she's part Cherokee. Wow! I may only be a little teeny bit Onodaga, and even that is uncertain. But I read about the Iroquois and imagine the woman that that Scottish man must've married. Let's see...
Otherwise everything is pretty much a bore. What did I tell you? But it was cool.
My sister remains a mystery to me.
Yesterday, when she was given a school assignment to do a creative story or something about the Orphan Train, I listened from the living room, thinking, "Oh, no." For, when Becky does that sort of work, it means hard work for Daddy and a whole mess of gloom hanging over the house. Becky doesn't have ideas, asks for some, rejects them all, then complains. I'm not one to judge, though, for a lot of times I understand her side only too well. I understand desperately needing help to find the one subject that would interest me. And I know that it's terribly frusterating to try and play such guessing games. Who knows what I'll do when I'm a parent and in those shoes?
Anyway, my feelings of dread deepened when she opted for the comic strip. I figured it would be like me in years past. Two fairly good (or good attempts at) panels, then being so bored that the rest is dumb or not there at all.
Oh, no. Who expected her to suddenly be a little Charles Schulz, coming up with an excellent story idea, some good humor and visual gags, and painstakingly drawing a nice (although stick-figured) comic strip three pages long. It was about a little girl named Lisa who climbed on a train car (replica or real, I don't know, but she wasn't supposed to be on it). All of a sudden there was a "Voom!" and she was riding on that same train car. She kept shocking a competent lady in charge, saying (and this is not a direct quote) "Where am I?" "You're on the Orphan Train." "But how did I get here? I have parents. I'm not an orphan!" "But one of your parents probably put you on here. They felt it was best for you." "But they didn't put me on here!" "Now, now. I know it's hard. You must accept the truth!"
Now, of course, if one were to look at it as something they expected for an older kid or an adult, they'd be disappointed. They would complain that the story changes a little bit between pages 2 and 3. They'd complain about the historical error of a grown lady with her hair hanging down. But those people would be too nitpicky, because for a nine year old (especially my sister!) it's great!
Of course, I'm biased. I think it's wonderful, but my sister and I rarely criticize each other's cartooning to the extent that even our parents would, simply because we don't offer it for critique. But still...maybe it's a phase, or maybe her name will adorn the comics section later. We can't know...yet...I mean, I'd like to be on the list of Newbery Medal winners, though that's unlikely. I'd settle for a Newbery Honor, or, at least, a good review.
this was written for school, believe it or not!
Morning in the mountains. Something to die for, Anitra whispered to herself, as she walked out along the dewy grass gathering wildflowers. She knew that in time she would have to go back into the gloomy house where her grandmother lay dying. Aase Nordraak had lived a full and wonderful life, but now she was dying, and Anitra had to rid herself of the feeling of death.
Still, Anitra thought of her grandmother. Grandmother loved the morning flowers, but could not see them in the windowless, stuffy hut. Anitra gathered the flowers in her hands, until her arms were full, fuller than ever before. One side of the meadow looked a little bare, still, what was the sacrifice if Grandmother could see the wildflowers one last time. Probably by this time tomorrow the other side would be bare, too.
Solvejg was calling Anitra now. "Nitra! Granny is dying. You must come immediately!"
Sorry to come in out of the sunshine, Anitra hurried in. The smell of pungent herbs, coupled with the smell of too many unwashed bodies made Anitra's stomach feel queasy. But she hurried to the cot in the corner.
"Granny? It's Anitra." She took the old lady's hands in her own.
"Nitty." That was Granny's special name for Anitra. Anitra came over. "Yes, Granny?"
"I smell flowers."
"Yes, Granny. See?" Anitra picked up the bouquet and laid it the old woman's hands. "They're fresh. I've just gathered them."
Granny didn't seem to say anything more. After awhile, Anitra carefully took the woman's pulse.
"Solvejg! Ingrid!" the two sisters came running. Ingrid, the eldest, put her arms around her little sister. Solvejg stood considering.
It was two months later. The sisters, living alone with their granny 'til her death, were out of house and home and knew not what to do. So Anitra, who was always a good dancer, danced and sang for money. Her dances were pretty, charming—everything that mostly was not about street dancers. When Anitra danced, she always imagined herself in a pure mountain clearing...
Like the one so near her home. Anitra knew that she would never see it again. It was just the way it was. And it made her sad.
Then one day, two roly-poly creatures showed up and asked to speak to the dancer. They were adorable little men, and Anitra really wanted to cuddle them. But their spears looked pretty sharp.
"Well, now," one of them drawled. "I've been thinking that maybe our king would like you to dance for him."
"You...what?" Anitra gasped. "No. No! That cannot be! That's completely impossible."
"It is true. He has seen you dance and he wants you to come. Don't you trust the king's personal messengers?"
"You? You look almost like teddy bears," Anitra said, rather scornfully.
The two men looked hurt. "Our king does not, I assure you. He is, well, handsome."
The two men began dancing and singing a song of the merits of their king.
"You are so weird," Anitra said.
"Weird?" Both of their lower lips began to tremble. A fat tear rolled down the fatter one's cheek.
"Oh, puh-leeze," Anitra wailed. "All right. I'll come."
"He is the best guy on this side of the world!!!" they both said. "You won't regret it!"
Anitra groaned. "I will see you, Solvejg. And you, Ingrid. I'm sure this can't last long."
"Just think, a real king!" Solvejg sighed. Ingrid swooned.
"Fat teddy bears and stupid older sisters!" Anitra grumbled.
The king was pleased to see Anitra. And he WAS handsome. And smart. His personal messengers were funnier when taken with a grain of salt and smart ones besides.
So when he asked Anitra to marry him, she said yes. That was fine, until the witch Hecate found out about it. You see, Hecate wanted her daughter to marry the prince. Now, Hecate was a witch, and her daughter Mahala was weak, and sick. Normally, Mahala was a nice girl, but she depended on her mother to get around and she naturally obeyed everything her mother said. So she sat at home, quietly sewing, waiting for her mother to strike.
And strike Hecate did. She did it in the utmost secerecy, not violent in the least...but poor Anitra was trapped. Hecate quickly knocked the young woman unconscious, and brought her to her home. "Now, Mahala," Hecate said, "you must go to the king on your own."
"But Mama—"
"You must. And then you will marry the king. It's our ticket out of here!" Hecate gestured to the hovel. Mahala shrugged.
"We don't really need to—"
"Ah, but wouldn't you like to move into a castle?"
Mahala actually didn't, but didn't dare say this to her mother. "Yes, Mama."
"Then you must work for it. Go, now, and wear this girl's clothes. I will enchant you by my magic, so you look like her."
Mahala went.
When Anitra woke up, she saw Hecate bending over here. "Ack! Who are you?" she cried.
"Morning, Mahala. I'm so glad to see you so strong."
"My name's Anitra, not Mahala..." Anitra ambled out of bed and looked around her in shock. Then, slowly, as the evening's events came back to her, she groaned.
"I have a headache." She went over to the basin by the mirror and splashed water on her face. Suddenly she stopped, stared into the mirror and screamed.
Mahala, in her normal state, had a very timid, mousy expression, gray eyes, and sandy hair. She actually looked like a very delicate flower. But it was quite a change from Anitra's blue eyes, black hair, and a very strong-willed look about her.
"What the heck has happened to me???" she demanded. "Who are you, and what are you doing?"
Hecate smiled. "I have enchanted my daughter to look like you, and you to look like her. Now your name is Mahala, until years after the wedding. I hope you like brown."
No color, to Anitra, was worse than brown, except in skin and in hair. But Mahala's life seemed to be brown. She opened her mouth and screamed—or tried to scream—"Help! Help! Help!" But her voice was only a whisper.
"What are you doing to me?" she demanded Hecate.
"You will not scream."
Anitra glared. "Sure I will." She ran past Hecate and hurried out of the house. Hecate followed in hot pursuit. Anitra looked back and screamed (out of the witch's cottage, that particular spell had no power), "Anitra, not Mahala!!!"
Hecate followed. "Come back, my daughter, come back!"
"I'll tell her that," Anitra answered. "For I am not your daughter!"
Hecate was running very fast. Anitra saw there was nothing to do but to stop her. Remembering that her granny had taught her some magic, she turned herself into a river. Hecate saw this and put her lips to it, to drink it. Anitra didn't like to think how she'd turn herself back inside Hecate, so she turned herself into a dog. Hecate turned herself into a bigger dog. Anitra changed to a falcon. Hecate turned herself into an eagle. But, of course, the falcon was fastest, so that was okay until Hecate managed to enchant Anitra so she couldn't fly at her fastest. Anitra hurriedly tried to fix this, remembering many magic spells as they came back to her, but it didn't work. Hecate was gaining closer, and closer...and suddenly the falcon disappeared.
First Hecate tried in front. Then behind. Then she checked to see if the falcon was on top of her somehow (anybody with any bit of sense will do that when confronted with a wily falcon). Then she decided that Anitra must have changed herself into something.
Anitra had. Anitra was one of the eagle's tail feathers.
Hecate flew farther, faster, and when it was time, Anitra turned into a bear and lumbered up the steep hill to the Mountain King's castle. The eagle tried to peck out the bear's eyes, but all of a sudden Anitra changed herself into a young woodsman. The young woodsman raised his gun, but the eagle also changed herself into an old woodsman. The two got into a fistfight. Anitra suddenly turned into an elf and ran up the rest of the hill, 'til she saw a young woman who looked like herself standing with the king in the garden. Quickly she changed herself into an engagement ring on the lady's finger. Hecate came up in the form of a moneylender and explained to the king that his betrothed owed him something—a ring. The king said that he would pay the debt, but the ring on his betrothed's finger was not coming off. The king, by the way, was magical, too, so he had figured out everything. Then he ordered the moneylender sentenced to death and had him beheaded. Mahala was actually kind of glad.
So Anitra married the king, and Mahala married his secretary and became keeper of the grounds. Both couples had a lot of children, and they all lived happily ever after.
But wait! I haven't finished the tale. Did I fool you? But it isn't finished yet, for I haven't told you what happened to Ingrid and Solvejg. Ingrid married a duke and became a duchess. And Solvejg became a singer and won a lot of contests, like "Mountain Kingdom Idol" and stuff like that.
And now they all lived happily ever after.
Oy, vey. Nothing whatsoever is happening. Whatever is happening is boring (read about twenty pages for school. Flunked comprehension questions. Was quizzed on the digestive system), dumb (how to annoy and delight your father on his birthday), too personal (what I think of thus-'n'-such), too weird (do you want to know my ideas for sequels to certain movies???), too silly (for example, an alternate universe story about a couple of toddlers changing the course of the Galaxy), or copyrighted (my Star Wars--Beatles album covers are probably copyrighted to the teeth).
Oh, well, we did do stuff. Like I had an art lesson today. And on Sunday we saw a concert outside by some girl who had apparently placed fourth in the Chinese equivalent of American Idol. From our town! Scary. But only one disappointment: what I thought were shooting stars were actually bugs illuminated by stage lights! Otherwise it could have been magical. In one sense.
I guess this is what I'll do. I'm going to revamp this blog (I wish I could give it a new title, but I don't want my Grandma to freak out!) a whole lot, and then I'm going to start writing differently.
For example, no psuedonyms. My name is Catherine. My sister's name is Becky. My mom and dad are John and Eunice...not respectively! Our last name is not Stuart.
Also, I think this'll be more of a rambling one. I mean, I'm going to stop feeling guilty about blogging something that has nothing to do with daily life. This may actually mean regular posts for a few weeks. Maybe.
So this is the last time I shall sign myself Saro.
Saro
P.S. Or maybe this is the last time.
Saro
I'm sorry I haven't posted in so long!
By the way, when I post, I post the truth, as it is at that time. That means, if I say that, oh, say, I wrote to some friend in Timbuctu and she hasn't responded yet, and then she does respond to me, look at the time. It may be that I posted that before I got the answer. Just a thing to keep in mind.
Besides that, there's really nothing to do. Yesterday was Friday the 13th. We're not superstitious, but it turned out to be a really bad day! Yuk. Next Friday the 13th I plan to have a blast!
Kiana and me played Polly Pockets yesterday. It was pretty funny. Kiana and I often carry have the dolls carry on conversations. When it's dolls, she tells me what to say. When it's both of us acting out, I tell her what to say.
But we don't mind. It's pretty funny. Kiana has a bit of a lisp, and one time she demanded the prisoner brought before her, and added in a very impressive voice, "And now you'll have to be a Thith Lord like your father!"
And the poor prisoner, trying not to laugh, said, "I don't think so. I'm a Jedi."
But we have fun.
Thursday I took a picture of the Beatles crossing Abbey Road and pasted in new heads. I'd show you, but it's probably copyrighted, huh?
Ta-ta for now
Saro
No, I have plenty of time...but I just discovered that I can play songs on our computer really fast. So I have been torturing our Atwater-Donnelly and Balkanarama collection. Sometime when we get home I will torture some more. "I'll Tell Me Ma"? "Curragh of Kildare"?
Saro
My big report this year is on Celtic and American Folk music. Sort of. I doubt it'll be very good, no matter how hard I try (I resisted doing a Chinese-English pun there). I was thinking of stuff to write this morning and I realized that a fact I knew was unfortunately on none of my source materials--it's on a CD! So I don't know what I'm going to do. I guess I'll have to find it in another source.
If I weren't trying to write a report, I'd say that it was wonderful that one could do a live CD and give it interesting, report-worthy facts, mixed with great music and do it just right so that it would sound great. There's a difference between a CD and a concert, and that even with a live CD. And some venues where you play a CD is where you just want to hear music. But the talking in this one is great (Plus, my portrait drawing skills were greatly advanced by drawing the front cover...though how on earth did I come up with that expression?!)
That's all for now.
Saro
P.S. Right now I want to go home and play our whole Atwater-Donnelly collection, not just Daily Growing, while I work. Rrrrrr...
Or, using their English names: Hannah, Flora, Sherri, and one yet unnamed. Xiao Xiao or Mei Mei is going to be her Chinese name but I can't decide whether to name her Sandy or Rose. Sandy being for Teacher Sandy, Rose being for one of my national friends. She looks like a Rose, too, and I'm not kidding!
Yesterday Micha and Kiana showed up and we played dolls. Micha was Hannah, Kiana was Flora, my little sis was Sherri, and I was Xiao Xiao. They had interesting personalities, not like those that they were named for. Hannah, unlike the girl I once knew, was pushy, mean and insensitive, Flora was melancholy and showed it (the real Flora has problems but is very brave in public. She always smiles), Sherri was the sweet person that anyone my sister plays--even Darth Vader to some extent!--always ends up as (I'm not saying Sherri-the-person isn't sweet, but not saccharine sweet!), and Xiao Xiao ended up a more stereotyped version of Kiana.
Well, it was fun. Then I had to draw Luke Skywalker with a Mosuo doll (my sister's, unnamed). The picture looked so dumb, I threw Yoda on Luke's back. I captioned it, "First Date Gone Awry", as Yoda smilingly says, "Long stories from my childhood I will tell you." Okay, bad humor. Whatever. Anyway, that's it for the playdate. It was interesting...as always....
Saro
My dad just got himself a second blog--and it's not fair! ;)
Maybe someday when I grow up I'll have two blogs...I have "what happens" stuff to write about and then poetry and creative writing. Grrr...
Saro
Before we left, I never told you about what happened the day before. There was a talent show the night before, and, tired of playing folk songs for all those students (I like it and they don't even know what the heck it is), I decided to play them "My Heart Will Go On". Easier said than done.
I had sheet music from my earliest violin teacher, Mr. Denham (left the program with cancer, and I don't even know if he's alive anymore), and if it hadn't been for that, I wouldn't have felt brave enough to try. So I went out all over looking for free sheet music. There was one place it was free, but you had to download Windows software (we're Mac people). And the rest was not. So I paired a MIDI and a bit of some person's arrangement for flute and piano and came up with a rigmarole for the violin.
The students loved it.
So I'm trying to remember the songs that they try to make me sing. "Yesterday Once More" (Don't know that one) "Do Re Mi" (from the Sound of Music) and maybe others. Hm. Well, Christmas is not going to be "Jingle Bells" because a song with words by some guy (can't remember!) and music by Tony Krogh (did I misspell the name?) is much prettier and sounds better on the tin whistle. I guess it'll be just the music, 'cause I can't sing while playing the tin whistle.
But I bet I'll need to play besides Christmas and now. Today, for example, is the moon festival, but we have a playdate with Micha and Kiana so we aren't going to any parties, even if we are invited. Not that I mind parties (I love them when we have warning), but I haven't seen Micha and Kiana since the day before we left. I would have normally seen Kiana at least on Wednesday, and Micha on Friday and Saturday. Sooo...
Ciao for niao
Saro
Latin scholars may kill me, if they so will.
Yeah, you might've heard of the bird flu before. I had, too, being in Asia and all. But other than being at Holli's farm and not being able to touch chickens, just in case, was all. Then, all of a sudden, we heard it's in our prefecture, and we had to get evacuated. So we spent the weekend in Kunming, making my minority doll collection complete with Wa, Dai and Tibetan dolls of various styles. Whew! At the airport, after getting the long-wished-for Wa doll, I told Mom I had all the minority dolls I wanted. Her answer? "Good!" But she was happy I got what I wanted.
But it was kind of sad. I mean, if you read someone else's blog you might read, "But of course we're glad to be well-taken-care-of" or "Well, we took the necessary steps and were content to do so," Sure there's that, but since it's probably already taken care of by other people, I have no need to do so. The long and short of it was, It was a drag!!! We had good times, of course, but these were tempered by the fact that we're stuck in the provincial capital when we want to be home. Home! Last year, this time, I loved it here, but home was somewhere else, even then. When I started this blog, home was impossibly far away and I hated it. Now I have two homes, and if ambitions carry far I may end up with three before my life is over. But Kunming is not home and will not be unless we settle in an apartment there and live our life with all of our stuff and all that. But that won't happen unless I get a job there when I grow up (and even then if I have extra money I might hop down to this prefecture if I can :))
I hope none of you are offended by the fact that I've written the worst of how I felt. Sometimes, when you're blue, thinking on the sunny side gets fakey and stupid. Sometimes, I need to say what I'm feeling, at that makes me feel better. Then, I can think of it. I guess the only time I can be Pollyanna is on Thanksgiving. We'll probably be in Kunming then, too, for an ordinary break. I overheard something about "canned pumpkin" and "the proper spices"...(and I wasn't eavesdropping. If I ever do do that I don't go and post it online...)
And that's about it. I guess there's nothing much else to tell. I guess I want to say again that the stuff you might get from other people about how it was good that we had to do this because we're safer that way or whatever is true. But they can take care of it for me. I'll tell the long and short of it.
Saro
It's been less than a year since they died, and I still miss them very much.
"They" were my imaginary friends for years, since before I can remember. There was Dexter with her squeaky voice and Lefty with his gravelly one. They helped me play parts in games, such as hospital, acting out favorite stories, and, in later years, celebrities such as...well, better not say. Those celebrities have an uncanny way of finding out such things and I will not go into the way they were.
The day they died they put on a performance as Luke and Leia, though in real life Dexter and Lefty were not related and I played matchmaker for them. I even spruced Dexter up with a red wedding veil ("I look like a babushka!" she cried. "Take it off!") and rang the wedding bells, then they thought it was nap time and fell asleep. The wedding (and the playtime) was called off as I slapped them to wake them up.
Dexter had a high squeaky voice and was somewhat frivolous and silly. She also had great capacity for capturing some actions of certain women I know of, though the sillyness of it made them unrecognizable. Lefty was her counterpart, serious and indentifiable by his voice and his "monocle"--really several different wedding rings. But that's another story, and brings up a couple bad memories, so I won't go into that now.
I am glad I taped them doing our favorite stories, for they are dead now. I will not try to resurrect them, for they are gone. I can only remember and weep, for they were very dear and very real to me and the longest-lasting of my imaginary friends. Or even my friends, though these friends I mean to keep in touch with and their friendships shall probably be carried on for a very long time. But Dexter and Lefty were real. The fairies transformed them long ago, and their grave has no marker (When I get home, though, I mean to put up a monument) (No, not in the yard, in my room) (Yes, in plain sight). And I will never meet them again in reality, ever. Their memories will stay with me for a long time. And I can hear their voices because of the recordings.
Some say imaginary friends die because you don't need them anymore. Sure, some of them do. But those of them that are touched by reality, they, they perhaps will die before their times. And it is quite painful if they do.
Of course Dexter and Lefty were not real in the true sense of the world, but they were quite dear to me and all the sentiments expressed in this obituary are honest, true, and nothing to sneeze at. If I didn't have Evonne, Rachel, Kiana, Holli, Kelly, and anyone else who is to be or was indeed at one point a friend of mine, this would've been much harder. Dear friends, one and all, I love you and I'm grateful for you.
Saro
Good grief! I was wondering why a lot of the recently updated blogs have Chinese titles when I update. Kind of funny, I thought, that I would be thinking about Chinese and there would be all these China posts...and then I thought, good grief, I'm in China! Duh! I update when people in China update because I am in China. Duh! Somebody smack me on the head!
Saro
What a wet weekend! On Saturday, we started out along the irrigation ditch in a light rain. It soon dried up, and we walked along the concrete wall in perfect peace. On the way back, however, I slipped on some sand and all of a sudden I felt myself falling backward. The next thing I knew--Splash--there I was, in the middle of the irrigation ditch, feeling like a fool and wondering how I was ever going to get out of it. It was really not all that deep but I was soaked and had to change my clothes completely and take a spongebath.
That hasn't been the first of my troubles along this hike, anyhow. There are two ways to get down and the harder one has its slippery points. I've only done it once and will never do it again. One minute I was plunging through mud and the next minute I was in the rice paddy. Yes, it was flooded. Yeeks!
Then, yesterday, we decided to go to the all-new outdoor "mall" and eat supper at Dico's, a new fast-food place. It was wonderful! But in order to get there it was a long walk through a light rain--that is, until the downpour started. I felt like Willie in the song "Drowned Lovers"--"Let me in, 'cause I'm frozen to the skin." (No, that's not a direct quote)
Well, I was wet to the skin and frozen to the skin, but the chicken was delicious.
Really.
Our British neighbors came over to dinner last night. And they told us a story that was kind of amazing and really scary. And the power went out, no less! But still....
A woman was riding to the airport from the New Territories in Hong Kong, on the back of a motorcycle. The motorcycle had a slight accident and she was thrown off. She was a bit bruised, but seemed okay. So she went to the airport and checked into her flight to London and got on.
What she didn't realize was that she had broken a rib, which in turn had punctured a lung. Some cavity was filling with air and was deflating a lung or something. She was in danger. So, the general announcement went out: "Is there a doctor on board?"
There was. But lungs was apparently not his speciality. However, his services were needed and of course he came forward. Then he had to do a makeshift surgery. He unbent a coat hanger and poked a hole in the woman's chest. Then he created a vacuum, drawing the air out of that cavity. So everything was okay, for then. (By the way, the things were sterilized in brandy!)
But then, the woman had to use the lavatory. She went in, and put the bottle that was keeping the vacuum going on the counter. But it slipped and reversed the action. She collapsed in the lavatory.
So, the doctor (poor doctor!) was called back again and it was a simple matter of putting the bottle back in position. She was fine, after that, and got to the hospital in London okay. But still!
So that was the story of the woman with the punctured lung on the flight to London. That, along with descriptions of Oman and Hong Kong, made for an enjoyable evening by candlelight (and I even got to work on my quilt!!!)
Saro
Five years ago, today.
I still remember it.
We're not people to be updated on the news, which is a mixed blessing--mostly good with a little bad--but this time it was different. However, Daddy listens to news in the car and that's when he heard.
When he came in I knew something was wrong.
As he told the news, quickly, and with such large words I couldn't understand, Mum's shoulders slumped as she sat quietly at the kitchen table. I was confused. It didn't come clear even when he got out our book, America A to Z, and showed a picture of Manhattan. Somehow, though, I knew that the two tall buildings he pointed out, gleaming in the sunlight, were gone.
Gone. Like the airplanes from the sky or the lives of many people from this earth. Gone.
Everything was strange. Lunch was strange--everyone was very quiet and subdued. We sang a song of comfort afterwards, an old one. From our oldest songbook that has the names of the tunes, mostly in German and no title for the words.
After lunch, Mum asked us, "Do you understand what's happening?"
"No."
"The United States has been attacked. If you have any questions, you can ask me."
I did have questions, but I held my tongue. Did I really want to know? I wanted to keep my sorrow and fear inside. From my sister's questions I gathered more.
After that, I remember seeing the faces of people I knew well, but not too well, and wondered, Do they have relatives or friends in another part of the country who are dead? To my knowledge, however, my friends were spared.
Teacher Sandy told us to keep our arms in a perfect right angle. "Now, don't put your arms out like this or it'll look like an airplane going off course...that wasn't a good metaphor, was it?"
One of my classmates, Cookie, was sitting on a chair Teacher Sandy used for a ballet bar with her eyes closed, whispering.
I used to worry that Osama bin Laden was hiding behind our recycling bin in the basement, waiting to get me. He would chase me around the basement, I thought, and then kidnap me and take me to Afghanistan...and then the details were really hazy. It was a strange fear. Especially since he looked like an evil twin of my favorite uncle in my imaginings, which were nothing like real life.
All the talk about war really scared me. It happened a Wednesday night in March or April. I remember thinking really deep thoughts and keeping them to myself.
Since then, I can never see a building fall without feeling sick, even though I saw no footage or anything. Even if the building is a planned implosion or something. I think then is when I started feeling really wierd about destroying things, but especially buildings. Before then, however, I saw the Kingdome implode and thought it was exciting. Memories sicken me now.
Four years ago, they were doing Mozart's Requiem all over the country at local time of the attacks. I had the chance to go to Safeco field, but I chose not to. I don't know why; I halfway regret it now.
Five years seems like a long time ago. So much has changed.
I remember, a little over four years ago realizing that this was history in the making. Everything is history in a sense, but give it time and fiction about this time will be labeled "historical" and children who read it will be like me reading about the Vietnam War.
Just six years ago I thought living at the turn of a century was cool. But those memories will wait, for now. Later.
Saro
I realized I'm trying to get the family the same sort of thing for Christmas, and it's going to take work and effort. It should also be a little bit expensive to cover...shall we say printing costs? Oh, well...they just better like it...not like I mind spending money but because when I have a brainstorm idea I want some folks to see the light(ning) :)
I haven't even been eating seafood, so my brain's probably not in the best order, anyway.
School started today. Enough said. Gotta run!
Saro
Hello, dear friends--
(Is anyone out there? Please send me a comment!)
Micha and Kiana worked out a great scheme before we got back. Micha and my sister would take karate, while Kiana and I would take art. Sounds great, I mean, Micha likes karate, she and my sister are "best buds", Kiana and I like art and are pals, too...except there's one problem.
My sister had no idea what karate is or if she'd want to do it!
Notice I say "had". Today we spent two hours observing the class. My feet itched, which was a good sign--if I have to sit and watch her do it, my feet should itch to do it but my head should tell me, "You're crazy!" That way I will enjoy watching but not be jealous. After getting Mum's and my opinion, she decided to swing it. Now, if everything works out, Micha's and Kiana's grand scheme will work out...:)
Oh. By the way, we were playing with them this morning. They got out their dolls and we were going to play the first Thanksgiving. But we ended up playing a politically-correct, un-realistic, amazingly fun game. See, one of the dolls is Native American and the other is a pioneer girl. So, the pioneer girl was Hannah, then Micha and Kiana's little sister Skylie was Patience, and there was a little baby doll named Blessing. I was the Widow Whipple, but my first name was Remember. Then Micha was Pocahontas (but I called her Goodwife Rebecca) and her doll was Kaya, and then she knew all the good things about living and adapting. The two eldest girls, Hannah and Kaya, were living under the care of both of us and they were living the lives of both the white folks and the Native Americans and, well...think of a politically correct history with a bit of crazy ideas from Patience (all of a sudden the baby takes sick and dies but is miraculously brought back to life by Pocahontas? Patience runs around in a racecar helmet preventing forest fires?!) and you have it. But it was fun.
Me reading a book outside Grandma's house. Note the "Leia Braids" I was wearing!
Now we find out I was reading the "Return of the Jedi" novel! Ha-ha.
A Piccolo Pete on Independence Day.
Me in my "Laura Ingalls" dress on July 4th. That's my first time with a sparkler!
Another shot of me with the sparkler. I look better in that shot!
I am dancing in this one...to...
Balkanarama! Who can not dance to their music? (Besides my sister, I mean?)
Curly fries and a new CD! Our afternoon is complete!
Tacoma's Waterfront. My sister is sitting on the remains of an excercise trail.
Copying sculptures is really fun! Any questions?
Again, I copy sculptures, though I think I got that a bit wrong :o(
A Christmas tree! Haven't seen one of those since the Christmas before last!
Of course, not only presents get to hide under the Christmas tree! This was a favorite spot!
Miao! Miao! Miaaoooooo!
Is that present there for meee?
All my friends. I'm the shortest one!
We like to goof off. That's a bathroom!
Dub-Dub!
Christmas dinner!
Little Alfred. He's just one of the many stray cats we played with this summer.
That's all for now. More later!
Saro
