A quote that says it all.

"'Farewell!' was the cry of my heart as I left him. Despair added, 'Farewell, for ever!'"--Jane Eyre, Vol. III.

We leave tomorrow.

We're Okay

I don't know if I have any regular readers anymore, but if I do, you probably are aware that we're in Southwest China's Yunnan province. You've also probably heard of the quake. Well, we felt it, and it woke us up, but Pu'er (a.k.a. Simao) is 200 km away from here, so we're okay. We've had folks who are worried about us, but we're okay. 3 dead though, in Pu'er, and many more injured. It tortures the mind to think about it.

Sorry!

I haven't posted in ages because I've been busy and there's really nothing to write about. Okay, I was looking up 9/11 on World Book and the most striking picture was that of the Statue of Liberty holding her torch over a couple of smokestacks that used to be skyscrapers. But that's hardly anything you want to know.

Things are winding down here. Two more weeks of school after today, then two weeks of packing and saying goodbye, then it's time to go...home.

Home? What is home? I was faced with that question while listening to a tape with my favorite songs on it. One made me think about Qi Shan so much that my heart ached, but two songs after that was the uncomparable Atwater-Donnnelly singing "Song of the Cowboys". Immediately, I was back in Seattle on a winter evening, often late on a Wednesday during Lent. Both songs brought tears to my eyes from associations. I don't have associations of a place--just an event--with a song unless there's some homelike aspect to it. Oh, I don't know! It's just surreal. And last year I was half-wishing that something would come up and we couldn't come back.

Poking with Pictures:

Honest! I didn't do nothing with this picture but add "clouds" to the background. Why is a completely different story...

Oog.

Things are winding down. I'm tempted to quit this before June. Not because I'm sick of blogging, just because...oh, I don't know. I don't really know my own mind right now. I think it's because of leaving here. I'm being pretty honest with you, here. Life's been a bit of a bummer right about now. Not too bad, of course. But...ah, who knows? I wish I could just speed over the goodbyes and rewind life back to one of the two golden ages of our time here...

Drawing to a Close

Less'n a month, now, and I'll bid you farewell. Yes, it's May already, and in June it'll be about a month before. I started this blog back in January 2006, and it's been a long way. And even that is less time than I've been here; I've been here since August, 2005.

2005! Two years! So long ago, I thought that two years was forever. And now it just seems long, for it's an age in my life...ah, phooey, why am I talking about all this now? It's a whole month, yet.

So, although it's "21:01:11" by my computer's clock, I'll "wish you a' a good morning" because who knows what time you'll read this?

"maurn"?

I spent about fifteen minutes last night hunting for a Scots word that doesn't exist. It was a typo. I finally found the word; it's "maun". Which means, I think, "must". Let me think, just how does that make sense...?

"Though poor and poorer we must be"?

Actually, I think it does make sense. Never mind.

Universal Willie

"Willie" is this universal name in folk music, it seems. Willie is everybody from this handsome guy that every lady in the whole castle loves to the fellow who kills pretty Polly. And everything in-between, though I suppose Willie O' Winsbury would fit in the first category. Anyhow, it's like the name "Johnny", only Johnny is mostly a soldier (Johnnie Cope? No exception! The guy was a general! He was also a real person). What's with it? If only the most universal name for women in folk music wasn't Mary. I don't care for that name at all, really...

I'm Back!

I'm back from vacation where it seemed I did everything from dress up in a minority costume (Mosuo) to catch the stomach flu (not too bad).

And guess where I'm writing this?

The office computer!

One of these days, I'm going to look back on this and laugh hilariously. But right now I want to scream. Oh, well, "to everything there is a season"...and right now it's time for frustration. Then I can laugh.

P.S. I will post pictures of me in the horrible sunburn and beautiful outfit, but I won't post pictures of the stomach flu...are you glad?

Cool Resource!

This is an absolutely fabulous resource for Jacobite songs. Yeah, I know, you probably are thinking When will she stop talking about this? and by "you" I mean Mum, Daddy, and Grandma (who else reads this crazy thing?). Well, it's exhaustive. In fact, there's one song that is sometimes thought of as pertaining to the Jacobites but it doesn't really have to be (seems to me kind of like "Paul is Dead", huh?) and yet it's included "for the sake of exhaustiveness". Well, the exhaustiveness hasn't exhausted me yet. When can we get home to "Loshan" where I can learn all these tunes?

I better go now. Daddy will probably want to spank me for that horrible pun...

Pleading or Accusatory?

My mother is sick of hearing this. There's this song; "Will Ye No Come Back Again?" that goes like this:

Bonnie Charlie's gone awa'
Safely o'er the bounding main
Many's the heart will break in twa
Should he ne'er come back again!

You trusted in your highland men.
They trusted thee, dear Charlie.
They kent your hiding in the glen
Death or exile braving.

English bribes were a' in vain
Though poor and poorer we maun be
Silver cannot buy the heart
That beats aye for thee and thine.

We watched thee in the gloaming hour
We watched thee in the morning gray
Though thirty thousand pound they gie
There is none who would betray!

(chorus)Will ye no come back again?
Will ye no' come back again?
Better loved ye canna be.
Will ye no' come back again?

So is this pleading (come back, Charlie, come back!)? Or is it accusatory (Charlie, get back here now we did plenty for you get back here or else!)? Hmmm...

Frustration, frustration...

Oy. I love going places, travelling (my dad tried to play the devil's advocate and said that I didn't, but he was obviously just kidding!), but I hate stress. Some might argue that stress is part of it, but I think it largely depends on how stressed you let yourself be. All of us (except maybe for Becky) let ourselves get stressed. I show it by sobbing when things aren't going exactly right; Mum shows it by getting irritable, and Daddy shows it by getting out-of-this world crabby.

So that's why I like to hang around somewhere else or do something so engaging it makes them forget about stress. Of course, that doesn't always work. I don't know. Anyhow, it gives me a headache.

Anyhow, a good way to tell if the family's stressed is if I'm lagging behind and not chattering; if Mum is one minute seemingly (and perhaps actually) having a good time and the next snapping; and if Daddy is dour (except he seems to be like that more and more these days :(...); all three of those, well...you've got it.

Thankfully for most of you...we don't tend to do it around folks we sort of know.

Cuy hi ngo mui-mui!

Ney ho ma? I am in the Guangdong province, writing on a Chinese computer, and still guessing at characters. This is my sister's birth city. She, of course, doesn't remember it. The post title in Mandarin would be "Ta shi wa mei-mei", but the guy who asked me about her was speaking Cantonese, which meant I said that. I have tons of stuff to write, but little time, so joi-geen (or zai djen) (or bye-bye) for now and I will write later, probably back in Yunnan.

Over the Sea to Skye

Well, I'm leaving, too, but it's not on a boat, not to Skye, and, most importantly, I'm NOT ESCAPING anything. Except school, maybe. Actually, if it weren't where my sister was left and spent the first almost-six months of her life (and perhaps was born), I would think myself and anyone else to be daft to go to a place where there's nothing to do. I mean it. It's a city like here, "Loshan", where there's absolutely nothing to attract tourists (so why do we have so many hotels?) (Of course, China Eastern did do this article about it, or the prefecture, the famed month we almost crashed. But it was all in Chinese, so I don't know if it said it was a good place to visit or not.) This is really a second time, but with a twist: last time was Gail's hometown, where there's nothing but a natural bridge; but Gail's grandma said the road wasn't safe so we didn't go. It was fabulously interesting, though, because it was an untouched part of China. Gail said no foreigners had been there for a long time, though I do actually know the name (knew the name)of somebody who was. But I digress. Anyway, there we had friends to visit and a guide who could show us the cool parts, here we are heading off to Guangdong to see this incredibly boring sounding city.

It's a need of my sister and my parents. They need to see it again. Sure, I think it would be nice, but I have no need. We've had some disappointments about this whole trip that have devastated my mom, irritated (yes, irritated) my dad, and that my sister has borne with incredible courage. But...I'm this outsider. I have to be strong. And sure, I want to be strong, to not want or need (or at least to put aside my want or need) any extra care or attention, but it's difficult. I only broke down once, and there's other factors influencing that, too...

I guess I'm feeling some strange feelings of being an outsider. Every year we celebrate "family day" because it was the day Mom and Dad were married and Becky was adopted. I have felt this niggling feeling for a few years now that it's not about me. That's okay. But I almost feel like an intruder. I know I'm welcome, I mean, Mom helped me come up with "it's the day I became a sister" sort of thing. And I'm not jealous. I see the specialness of adoption, yet being a birth child has its merits, too. Please don't get me wrong. But all of a sudden, I realized that this has nothing to do with me. And while I don't want everything to do with me, our trips have often been family affairs. Something for everybody. I guess it's my turn; Becky is sort of quiet and doesn't care much what we do besides rest occasionally or eat some Western food. And somehow I feel...well, not left out, but just--outside. I don't really care that much, it's just that I've got to acknowledge that, right or wrong, I'm feeling that.

I'm also feeling, interestingly enough, that we're going to the wrong province. I mean, in Seattle there are tons of Chinese people who come from Guangdong. I have yet to discover any who came from my sister's hometown, but there might be. And I've learned a little Cantonese. So before that, I would read books about and set in China or about Chinese people, and if they spoke Cantonese, or were from Guangdong, I thought it was the "right" thing. But now, having lived in Yunnan all this time, I realize that I've changed. I'm used to hearing Mandarin, I'm leaning Mandarin, and I'm really realizing what it's like to live in China. I'm also learning about local cultures and such in MY part of China. And all of a sudden, the "right" place isn't Guangdong; the "right" language isn't Cantonese, it's Yunnan and Mandarin. And usually, I found books about Guangdong and sometimes (though more often it was Mandarin) Cantonese. Now, I know I'll be reading those books that have Mandarin in them and reminiscing and perhaps I'll be combing the stacks for a picture; a word; a sentence about Yunnan.

So what I'm looking forward to is seeing Micha and Kiana again and seeing the Kunming Nationalities Villages, and, oh, yes, riding the train to Guangdong. Not the other way around; the novelty would have worn off.

And if Mum takes Daddy seriously about bowling, well, I haven't done that in years and it is something to do.

But I'll be glad to be back here surrounded by Yunnan culture...and, yes, probably researching the Jacobites again. Now I'm certain that the "right" place to go in Scotland is the Isle of Skye, or the clan that our name belongs to's castle, or--most importantly for me--Culloden Moor.

No tricks now

Hum. We've got a real Jacob-Esau dynamic going on around here, except there are a lot of exceptions. If it weren't so frustrating it would be amusing.

My sister and I are both regular kids--regular people--in that we're bad and good and all that. Well, it seems we both have a particular flaw that drives one parent crazy while the other, though not fine with it, sort of takes it in stride, disciplining, surely, but not really getting too angry, or if they do it's very short lived. Becky's is her temper, mine is my habit of speaking disrespectfully--and while it's wrong, I don't think either of us do it on purpose all the time. But it is wrong, and it ticks both of our parents off--but the temper drives Mum nuts, and don't expect civil conversation for several minutes between my father and me after I chance to say something...well, you get the idea.

Now, I'm sure my parents don't play favorites, or if they do, it's an accident that they can't help and it doesn't affect much of anything. Besides that, there's always been this dynamic of "what's a creative thing to show Daddy" and "what's a creative thing to show Mum" with me at least and they're different. Daddy has more in-jokes, Mum's stuff is generally stuff that I would post in detail here more often or something like that. Like right now...well, she might read this before Mother's Day, and then what would I do?

And my sister, the youngest, can get by with more from Daddy, whereas I, the oldest--well, they both crack down a lot, but Mum's less...how shall I put it? And there's not this serious rivalry. Change our genders, ages, and so on...I think Becky would be off hunting while I helped my mother (though sitting around typing isn't doing that). Right now, I do a lot of creative stuff, and, oh, yes, occasionally I'm "mother's little helper" (when she's stressed or doesn't get the dishes done before English Corner), while Becky is definitely "mother's little helper". But I think that at the right place and the right time she'd go off hunting, a lot. Neither of us are that hairy. Furthermore, we don't have that birthright thing, and who knows if she'd buy it from me if we did? Hmmm...

The biggest parallel, however, is that she's already a really good cook. So selling a birthright for her cooking isn't as impossible as it may seem...;)

The Bold Fenian Men

Yes, another song. I'm into Scottish songs and Irish songs that are against the English. This should make our very British neighbors aboslutely thrilled. Anyway, this one is "Down By the Glenside", and it's Irish. I've decided that I'm going to try and learn a lot of Jacobite songs and some Irish Rebellion songs. So far: the rest of "The Rising of the Moon" (Theodore Bickel tune) and "Down By the Glenside" and "The Foggy Dew". That's for the Irish. For the Jacobites: "Ye Jacobites By Name" (Robert Burns version!!!), "Johnnie Cope" (Not Robert Burns), "Will Ye No Come Back Again?" and perhaps some more. When we get home I'm really going to have to learn the guitar.

"Down By the Glenside" is a beautiful song about some rebellion (part of my project, after I've got words and tune down as easy as an Atwater-Donnelly song, is to research to death the origins and background, because there's some obscure stories out there), and its first verse deals with someone saying, "I was out walking and I saw this old granny humming this tune--'Glory O, Glory O to the bold Fenian men'." Anyhow, the tune is beautiful, and on some website I found an MP3 sample instead of a MIDI. I wish every website did that! It helps to know how the words fit in. But I like MIDIs, too and wish I could make them as good as some people out there...

Anyway, I'm writing a comic strip for my dad, the fourth in a series. The first three stories dealt with a young woman who 1.) frees her galaxy from the tyranny of the evil "Bureau" and its leader, Commander Krane; 2.) Gets Krane put in jail once and for all; 3.) Puts down another woman who wants to rule the Galaxy and is killing people to do it. But now, we turn from Sci-fi (and really bad Sci-fi at that) to folk music. This young woman's by this time aged quite a bit, and her children are grown. So her son, daughter, and son-in-law form a folk trio. Anyway, the story is about this woman's son, who is a bit of a jokester. Hence a really bad joke I made at the expense of this truly beautiful song:

Emmett (the son) is miffed at Theresa (his sister) because she said that he sang out of tune. Whether he does or not is yet to be soon. Theresa is moody and the siblings often have slight tiffs. Anyhow, Emmett has the solo for the first verse of this song, so he begins nicely:

"'Twas down by the glenside, I met an old woman
A-picking wild nettles; she scarce saw me comin',
I listened awhile to the song she was hummin':

And then he grins at his sister and bursts into "Angels We Have Heard on High"--"Glo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-oria in excelsis--oh, sorry. Glory O, glory O to the bold Fenian men!"

Theresa's response is: "Can't he just be serious?"

But it is a beautiful song, truly!

Oy, the internet!

No, like I said before, I'm not Yiddish. My catch-phrases are Yiddish and Chinese: "Oy" and "Aiyah!" Enough said.

Anyway, the internet is up again. How long will it be this time, hmmm?

At the Office

This is all in Chinese. I have to guess at publishing buttons, and I'm just glad I know the Blogger interface so well. I'm writing on the office computer because the internet in our home is down (again!) and I don't want to wait or publish via email that much, because it adds so many weird line-breaks. But enough complaining.

For school this week I have to write a paper about some disease. I'm having a hard time choosing between diabetes, AIDS, or leukemia. I asked Mom and she said, "What a cheerful decision". But then she suggested leukemia. I'm actually kind of glad. AIDS is interesting and horrible, but it also bears a bit of an aura of "starving children in Africa". We should help starving children in Africa, but it's not a suitable threat. In my opinion.

The Rising of the Moon

This is such a lovely song--the tune I know it to is the one I'm thinking of, though the other tune is nice, to. This doesn't have that little repeating bit, "At the rising of the moon, at the rising of the moon..." etc. It's really interesting. I used to think it was a woman (Sean O'Farrell's girlfriend?) singing. I still imagine that, though now I find that "buichaill" is a lad or a young boy. Oops!

Why did I become so interested in this Irish war song? Well, I liked it when I first had to sing it out of Theodore Bikel's book for school. Then, when I was thinking of making a personal tape of this "band"--i.e. my sister playing anything percussive, my dad singing what I could teach him, and me doing the rest of the stuff because I was the only one who actually knwe the songs--I started researching songs. At this time, 2004, or thereabouts, the word "moon" was this big joke between us...never mind why; the wrong people might see it. I learned the song as a joke. Then I thought it was great. At first, I thought it was a really slow, drawn-out song (sung by a woman, no less!), but I've heard the other tune now, and it's generally done pretty fast and by people who might at one time have fit the defnition of "buichaill".

So I guess the song has two identities for me...but where on earth is that tune from the Theodore Bickel's book has??? I can't seem to find it anywhere. Anyone know?

Ye Jacobites by Name

So you don't get lost, here are the lyrics to the particular tune I'm talking about: Ye Jacobites by Name.

Now, most of the penned down stuff and folk music you get in connection with the Jacobites is all pro-Jacobite and stuff like that. Now, here's a different twist on it. As the site clearly states and shows, the original words were a scathing, specific lashing of the whole Jacobite cause. Any more and your ears would bleed. Now, along comes Robert Burns with his Jacobite sympathies (and, luckily for him, he was also not in the actual time of the Jacobites or else...) and he toned down the lyrics. Now, when sung right, it's a great song full of fire, though a bit too specific for my tastes...I like songs about fictional characters who are metaphors for everyday life--or even real characters who are metaphors, like in "There Were Roses". But this song fascinates me.

Another Jacobite song I just discovered today and am wearing out my computer playing a MIDI file of it, is "Johnnie Cope". The lyrics are in broad Scots dialect (or whatever you call it) and the story is...well...let's just say I like Jacobite songs for their tunes (and, occasionally, sentiments), but I don't really enjoy the whole history or story behind the thing. However, as no one seems to have written new words for it, I'm coming up with my own personal ones. If they're good, you can read them here. The problem? Well, the chorus begins "Hey, Johnnie Cope" and I can't discard that. Seriously, I've tried. So now I have to find a name with two syllables and then one. The closest I've come to is "Mr. Brown" for the goat that gets into the...well, we won't go there; or "Willie Lew" (short for Willie Lewis, Lewis being the last name) for the...well, it's supposed to be funny, but I can't get any farther than "He's gonna loose and it's not his fault", but who would be saying that and why? Hmmm, somehow I think starting at the beginning would be easier...

Willie Lewis is another topic entirely. No, he's not my boyfriend. It's just how I came up with him and why that you will find interesting if you find anything about this blog interesting. Except, you probably won't. In the words of John Lennon: "I'm so bored/I buried Paul."

Earlier, and earlier...

Balkanarama is playing at Folklife. Which is where my dad first saw them live. This year, however, they're not at the Balkan Dance Party, they're at the Mural Amphitheatre! And not on Sunday night, either, but on Saturday morning.

Well, if you have the good fortune to be in Seattle at that time (unlike me. Alas!), you ought to try to catch them. 11 to 11-thirty.

My point is, though, that they keep moving earlier, and earlier. For years, they closed out the Balkan Dance party. (Okay, at least three....) And then they moved to earlier that night. Now it's early, Saturday. D'you realize what could happen? They might end opening the thing on Friday. Which would mean we'd make a special trip to see them. At least, I would beg and plead for that if my parents suddenly got it into their heads that it just wasn't worth it...

Hey, it's up again!

Yay, the internet is up!!!

Hurm.

Well, this is a revoltin' predicament. Our internet is
down and our cable isn't even showing up as a port.
I'm hoping--we're ALL hoping--that this is just a
glitch or a problem with the network. But it might be
the hardware. Stay tuned...

...do you know that only one of the "Paul is Dead"
clues gives me the creeps? It's not because of the
clue, it's just that I can't stand repeated lines like
"Number 9, number 9, number 9..." Anyhow, that does
give me the creeps, but it's not evidence.

P.S. Ever noticed? I'm really into this thing!

Poor Paul

disclaimer: Apologies to Rogers & Hammerstein, Paul McCartney, etc. This is just a piece of silliness on my part. I like to spoof songs.

P.S. Despite this, I think that Paul McCartney is truly alive and this William Campbell person is just a figament of somebody's imagination...

Poor Paul is Dead

Poor Paul is dead.
Poor Paul M. is dead!
He banged into a pole and cracked his head.
Now the Beatles are but three,
And it really seems to me
That it's time that they got another guy instead.

Poor Paul is dead.
Poor Paul M. is dead!
Now Bill is in his place as number four.
But they can't keep quiet now,
So now they shall endow
Their fans with clues as they've not done before.

Ever heard John say "I buried Paul"? It's there.
It's an amazing thing, indeed. Took a lot of money to keep the authorities quiet
Why spend all that money? Are you feeling guilty, John?
Why spend all that money and then start spreading the word anyway?

The folks that really knew him
Knew Bill wasn't Paul, but nothing made them ever tell
Did they agree? Or did John bribe them all?
Paul M. is dead, dead, man.

I hadn't realized that there were so many clues.
But they're there. I hadn't heard it.
I heard it on the record backwards
I heard it on the record forwards
I saw Death in the picture.
That's how they meant it.

Poor Paul is dead.
Poor Paul M. is dead!
And John can beg in vain "Please turn me on!"
Such an innocent disguise
And on the nines it underlies,
In a crazy, strange and very eerie song.

Poor Paul is dead.
Poor Paul M. is dead!
But the fans themselves--they just won't let it be.
But I cannot surmise
That this came as a surprise--
But you're all quite welcome for to disagree.

Poor Paul is dead.
Poor Paul M. is dead!
And, Bill, you've fooled me all these years.
Your duplicity I'll show
So that everyone will know
That he can truly believe what he hears.

Pooooooor Pauuuuul
Pooooooor Pauuuuul!

If you don't know what tune to sing this to, well, then...go check out Oklahoma! and watch it!

So Sweet

Well has Shakespeare said, "Parting is such sweet sorrow". I believe there is so much sorrow in the world, but I think that most of it is bitter. Parting, however, is sweet. So sweet. Its bitterness is tempered with the sweetness of love and memory. It may be tragic, yet love and memory remain.

Where am I going with all this? Well, as you might guess, I have recently parted with people. Our China team, to be exact. This was our last time together. Yesterday I said a lot of goodbyes and was down in the dumps all day. Rachel was some small comfort. She looked at my mournful face and said, "Not yet, silly!"

I grieve hard and there is no consoling my while it lasts. Yet, mercifully, it dissipates quickly, leaving me with a headache and a few bitter memories. And then, in a few months, I will remember times together with a strange pang of sorrow and a surge of joy; the sweetness of which will rival the sorrow of parting and will bring tears of some strange, unnamed emotion to my eyes.

Alas! Alack!

Today we leave for Kunming. There we shall leave a lot of books and go back here to a pitiably empty bookcase. Alas! Alack! :)

Whistle a happy tune

Last night I started playing the Bb whistle and Becky was reading my paper on the Civil Rights movement and Mum was just staring off into space instead of reading. I joked that with the whistle she couldn't hear herself think, and she said, no, that wasn't it.

I love my Bb whistle. It's a Generation, brass-plated, I think. It's really low and breathy, so it works to play airs and the more slower songs. For a fast song, I generally use the C whistle. It's also Generation, but it's nickle-plated. It's the one that matches most of my outfits, because of the blue mouthpiece. That one sounds great if you have the right acoustics, and somewhat funny if you don't. It's more shrill and wailing. I hardly ever use the D whistle. That one's a different brand, Feadog. I don't know what it's plated with, all I know is that whatever it is has tarnished really bad except around the finger-holes, where it's incredibly polished.

I got the D whistle as a joke. Actually, technically, it's Becky's and my whistle, but...well...she doesn't play it. She said that I acted as though I owned it by not letting her play it, but I reminded her that both of the times she's referring to I was talking about the other two, which are mine. And she generally plays it to tease me. I'd be happy to give her lessons! I mean, it's just what Mum and Daddy need--two whistles shrilling all the time!

Its tone is really different. It's shrill and loud with any acoustics, and I don't feel comfortable just candidly playing it in our living room anymore. The C whistle I'll play if it's just Becky around, and I'd play the Bb whistle in front of guests (if they wanted to hear it), but the D...ugh, it's so shrill and our living room is so small!

Fare thee well...let it not be the last!

Friday we leave for Kunming. Needless to say, I shan't be able to post until we get back. This'll be the last time we're together, but I cannot give up hope that it will not be the last I see anyone. I hope that somehow I'll see them again...someday.

It's a good thing I disabled commenting; I sound like I'm grasping at a silly hope and I don't need anyone to tell me that.

Bonnie Kellswater

I play a MIDI of this song over and over, insisting it sounds like Yunnan gourd-flute music. My mom and sister look at me and shake their heads, saying it doesn't. I say it does. Now, I'm sure they would disagree, but if you hear this song you get a small idea of what the gourd flute sounds like. So there. :)

Nothing much

I have plenty of blogworthy material, but most of you will understand that I can't blog it. Oh, well. Tomorrow I probably won't write, because we're going to be extremely busy and I want to come home and collapse.

So, early.

HIR!
HIRIA!

And then the rain and thunder came...

Wind, rain and thunder last night. For about fifteen minutes the wind was horrible and the thunder crashed down in torrents. And although it was only about seven fifteen, the sky was pitch black. By seven thirty, however, a queer orange light showed up in the west, and the wind gradually died down and the rain petered out. The thunder moved away.

Is the rainy season starting, or what?

Today it's Friday. Now, if only it would get dark about three in the afternoon, and...

Rain

It rained yesterday evening. We had the windows open and while it was chilly, the smell was everywhere. It's misty this morning. Perhaps more rain...?

Erin, Aran, Arran, etc...

I just love the name Erin, whether for a person, for a real place, or for a fictional place. I also know that you're supposed to pronounce Aran or Arran about the same way. I like the spellings, but I wish they were pronounced "phonetically" (though Gaelic is probably more phonetic than English when it all simmers down...).

Nothing, nothing to say

I know, this is getting pretty boring. The only thing to write about is that: My dad is correcting my story and I've decided to use this weblog to creatively ask him something: Why aren't you using the progress report?

Otherwise, there's nothing to write about. Except that my report is coming along. I think it's the best I've ever done. Daddy can answer that one more accurately, though...

Much to say there is not

It's very warm and summery here--I'm wearing shorts. My violin keeps popping out of tune. The big tuners (not the fine tuners--I'm talking about the big peg-ones) get this thing sometimes where they'll come out of their sockets a little and pull the string hopelessly out of tune. So you have to push the peg back in securely and tune the string. It's hard. I get nervous every time I do it--but I can tune my violin. I've tuned a string to a perfect pitch with a big tuner, but it was probably a lot of chance. When I finally do get my violin tuned, I'm always playing the same-old, same-old, except with more of an American twist. Maybe Mum is right to get me involved with the Washingtime Old Time Fiddling Association or whatever it's called. I just don't think my skill level is up to snuff for even classical music, much less old-time fiddling. Of course, once I do learn old time fiddling, it's going to be a strong temptation to murder the "Minuet in G" by...fiddling it! I love taking one style and applying it to my favorite song of another style. It sounds terrible, but also interesting. The other day I heard a Jewish (Klezmer, I think) group do some songs from the Passover Haggadah and the fiddle sounded really Celtic in style. Of course, I can't identify things like that, but that's what it sounded like. Oh, and Happy Passover, if you celebrate it; my calendar says that it's today. Which probably meant that it began at sundown tomorrow...right? I'm not sure. I don't pretend to be Jewish. I just sing in Yiddish sometimes because I like the song and the language. Thought about learning it, but Spanish is a bit more practical.

I just squeezed all that in one big unfocused paragraph! There truly isn't that much to say!

John Barleycorn

I used to hate that song. I used to think it was a song about two contenders for the throne, John Barleycorn and little Sir John. Sir John's supporters came from the West and killed John Barleycorn, torturing him. Sir John couldn't do it because he was too little. Finally, he grew a long beard and was the "strongest man at last". Everyone liked him, because he was for the people...the huntsmen, the miller, the tinker...

Then, I actually listened to the words and realized that it was something else. But what? I started to think that Little Sir John and John Barleycorn might actually be the same person.

Then, finally, I found it on the Contemplator's website and found out the true origins. Oh, ick!...

A New Fiddler

Well, I'm pleased to say that Balkanarama has a new fiddler--Cathy Clasper-Torch, formerly of the Atwater-Donnelly trio. While this shall certainly be a detriment to Atwater-Donnelly-trio, Balkanarama is going to have a whole new outlook.

Anyway, that's all for now.

APRIL FOOL!

Don't believe everything you read. CCT is still with A-D trio and Balkanarama doesn't have a new fiddler as far as I know. I know, it's lame, but Mum wouldn't let me do anything worse.

A musical evening

Last night was a very musical evening, and my left pinky is telling me it was too musical. Those of you who play the fiddle would probably find it very easy to believe that I sprained it reaching a little too high (and, yes, the A was a little too sharp when that happened). I played the violin for almost an hour and I really attacked some of those tunes. "Cold Frosty Morn" and "Liberty" were insanely fast and powerful with plenty of wrong notes. Which is how I play when I'm just having fun. I played "Cold Frosty Morn" for Daddy, who remarked that it was very nice, but not really Balkan. The tune is a reel from I don't know where. Ireland or America, most likely. But Daddy likes to tease me that I'm supposed to be Matty Noble's replacement. Ha, ha. I heard that he joined the band when he was my age, but the guy is a virtuoso! I could never play that well. At least not Balkan tunes. I haven't given up that by the time I'm seventy or so that I'll be fairly good at playing Celtic tunes. Dream on...

When I wasn't fiddling up a storm (the rest of the family was at English corner and happily exempt from hearing me murder dance tunes), I was pricing various instruments at Lark in the Morning for fun. I told this to Daddy who asked me if I'd gone to America, or what? I told him it was the World Wide Web. Lark in the Morning is like a three-branch music store with locations in California, Seattle, and somewhere else (Canada? Midwest? I have no idea). I have gotten three of my four whistles there, and I really like going in there. Of course, looking at pictures of instruments online is dangerous. I'd love to try them all out! I am an instrument maniac, I think. Anyway, if I'm coming to see me, stash all your string, woodwind, and keyboard instruments (drums and brass I either can't or won't play much just because three sections is enough!) and pretend you don't have any. Joke. I don't just walk into people's houses and start playing their instruments. (except for Uncle Gary. If he's got an instrument out, it's usually, "Look, everybody, try it out!" That's why I have dim memories of trying to play "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" on an Appalachian dulcimer and strong memories of murdering a digeredoo...)

Who Weeps Outside My Window?

Very modified title of a Canadian ballad. It's a pretty tune, and a tragic, Romeo & Juliet-esque story. I love it. I really go for the tragic ballads. The reason? They have the most haunting tunes. Also, the words range from, "Um, how many times are these folks going to die from love?" to "Waaaa, that's really sad!" The first is what comes up once you think about it. When you're not thinking, that category splits into two: "Oh, what a jerk!" to "Ohhh, how romantic!" This particular tune falls into first category, second side track.

I don't have the exact link with me now, but it's in the Canadian & Australian page on that Contemplator website I linked you to yesterday.

A Title

Well...well...well...

As you may or may not know, come June I'm abandoning this blog and starting a new one. Although it's only March, I'm thinking of titles and motifs. My latest is a Gaelic title used by Turlough O'Carolan. Sorry, it won't be in Gaelic. I recently found out how to pronounce that title, actually! I'm trying to think up an appropriate tagline and URL...

By the way, I was just thinking about Dvorak keyboards today. I don't know why--well, actually, I do, but it's complicated as a sci-fi novel, or at least relatively. Anyway, back to Dvorak. They say it's more efficient, but I tried to learn it once and I couldn't make heads nor tails of it. Besides, can you use the keys in order to come up with a great long "word" like QWERTYUIOP? I once had a character in a silly story known as Qwerty Uiop. However, I do find research and stuff behind this stuff interesting. I had this typing program user manual that just brushed on it, and it's interesting.

Ah, yes...folk music, keyboards, Gaelic...what do you think of my mind? Pretty convoluted? That would be the nice way to put it.

Check it out

Sorry, nothing new, except that I guess I did fairly well on my report. I have to correct it and turn it in Monday. Hmmmmm. Anyhow, I have a site you can check out if you're interested in folk music like I am: Here's a link. Be warned, there's background music on this site, but it's so interesting. You can always mute your computer if you need to, but the MIDIs are really something! I like this site so much I'm going to be adding it to my link list. But in case you missed it...

P.S. If you like Irish music a whole lot, check out Turlough O'Carolan. If you really like ballads, the Child Ballads is the way to go. And if you like sea shanties or stuff like that...well, you get the idea, right?

Sound Bites

Yeah, sorry, guys, I'm just giving you short posts about anything and everything. Translation of all these posts: Nothing much is happening except normal life and a stressful but fascinating report. So I have two sound bites today (besides this introductory paragraph) that probably won't interest you anyway, but you might like to see it anyhow...here goes...

First, as you might know if you're closely related (hi, Auntie!), my father and I are writing a very dumb Star Wars story. The whole plot of it has been lost. First it was defeat the evil Resiaks, a type of alien. Then it was defeat Darth Dolor, the latest Sith. Then it was defeat Darth Sidious who faked his death. Now it's defeat Darth Murderous who suddenly turned to the Dark Side. Darth Murderous used to be Luke Skywalker. Also, Obi-Wan and Yoda faked their deaths, pretended to be ghosts, pretended to be Anakin Skywalker's ghost, and now are trying to learn Jedi ways from J.P. Patches (clown from Pacific Northwest). Luke's daughter, Annie, is not sure whether to trust them or not, when she finds out that there are some people who have also faked their deaths. So it's stupid. Very, very stupid. It gives me and Daddy something to talk about, though, as I defy the conventions of Science Fiction and leave him to redeem it, which he can't always do. Also, between us, Luke has been married twice and has six children, of varying ages and varying temperaments. Guess who Darth Dolor was?

Secondly, (and perhaps more interesting, too. Good things come to people who endure), Becky and I have started a literary club. We read books together and do writing on them. Stuff like writing to the main character, or writing epilogues, or "deleted scenes"...it's fun. We've been laughing and giggling over a book we borrowed from Aunt Iantha, and now we're going to begin on...probably...this biography of Abraham Lincoln that Becky just adores. We take turns, choosing. Next? It'll probably be Anastasia: The Last Grand Duchess by Carolyn Meyer. We're both fascinated by the Romanovs, though I wish everyone would talk about Olga, or Titania, or Maria for once. Why Anastasia? Because a lot of people thought she survived, I guess. Anna Anderson and all that. Well...maybe when I grow up I'll write about Maria. Fun...huh?

Good Writing

I am a very emotional person, but it's very hard to make me cry with the printed word. But I hadn't really read much that Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. had to say before. I'd read about him, but (I admit it) very few if any direct quotes. Something he wrote from the jail in Birmingham made me cry. Literally. I had tears rolling down my cheeks. That's something for you. I was crying because of the concept, but also the words themselves. They just penetrated, deeper and better than most of anything I read. Why did whoever-it-was have to shoot him?!?!

Oh, brother

It seems I don't have the same taste in books as my father. Which is perfectly all right with me except for one thing--he also judges a book's quality, not just his personal preference. Of course, to hear him talk you'd think he likes anything if it's good, but doesn't like something if it's bad. But, anyway, it seems like if a book is labled "On My Shelf" on his book blog, I am immediately either going to love it to death, or (much more often) get bored to death. Either that, or it's a home publication of terrible literary quality that I wrote. Scary. Anyhow, this brings up an interesting point: When I grow up, I'm going to write books, but how will I get them good enough to rate them on my father's shelf by their merit alone? Seems my favorite books get a "check it out" rating, or worse...Splinter of the Mind's Eye was waiting room material! (Just kidding. I have better taste in literature than that. And as for reading harmless pulpish fiction to wile away the hours of a summer afternoon, I'm hardly the most guilty of that in the family) But I write stuff like my favorite books (except Jane Eyre. Who can top that? Not I!), sooo...

Lethargy

I love it here, but I wish I had as much to do as I did at home. I'm right now in a state of lethargy because of school but mostly because of boredom. I finish school, and then I have little to do or else I'm plopped in front of the computer all the day long. Well, there's two things I can do about this: I can take a walk, or even, sometimes, go to the English library and read an abridged classic. So, I plan to do this when I can. But, unfortunately, I have to finish my schoolwork and then have it checked and I'm not allowed to leave the house without permission if my work is undone and/or unchecked. So I'm trying to do more in the morning so I have time, energy and desire to do other things besides sit in front of the computer, eat, and complain about being bored. Let's see if it works...

The Dream

"I have a dream." Dr. King's words live on past his death.

I know, I know, it's not January. But I am doing a report on the Civil Rights Movement, and so his words are ringing through my head. I am amazed by just how much happened...some things have been drilled into my head since I was a little girl, and other things I haven't heard of until now. In Seattle, there are so many community centers, highschools, gradeschools, etc. named for people: Langston Hughes Community Center, Thurgood Marshall School (grade school or middle school? Can't remember), Medgar Eavers community center. And there's more across the country--living monuments to these people and what they did and what they stood for.

May Dr. King's dream come true...

Spring has sprung!

Here in Yunnan, spring means brown hills and dry grass and dust blowing in your face. Summer means rain making everything impossibly green and soaking in everywhere. Which do I prefer? If I were from a deserty area, I would like spring, I'm sure. But being from Seattle makes summer the ideal time.

It's a sad thought to have, I know, but I realize that with spring here, winter is over. Winter's song will next come to me in Seattle, in a blue house that I hope our renters are keeping up well enough (kidding. We drove by this summer and they seemed to be doing a fine job). One more season change--that to summer--and we'll go home.

Home. We're going home. And yet we're home now. Where do I live? What do I want? When will I find out?

What on Earth?

Yeah, I know I signed my last post funny. That's because I really like the name Kae as a nickname for Catherine. But if I went by Kae, everyone would start spelling my name Katherine or Kathryn or something like that. Not cool. So, my sister, Beck, comes up with this great idea: "Why not go by 'C'?"

So, here we are: I spell it Ceigh because that's prettier than C. But I'd really like to spell it Sígh, with a Gaelic-ish spelling, but I'd probably end up getting it pronounced like "Shee" or worse. Oh, well, I don't want people thinking I sigh a lot.

Overused names

If I'm ever going to be a professional writer, I'm going to have to come up with more names to use. Oh, I know and love plenty. For women, anyway. But my love of the name Janet makes me blind to any other name...actually, that ain't so much of a problem anymore. But. But, but, but. I can't seem to come up with good names for men. I generally end up with a Jacob (called Jake) in every story as a secondary character or a villain. And what's that about names for primary characters or "good guys"? Oh, you mean Emmett...or are you talking about Nathan. Oh, you meant Emmett the XIV. I thought you were talking about the first one. Or, if the character's Irish, he's Sean or Ian. Girls are Maureen. Or Sian (with a "roof" over the a).

So, someday you're going to read a book, probably a bad one, and...guess what? There will be ten characters: Jake, Emmett, Nathan, Janet, Maureen, and Sian. And Ian, Sean, Audrey and Helen. And then there won't be any more books because my editor will object strongly to my repitition of names.

Or, maybe I will see the merits of other names. What about Nathaniel? Emery? Shawn? Ivan? Jane? Marie? Shavonne? Ellen? Aubree? Whaddya mean, they sound a lot like the characters in the last story? And that plot...isn't that awfully familiar?

All right, that's it. I hope you actually read to the end of these ramblings. It either means I have loyal friends and family, or that my writings are good, or that you were amused enough to read to the end.

Ceigh

Music. Music. My kingdom for it.

Yesterday it was Balkan music. Today it was Klezmer. Tomorrow? Either American or Celtic folk. Probably both, i.e. Atwater-Donnelly. I can't stand this. I don't want to leave, I don't want to leave, I don't want to leave...hey, won't it be nice to be home and playing thus-and-such-of-a-CD...hey, that means I'll never have that "Dali Pasta Salad" again. No, no, no, no, no, no, no...! That's an example of my thoughts.

Life is strange. It's a strange, strange world, and one side of it is so hopelessly depressing and the other so sickeningly cheerful that you've got to get it both by halves. And hopefully you get a nice even slice of each, or else you're either depressed all the time or so cheerful that nobody wants you around.

KBCS is on their pledge drive. Which meant we heard six songs on a one-hour show and the rest of it was "Pledge at the 120 dollar level and get this!" Thankfully, pledge drive only lasts one week every time. It's very amusing the first time, but after that...

On a latter note, I'm busy working on my report on the Civil Rights Movement. Interesting stuff, there. It's a wonderful story. When I say story, I don't mean fiction, I just mean that the whole movement is like a story, with a definite goal and all sorts of plot twists. But the work it takes to retell it in a nice, dignified, research paper way for a fifth-grade audience is difficult...

Bad News

What's happened to Balkanarama? Every time they make a CD, they lose members and start changing slowly. It's been interesting, up until now, but this...

Matty Noble quit. For those of you who are not quite Balkanamaniacs like my family is, he is--he was their violinist. Very talented guy, too--practically a virtuoso. I could study like crazy for years, but I could never be that good--and he was with the band since he was about my age, which shows something about his playing skill, I should say. You listen to a sample of music of practically any CD and that beautiful quavering background, or sometimes the foreground--that's the violin. The whole family laments this loss.

The first time I saw Balkanarama, it was at Crossroads Mall in Bellevue, and he wasn't there, because he was (to quote band leader and the guy who does the talking, Mike Gordon) "Somewhere in a bus on 520". Non-Seattleites, that's a really really traffic-y freeway. Anyhow, he was there the next time, and the next, and the next...I've seen the band with and without violin, and it's going to be a loss.

But. The core of the band, as I see it, is still there, and hopefully they aren't going there. And as long as they stay, Balkanarama is going to be just as high on my list of top ten groups to listen to. Because the music is wonderful.

P.S. isn't it funny? Balkanarama loses members, Atwater-Donnelly "adds" them. Look at the website (it's on my links list), and you'll see "Atwater-Donnelly. Aubrey Solo [that's the Atwater part]. Atwater-Donnelly trio. Atwater-Donnelly band. Jerimoth Hill." What's next, Atwater-Donnelly Orchestra...?

Beannachtaí na Féile Pádraig oraibh!

Beannachtaí na Féile Pádraig oraibh! 'Tis St. Paddy's day, ye lads and lassies, and here we are in China. Guess we'll have to have a wee bit of baiju to celebrate!

And here I am, a lass who supposedly loves Celtic things, not wearing green??? Ack! Don't pinch me! I'll change!!!

Yeah, have a good one. We're celebrating by watching One Night at a Museum. Which I don't think is Irish. Should I go look up some Irish actors and watch a movie with them in it? Let's see. Liam Neeson, Sorcha Cusack...

Beannachtaí na Féile Pádraig oraibh!

How long are you going to sit around and quote Jane Eyre???

At least, that's what my sister says. I have no answer for her. I like that book!

Maybe I'll share my favorite line, later...

a new picture

Atwater-Donnelly's Photo Album has a new picture now, on top of the picture they've had up since Halloween 2005. Almost two years! But worth the wait. I really like this one. Jerimoth Hill in action! I can't wait to hear that CD...

Why?

Why do I want to publish books? When I grow up, I mean? Do I want to make sure that the whole world reads what I have to say? Do I want the whole world to know some startling philosophical truth? Do I want to make money to justify my scribbles? Or, is it one of the reasons I wanted to be an actress (long ago!); that people have given me so much I want to give other people too?

Why?

Or is it because I want to see my name in print?

Or do I want people to see what I have to say?

Or...what?

I don't know. I think there's a mixture of something selfish (though not necessarily bad selfish) and something truly wanting to give people things. I wouldn't mind writing books that make people cry...because I have read books that made me cry and I've enjoyed those because they're intense and they really draw you into the story. I want to give people something to read, to enjoy.

And yet, I know my motives are more than that. There's something selfish in here, and I don't know what it is. I don't think it's something to be concerned about--or even that's necessarily wrong. But what? What? What? Why? Why? Why?

And then, of course, there's the When? When? When? aspect of it, too. Just when, after I'm grownup, will I actually come up with a story that people will buy?

Finally, I'm trying to think of a title for my new blog, which I will start in (good grief!) less than four months now. Is Gaelic okay? (I'll see if I can spell it correctly...)

Oh, and today I learned how to say something I've been wanting to say. It describes our calendar picture: na dwa hua shi huang sih deh. That flower is yellow.

It may not seem like much to you, but I put together the sentence, and it's a little joy. The other little joy is that I understood a young woman (Hannah) when she said something about dancing. I heard tiao wu and I was so excited. I was whispering this excitedly to Mum as soon as it happened.

Two years ago, I cared about music. I still do. But there's so much else in the world; I think no one has enough time to experience everything! So much to see...and if bad things were taken away, there would still be barely any time for good things!

I digress. I'm still wondering why I want to publish...

Jane Eyre

I have just been rereading my favorite book, Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte. I'm not going to go look in the HTML ref to type the umlat, sorry. I have discovered what are my favorite parts, in order:

• When Mr. Rochester has the Ingrams and the other folks over
• When St. John Rivers and Jane are arguing (it gets funny once you know what will happen)
• Whenever Mr. Rochester tells his history (the history isn't so nice, but his narrative style is interesting...)
  

I really just like this book as a whole. One thing I find interesting is that Jane and others see others as inferior because of their education, and find it frustrating. What's interesting about this is that Charlotte Bronte had the same problem. She lived in Haworth all her life, practically, and by her standards, there was nobody with education to talk to. It's depressing, and while there are parts of the book that have a prejudice, (Jane thinks French people are inferior and there's also prejudice against "Creoles"--what terms, one doesn't know) this is hardly a prejudice, but more of a simple problem: if you're more educated, there comes a point when you have to draw the line or you'll lose your listener's interest and the pleasure of conversation. Interesting enough!

Oh, and the version we have has all these critical excerpts in the back of the book which are vastly interesting. You've got to read Jane Eyre, it's an exceptional book!

...I don't know all the words...

I'm gonna sing you a song,
Even though I don't know all the words.
That never stopped me before--
Even so, I don't know all the words...

I have no idea what that song is all about, but it's a beautiful song. And whatever it means, a bit of that song took on a new meaning yesterday.

Yesterday was Kiana's early birthday party. Most of the foreigners here are leaving by April, so this was sort of a farewell party, as well. What was nice was that there was a family of foreigners who left last year and are not coming back here except for this visit (and maybe another visit, but I doubt it, and anyway we probably wouldn't be there). We went to a playplace by Dico's. What was nice was that it wasn't so strict as it was in America. I know that some rules are for safety regulations, but I have been prohibited by height and age to get in a ball pit for ages. I love ball pits! So I had fun.

Preston and Alexander, two foreigner kids, began socking balls at me, and I socked them right back. I noticed a three national kids watching me. All little boys a bit older or about the same age as Preston. After awhile, Preston and Alexander left, but the boys began throwing balls at me. I was happy. In America, when I was eleven and twelve, I would play with little kids on the playground, and I had fun doing it. Parents would be asking me if I babysat, so I guess I made some sort of impression on them. The babysitting questions annoyed me some (I hate looking older than my age), but I managed to keep answering politely and pleasantly, "No, sorry." But I enjoyed playing with the kids, and it made me happy to do it again.

Anyway, it was soon chaos. Two of the boys socked balls at me and one little boy who kind of became my shadow. Two girls watched us, then began making a fort (behind the slide) and sending balls in waves towards us. Alexander showed up and also began throwing balls, crowing, "Boys against girls! Boys against girls!" It was hilarious! It was also tiring.

Oh, how I wish I was fluent in Chinese! I love to play, but it makes me feel bad when I can't understand what they're trying to say to me. Thankfully, I think it didn't really matter too much, yesterday. But I still wish...

Just a Quick Note

Classes started today. It's nice to have stuff like the cafeteria open again. And my mother is generally more cheerful when she has stuff to do.

JERIMOTH HILL (the group) IS FABULOUS! I'm going to wear out the headphones listening to their sample track. Maybe when we get back to the States...

A Startling Equation

I am trying to train my mind to think complicated plots and details, because I want to write novels when I grow up. Hence: I'm trying out novel-length ideas right now, even as we speak. Unfortunately, it's hard not to cram everything into the first chapter. And subtlety, an art I admire, is not one of my strong points.

Plus, I keep wondering if I've heard the names I put down in writing before. Names really do matter, but I also don't want everybody wondering about some character I named "George Washington" or something like that. Once, a long time ago, I called a character John Adams, but not knowing much history, wondered where I'd heard it before. I attempted (and never suceeded) to psych up the courage to ask Daddy: "Is there somebody in politics you don't like named John Adams?" Another time, I came up with an Angela Bennet, when an Angela Somethingoranother and a Ruth Bennet were running for some office. Now, I'm wondering. Is the name Meg or Margaret Thatcher a name I should have heard before? In what context? Does it really fit a motherly older woman with health issues who is continually worrying about her nephew who is getting into trouble because of a crazy political scheme he has worked out?

Finally, it's really hard to figure out little everyday details. And I have too much of a liking for conversation. And, again, the subtlety. I might as well shout from the rooftops: "IN MY STORY, SO-AND-SO IS ACTUALLY A TRAITOR!" Dumb. Anyhow, eventually, I hope, with coaching and practice--much practice--I shall end up cranking out some decent "Young Adult" (hello, we're teenagers!) fiction...

But, until then...oh, well. If everything I typed or came up with was automatically published...alas for literature!

You can't catch up, Mom

My poor mother! Just the other day she was remarking how we were caught up--we have Balkanarama's latest (the name slips my mind), and also Atwater-Donnelly's beautiful 2005 recording: When Winter Calls.

Now, I shall break to my mother the news that Atwater-Donnelly (plus four or five others, the new group "Jerimoth Hill") has put out another recording. Perhaps she'll cheer up when she hears that there's a very fun sample on the website. And I'm sure she'll cheer up when she finally hears the sample!

Anyway, do yourself a favor and go listen to the sample (and if you want to do the hard-working people who give us the music a favor, you can do what we do: have a running collection of their CDs). It's pretty easy to find once you get to the website.

So, I leave you with that. What did we do on vacation besides almost die? Well, that's a post for another day...

just a profile pic

This is me in Xishuangbanna (a.k.a. Xishuang"banana")

Adventure--part II

Home seemed to be on the way for our "brave heroine". She, along with her family and a bunch of people bound for Loshan, China, have just entered a plane after waiting in vain for the one they were supposed to be on to get fixed. After at least three hours delay, she is finally on her way home...or is she?

Part II--"Take Care of your Kids!"

I was singing "The Wells Fargo Wagon" from "The Music Man" as we entered the shuttle. I sat down in the seat 14C next to a couple whom I didn't know when we entered the aircraft. I glanced over the safety manual. I've read those since I was eight years old and I have practically memorized them. I watched the safety demonstration with a little interest, then as the plane took off, felt my headache coming back.

I flipped through the China Eastern magazine, looking at the pictures--the words were in Chinese. There was even a small article about Loshan! I can see why. If I may say so, it is the best of both worlds. It is not exactly tropical, but not exactly alpine. I have experienced both on vacation.

Pretty soon, they turned the TV on. The flight had been rather rough, and we were just experiencing turbulence, which always makes me nervous. I imagined we were decreasing altitude, and for a minute, I thought the masks were coming down! Imagine my relief when I discovered it was a TV. We began watching fashion shows. It might be my imagination, but I seemed to recognize the tallest, skinniest, small-headed model from the flight to Beijing! It is indeed possible, I think.

Soon, the TV went back up and I felt a definite decrease in altitude (I can feel these things). We were told we were descending to Loshan, and to fasten our seatbelts, put up our traytables, and put up our seats. Quickly, I and the couple beside me complied with the commands. I elt my head and decided it would be nice to be home.

The next minute, I felt like it would be nice to be on the ground, safe and sound--in Timbuctoo if that was the need!

The plane experienced a bit of turbulence. I'm used to that. It happens all the time. I saw with excitement hills that looked vaguely familiar. I saw a city and tried to decide if it was Loshan. The man next to me said something about Yun "Beehive", which is about an hour and a half from Loshan by car. Oh, well. I was coming home!

Wait a moment, I thought with a touch of horror and a lot of bewilderment, isn't this too fast? Daddy says I need to trust people more, but this was beyond that. There was only one I could trust at this point, and when that happens it's really frightening. It must have been scarier for the rest on board. The couple next to me clasped hands as we dipped, rose a bit again, then started descending faster and faster, bouncing about. The intercom crackled on. "Ladies and Gentlemen, we are experiencing turbulence. Please remain seated and take care of your kids!" The man next to me didn't have any kids, at least not right with him. Instead, he grabbed a barf bag. His wife or girlfriend giggled nervously.

I gripped the edge of my armrest in panic. More than anything, I wanted the danger to disappear or the end (if indeed that was what would happen to us) to come quickly. Skimming the edge of mountains in a plane full of shrieking passengers is not my idea of a good time. Shrieking and nervous giggles added to the confusion. No longer were the mountains invitingly green and familiar. Now they were evilly close, evilly rocky. I must admit, I was hoping one petty hope. I hoped that if the guy had to use the barf bag, he would not barf all over me or his girlfriend or himself. I was actually hoping he wouldn't barf. I was also thinking, "Barf bag! I'll be happy if I ever barf again!"

Slowly, we rose and turned. I wondered what came next. Soon the intercom crackled on. All I caught was "Kunming Gi chan" and "Loshan Gi chan". Also, I heard the communal shrieks turn to. "Oooohhhhhh!" Then the announcement was made in English. "We're going back to Kunming".

The couple on my left fell asleep on each other, still clutching each other's hands and the barf bag.

Adventure--part I

Well, guys, I'm very glad to be alive. And this is why. I think I can tell this in three parts. Here is the first.

Part I--A Delay

I was crying. We had just said goodbye to the team for the second-to-the-last time. In April, we'll say goodbye again, and then...that's it. So I was sobbing into my handkerchief in the Kunming airport. I would remember how Katrina teaches me a little Chinese...how much fun Rachel is...Aunt Laney's sweet concern for my cough...etc. (Just because I haven't mentioned somebody just means I can't exactly put into words what I will miss). And I was trying to eat an expensive meal of fried rice chock full of la jiao and pickled vegetables. It tasted terrible, and I had ten minutes to stuff as much as I could into an uncooperative stomach. I managed to do it some small justice, but I was still crying as we hurried away from the cafe at 2:00 sharp. We'd already checked our baggage, but we needed to go through security before our flight left at 2:50 PM.

We hustled through security, waiting impatiently as the man checked our boarding passes and passports. He looked at the picture of the frowning girl in a blue checked short-sleeved shirt and her hair pulled back in a half-ponytail. He found enough resemblance in her face to the acne-spotted, tear-streaked face in front of him, and let me pass. I pulled off my purse, handkerchief, jacket, and camera and shoved them into the bin before passing through the security check. Soon we were heading down the familiar passageway down to the exact same waiting hall our flight to Xishuangbanna with the whole team had waited at. Down the exact same gate we would go, at the appointed time, to fly...alone.

I was heartsick. Time and again my blue eyes filled with tears, and my glasses smudged. I forced myself to eat a chocolate muffin, bought for an exorbitant price at a small airport commodity and gift shop. 2:30 PM. When would we begin boarding?

My head was starting to hurt as it reached 3:00. I looked around, trying to find some information in Chinese and Chinglish about the flight to a small city that should have left ten minutes ago. Nothing. Then, to my annoyance and concern, a woman shouted something into a microphone. My Chinese is very bad...(all right. Nonexistent!) and I couldn't understand what she said, but I heard our city's name mentioned...numerous times.

Soon, I heard the "doo-doo" and a woman's voice crackled onto the intercom. "Ching wang Loshan [For purposes of storytelling I've made up a name for our city] duh li cuh ching cho leh"...or something like that. I knew she wasn't telling us to board because she continued: "wo men..." that means "we" and it precedes every delay and cancellation message I've heard there. Then she repeated in English. "Ladies and Gentlemen. May I have your attention, please? We regret to announce that flight MU1167 to Loshan cannot leave on schedule. Due to..." I couldn't make out what she said, "...would you please wait for further information? Thank you. Ching wang Loshan..."

What is it? I thought, frustrated. Soon, they posted a noticeboard in English and Chinese that announced that there were mechanical difficulties and the flight would leave on "no time". Which, in my experience, is Chinglish for "we don't know and please don't bug us about it."

A few minutes later, they wheeled in a library cart filled with boxes. A man started shouting "Loshan...blah blah blah blah blah," into his megaphone, and immediately our fellow-passengers began crowding 'round him and the boxes. In a minute, I could see why. They came back with cans of coconut juice. I was so thirsty and really wanted something besides water to drink. Plus, the day before I had enjoyed a fresh coconut with Aunt Laney and knew what it was like to drink. My sister and I felt the same way, so we showed the man our boarding passes, as everyone else was doing, and came back with a tall cool (not cold, but not lukewarm, either) can of juice each. I opened mine and took a sip. Obviously, there was sugar and coloring added, but it had the same wonderful taste. I settled myself down to read some critical notes on Jane Eyre while my headache wonderfully disappeared.

Next to us, there was a flight to Beijing boarding. To my astonishment, I noticed a plethora of tall skinny lao wai women dressed in the height of fashion with their faces made up. A lot of them had their hair bleached or dyed. They seemed to be from European nations, but I caught an American accent on one of them. Fashion show? Some of these women looked half-starved! More and more flocked on. Now, expatriates who live and work in China, or even just casual tourists, have a "look" to them. They're dressed a variety of ways...they speak Chinese...they don't wear a ton of makeup...we decided that these women were definitely fashion show material. I looked with astonishment at one whose head was somewhat short and skinny, with bleached hair, a short torso, and long legs. And skinnier than Katrina, who to my mind is plenty tall and plenty thin. I think Katrina was shorter than some of these women.

After they stopped flocking to their flight to Beijing, there was nothing else much to see. Our flight, they told us, would leave about 17:50. Finally, another gate opened, and our flight was announced. It was 17:30. We crowded into a shuttle and were bussed out to another plane. I'd seen a plane at our gate getting one of its under-wing engines fixed, so I was glad it was a different plane.

Finally we're on our way, I thought. Now nothing can go wrong.

Nothing?!

Ugh

An expatriate's life is a lonely one. Micha and Kiana (and their parents) are moving to Kunming in March. I'm going to miss them. Hopefully I'll be able to spend time with some foreigner.

On a lighter note, we are heading to Dali and then Xishuangbanna this Spring Festival. It sounds like wonderful fun. I dreamt we were in Xishuangbanna and found this Irish store owned by this Irish guy. That was really weird, especially as he was charging me for this hairpiece and first he types in what it is, then he typed in what was the design and what was the color. It all made this equation. Oh, well. I was just dreaming.

Haloscan

Guys--

I've just (re)installed HaloScan on my blog. It's not showing up. Is it showing up for you? If you read this and you see a link to comment at, please comment. Thank you!

Winter

Good grief! It depends somewhat on your opinion, but WHO STARTED THE
POPULAR ASSOCIATION WITH WINTER BEING DEPRESSING??? It's not!!! Winter
is one of the best times of year. I appreciate Narnia for its symbolism
and archetypes, but the whole "always winter and never Christmas" would
be bad any time of year. Period. It's BORING to have no seasons.
Spring's rebirth would get old after awhile. Summer's heat would drown
people in their sweat after not too much. Autumn's winds and harvests
would drive one nuts (no pun intended) if it never ended. WHAT'S WITH
WINTER? Everything's asleep! It's a wonderful, lazy quiet time of year.
Time to think.

Of course, if you have enough books, you can outweather quite a few
boring events...

Bracelets

My friends must think I'm a jewelry person.

The July before last, we had a bunch of people over and everybody gave
me a necklace.

When my friend Kelly left for America last summer, she gave me a
bracelet.

When it was my birthday, my friend Kiana gave me a bracelet.

When it was Christmas, my friend Sherry gave me a bracelet.

When we had a playdate with Kiana and her sister we made jewelry.

Look at my picture; AM I a jewelry person?

Poor Me!

Alas. My school assignment was to write a short story--one or two pages
long--that used flashbacks to tell the main part of the story, like
"The King's Fifth" by Scott O'Dell. Thankfully, it could be about
whatever I wished. So I came up with my favorite story that I tell to
myself, which has undergone massive changes along the way (Mainly:
changed a main character's name, replaced the villain, changed the
personality of a main character's sister, changed the name of the
imaginary country). I wrote it down, getting very caught up in it and
doing, if I may say so, a fairly good job, for me (but that isn't
saying much, truly. You've never read my fiction). Now, the shortest
"short story" I have written has been eight pages long. I completely
missed (and I would swear to that in court) the part that said "two or
three pages", so I wrote away and submitted it, thinking, "Well, at
least it's under twenty pages, unlike the time I retold the Greek
Myth." No. It was 23 pages long.

My punishment was this: Shorten it. To two pages, but if it was over it
would be accepted. I did all I could and it's still three pages long.

Alas. When I write a short story it's too long, and when I write a
novel-length story (I can dream, can't I?) it's much too short.

I'm learning to write more, to include more descriptions, to edit
myself and lengthen myself. It works. And if I had known about the
limit I would have come up with something else, entirely. The problem
is I don't notice. (Now: do NOT say I "need to notice" these things. I
know that, and I am working on that. The LAST thing I need is a million
people saying that to me.)

Alas, I must learn somehow to actually write a short story that isn't
8+ pages long. My poor, poor, homeschool evaluator!

It's a Wonderful Life....

....and what came over me at Micha's and Kiana's house where I cried
buckets over Return of the Jedi? I have never cried so much over a
movie before or since, though there are plenty of runners-up: "It's a
Wonderful Life", "Narnia", "Fiddler on the Roof" (Especially the scene
where they're cleaning up Tevye's house and Tevye is looking up with
his hands spread out). Why? Why? Why? I LIKE to cry buckets over a
movie.

I guess that's all for now.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!

Happy New Year and here I am starting ninth grade (we always start our
school years in January). I am reading absolutely fabulous books!!! Of
course, as soon as I got to the folks planning the mutiny in that one
book, I knocked my glass of water off the table. Somebody go hang Scott
O'Dell for me, will you? Thank you. Anyway, my sister is in fifth
grade. If we weren't going to homeschool all the way through twelfth
grade, she might be starting middle school next year! AAAA! My baby
sister. :(

Anyway, I asked Mum if we were sending me to public school at home this
year (ninth grade) what middle school would it be? Asa Mercer?
Washington? Something else? She said she really didn't know.

Anyway, that's all for now. Happy New Year.