Stars on the Water

I don't generally like to give out locations, but I'm in "Asia's World City"--Hong Kong --for a couple days. Yesterday was the tenth anniversary of the Change-over, when Britain gave Hong Kong to the People's Republic of China. Now it's an SAR, Special Administrative Region, and it has more freedoms than the rest of China. Despite this, it's crowded and rather hot. The humidity saps you. Thank God for air conditioning! It's everywhere.

I was simply going to write that I saw the fireworks over the harbor last night--I was on the Peak. We took the tram up with a friend and wiggled our way through crowds to find the best viewing spot. I stood in an outdoor pavilion, so to speak, with a circular doorway. I stood on one side of the doorway until the crowds thinned a bit. My feet hurt from bending them.

The fireworks were awesome. They were all colors, beautifully coordinated. Red and yellow, colors of luck and fortune, predominated. As the yellow ones shimmered, I remembered the Chinese flag, red with five glittering stars. Yellow stars for China, and all colors of fireworks blossoming for the flower of Hong Kong. It was beautiful.

I can see why there were crowds. Some sights, though, carry such feelings for only one person that they would be better watched from a lonely hillside...

No-man's Land

No-man's land.

Some might think I'm a tad crazy, or at least overreacting, but I have to say it.

We took down all our wallhangings and pictures yesterday. Two years ago, when we moved into the furnished apartment, there was absolutely nothing on the walls. I got permission from my parents and instantly began dashing paint on paper and hanging up the results when they were still damp. The walls quickly lost their whiteness, not from dirt, but from drawings. The drawings were everything from the amazing hills here to the hills and views of the home I had left. They were imagined pictures from stories I wove in my head, the only bit of the stories I would share with others, then or now (maybe another time, but...).

We moved in August, and at the year's end, I cut out all the pictures from the calendars and put them up, too. The walls sprouted more and more color as the years progressed, and I was happy.

Suddenly, it was time to take down all the pictures, which I dutifully did, deciding which to keep and which to toss, which was difficult. D'you know, we've got to stuff everything we want to take with us into eight suitcases? We can't take a moving van, and my mother doesn't like shipping stuff, so we're going to have to fly. Thank God that our new-old place (it's actually the same place we lived in before) has furniture! Anyway, I took down the pictures, feeling satisfaction in ripping things off the walls, trying to rip out my sorrow, I think.

After that, I sat down at the computer and did my usual stuff, and was glued to it for awhile, which, unfortunately, is my way, whether I like it or not. There's no library here.

I glanced up when my sister came in proudly advertising her new backpack. Had I been standing, I would have staggered backwards. What had happened to my home? The walls were as bare as our first sight of them. But because I had lived here for so long, it was still home, yet--like when we moved last time--it had become a hollow shell, that I am as loath to leave as to stay in.

I couldn't sleep last night, not for the longest time. The wall beside my bed was empty of vacations, family and friends staring me in the face and murmuring lullabies; I'd taken down all my photographs. The wall perpendicular from the bed was empty of the brochures I'd carefully arranged there. The light from the living room was empty because I couldn't glimpse pictures blocking it. It was empty--something weird from a horror movie or something.

I finally got to sleep, but I woke up at six thirty in the morning (my mother, as a teacher, is giving final exams and had to start awfully early!). A cup of tea rejuvenated me, but I'm still tired, kind of edgy, and--yes, still--in horror at what has happened to the walls.

Universal Language

The Universal Language is supposed to be Esperanto. Actually, that's what they were trying to pull off. It hasn't worked yet. I have gone overseas and have seen English signs for posterity or for the usage ease of foreign visitors. Being an American, I have not learned a language, though my mother made me study one dialect of Chinese, and I chose to study another. With the first, I made no headway; with the second, I was able to play Uno completely in that language! Of course, I couldn't say much to the guy who completely screwed me up but "Thank you", very sarcastically. When it comes time to study my high school requirement, I'm going to learn Spanish, the language I can best use in my circumstances.

But I digress, this actually was not about words. When all the languages were scrambled, it was one of the worst punishments on earth, but there was a small compensation that helped ease the blow. The true Universal Language was left to us.

I one time performed a tin whistle solo at a talent show and was accosted the next day by a group of folks who couldn't speak English. I happened to be playing the piano at the time. They nodded at me excitedly and made motions to show that they'd seen me playing the music the night before, and stuck their thumbs up, grinning joyously at me the whole time. I then was supposed to play them something on the piano. It didn't come off as good, as my fingers had suddenly turned to bricks. Ah, for a professional's poise! I wish...

Music. That universal language. If you want people across centuries, continents, generations, to hear your exultation, your pain, your gift to the world, pull out your instrument of choice and record it. Chances are that somehow it will come out.

Of course, it's not as precise as words, but sometimes precision detracts. Obviously, one can't pull out a whistle (or a fiddle, or a guitar, or a trumpet), start playing in the Hong Kong International Airport, and expect the plethora of people from all over to understand that you mean, "Where is the #@#$ restroom? My flight to Timbuctu is in 5 minutes!", and the guy from Israel can't pull out a banjo and respond, "Wait 'til you get on the plane!" But you can take out your whistle and play it (where you're allowed to) and throw your heart into it, and somehow someone will understand.

Of course, they won't know exactly what goes on inside your heart, and they won't know exactly what you mean. But there will be that invisible link between your music and your heart and that persons ears and heart, and often, if you have no practical needs (or even if you can do but can cast aside the cares of the practical world for a moment), it's enough to create unity. I have sung a song in English while others around me have sung it in their language. It makes for a delicious cacophony, and an understanding.

I, of course, love music and chose it as one of my primary avocations (vocation? You may think so, but you have not heard me play or sing!), but it astounds me how much universality there is in that genre.

By this time, you may be thinking, "I just don't get those shrieky Celtic flute-thingys," or else, "What about that Hawaiian steel guitar that I can't stand?" Well, unfortunately, lack of understanding was there long before screwy speech, and is present in everything. Almost as important as other freedoms and tolerances is the freedom and tolerance of music. Which I need to remind myself of when I hear those steel guitars (but I do like Celtic flute-thingys; tin whistles!). And the rest comes naturally.

I'll close with a story. I had a very dear friend and dance teacher who liked us all to bring music to class. I, of course, brought Atwater-Donnelly's (I have a one-track mind sometimes!) The Blackest Crow and let her pick a song. She chose the only song on the album that I didn't care for, "Sweet Fern." I danced to it dutifully, and when we were done, she went into raptures about it. "Oh, what a lovely song! How sweet! I just love that song! Caitriona, thanks for bringing the music!"

I sat there, thinking, "Really? I can't stand that one!" But then I thought again. I liked and respected my teacher, and I didn't want to hurt her feelings. So of course I wouldn't say it aloud. I found myself automatically rescanning the whole song because my teacher loved it so. And then I found something in there, the exquisite longing and the sadness that accompanied it. Maybe it wasn't what my teacher found, but now I love the song because I found what it means to me.

So, now, excuse me while I go find a decent sample of Hawaiian music and discover what it has to say...

The Green Paintbrush

Which is, I think, what God used when He made this place in summer. The rains have come, but it was a patchwork day today, and I happened to go out just as the sun came out and kissed his lover, Mt. Flag. I stopped dead in my tracks and stared openmouthed at that green. I've never seen green liked that before. It's just...mindboggling, I think. I am not this good painter or anything, but I did mix a tint to match up with our bathroom counter a couple years ago, and was quite pleased with the result. However, neither I nor anyone else (and most people are better than I) could match that tint! Not even a camera, complete with a darkroom--digital or otherwise--could come even close. And Mum says that Emerald Ridge on Mt. Rainier is the same way!

Time ditched with the snail she had been keeping company with, and is dragging me along at a fantastic pace! Sometimes I want the snail. Sometimes I want all the stress and grief and sorrow to zip by at a faster pace. However, I'm not wearing track shoes, and my companion has a mind of her own, unfortunately. If I were in charge, we'd zip along and slow down only at important parts. But Time gets her orders from a higher source, and I'm lucky of that.

I'm sitting here alone while my mother and father judge a contest. My sister came with them, and I'm enjoying having the five-room apartment all to myself. I'm reading comics (not Unshelved, but another one) and typing alternately and also listening to Atwater-Donnelly. Sometimes a folk tune just perfectly describes what I'm thinking. Other times, it must be pulled way out of context but holds a special meaning (sometime, I must tell you about "Donkey Riding" and Palm Sunday) for me because of it. "The Road to Drumleman" is one of them. Drumleman has become my personal word for heaven-on-earth, so to speak. No place is perfectly Drumleman. I found Drumleman many times here. Will I find it when I go back "home" to Seattle? I miss the comforts of the city, but a sort of a rural-y town is relaxing.

Oh, gracious. Here I am, rambling with no purpose, really, and not singing along because I'm concentrating. I can sing along with practically every song Atwater-Donnelly does if I'm listening to a.) the selfsame recording or b.) them actually singing it, but I still have many songs to go before I can sing them alone. Life is good.

Paddy's Lamentation

Lyrics to one of the saddest songs I've ever heard.

"There is nothing here but war
Where the murderin' cannons roar
And I wish I was at home in dear old Dublin."

This Civil War era song is just tragic. It's the story of an Irishman who heads off to "Americay" because he wants to start a better life, but (somehow) he ends up with a rifle in his hand. "Paddy, you've come to fight for Lincoln." So off goes the hapless fellow to fight the South, and he ends up with a wooden leg warning fellows: "To Americay I'll not have you goin'!"

This, by the way, fits the definition of tragic songs with haunting tunes and lyrics that I absolutely love. You can sing them when you're happy and bring a little happiness to it, you can sing them when you're sad and feel like you're either not alone or else you've got it so good compared to these folks, and sometimes they take on new shades of meaning. So, I'm putting "Paddy's Lamentation" up there with "Kilkelly" "West Virginia Mine Disaster" "There Were Roses", etc.

Funny, I just looked back and realized that all three of those are original songs (i.e. by someone, not traditional). "Paddy's Lamentation" is traditional, so it's a start. Anyway, I suppose this shows my regard for Peter Jones, Jean Ritchie, and Tommy Sands...

Bonnie Susie Cleland

I'm listening to KBCS online. KBCS is a community radio station, and it's got everything from very Democrat programs (blam about the status quo and the president, basically) to wonderful programs like Folksounds, done by Eric Hardee and Jean Brendecke. Anyway, one of those Democrat programs is going on right now, CounterSpin, and I'm waiting for Folksounds. I think that someone on the show this edition is surnamed "Cleland" or something like that, which immediately made me think about "Bonnie Susie Cleland to be buried in Dundee."

I like tragic ballads, stupid or no, because they're interesting. Most of the time, the folks in the ballads are worse off than the singer, and yet any sorrow the singer has and any empathy or sympathy can be thrown in and be mixed in. And, besides, many of these tunes have the best tunes. So, that's why I like them, though I'm very soft-hearted and can't even bear to watch The Empire Strikes Back without closing my eyes about four times.

But "Bonnie Susie Cleland" is just horrorific. I've heard that the events described here might have really happened, and that horrifies me. It's worse than "Omie Wise", though that one is based on a true story.

The premise is that Susie Cleland, a pretty Scottish girl, has fallen in love with an English soldier. Her father and brothers are horrified and demand that she renounce her love and abandon him. She tells them that she won't, and so the father and brothers decide to take action--but not against the soldier, which would make some sense, nor by locking up Susie herself, which makes sense, as well.

No. Susie's family should be in Seattle--their motto is "There's got to be a harder, more complex way to deal with this." But I'm not about to go on and on about how Seattle takes forever to get around to doing stuff (even though it's true) because there aren't any Seattleites in the song. The point is, Susie's brothers get a big pile of wood, and...well, I don't even want to finish this, but they get a big pile of wood and Susie's father gets a stake, and then they tie her to the stake, and...have you read about the Spanish Inquisition? Something like that.

Now, that in and of itself is a bit extreme. There are plenty of other ways to deal with an English lover, I'd think, but burning one's daughter or sister at the stake seems rather...well...

What are you trying to do, Mr. Cleland? Are you trying to punish your daughter? Are you trying to protect her? Or are you trying to teach her lover a lesson? There are better ways to do it!!!

I suppose I better get off my soapbox now. Why start yelling at someone in a song? It won't change anything. I better just go find the happy ending version...

Horror and Relief

More about the earthquake. It was 200 km away from us and didn't affect anything. But there are 3 dead, more injured, and even more homeless from it. Something about it just haunts me. I slept, woke, and slept again. In that waking moment I had peace after the shaking stopped, but 200 km away someone was weeping, someone was dying, someone was hurt, someone was dead. No one I knew, but still, it's bad.

Aftershock at 10:49 in the morning. I already blogged about that, but I hear it had a magnitude of 5 or something. As if six wasn't enough!

Anyway, that's the earthquake. Everyone was talking about it. People up in the top floors of our apartment complex were terrified. It's an awful thing. I called up someone on the phone last night and it was all we could talk about. There wasn't much else to say.

It's been so hot lately, but I was outside anyway with some of my parent's friends. We were sitting outside a restaurant when I started feeling drops. It started pouring! We went inside, but there were breaths of cool air, and the oppresive sunshine had finally stopped. It was back up again within half an hour, of course, but the air was cool, the ground was wet, and rivulets of water were running down the earth, being drunk up by the thirsty ground.

It's still hot, but it was a breath of relief all the same. Yesterday was a day of mixed feelings, just like last Christmas, when I saw someone lying in the middle of the road--apparently having been hit by a car--and yet something happened which made it the happiest Christmas of my life.

By the way, I've installed Haloscan commenting and trackback on this site (but not my poetry site, because I don't want to delete Sorah's comment) because I prefer it to Blogger commenting. Just thought I'd mention it.

Earthquake at Dawn

I was dreaming. I was riding home on a bus from the province's capitol and reading what I was doing on the computer. I was living EV Nova and getting ready to fight off Commander Krane, the supreme bad guy in the game, all in this bus. My sort-of-uncle Joel (a real-life person) was talking to my sort-of-aunt and I don't know why they were coming with us. Thatched roofs that looked decidedly Irish were along the road, and there were some cows.

Irritated, I pushed off the blanket. Blanket? I didn't have a blanket on the bus! I was so hot, except I was shaking...wait a moment.

The whole bed was shaking. I felt a moment of supreme annoyance. My sister was rolling around again on the top bunk. It always jiggles the bed. When we first moved here, it scared me half to death. Now, however...this was extreme.

I put my hand on the floor, wondering if I should get out of bed until she stopped rolling around. Then, I became more fully awake. What was going on?

A sudden flashback. I am standing in the old house and standing by the stereo system. Turkey soup smells floating through the house from the kitchen. Worrying about Mom, in the hospital for an operation on her broken leg. Wondering how to keep my bangs from getting ashy that night without having to wear a headband. It is Ash Wednesday. Suddenly, the whole house begins to shake. A couple CDs fall down from the top shelf, but only the case breaks. The CDs are fine. My sister Rivka looks at me in surprise. Grandma stomps out of the kitchen, spoon in hand, demanding, "What's going on here?" All I can do is whisper "Earthquake!" and stand in one of the most dangerous places in the house.

But I'm not in that old house, now. I'm lying in a bunk bed far away from that place. I'm hot and tired, but it's the same. An earthquake. I am frozen. My hand goes back from the floor. I glance at the doorway. Should I go brace myself? But what about Rivka? Should I wake her up?

So I lay on the bed, frozen, unable to do what I thought of doing. I just lay there, petrified, worried about what would happen next. When would it be over, I wondered. The bed sways so, I had no way of knowing. Eventually, it seemed all the tremors were over, so I rolled over and closed my eyes.

I was back on the bus, riding home, almost home, and Commander Krane was safely stowed on top of the bus with the rest of the luggage. I hope she gets windburn, I thought, and so slept on for the rest of the night.

When I woke up, I was wondering if it was all part of a dream. I asked my mother, and she said that there was one. A few minutes ago, I was sitting at the computer doing things, when the apartment building began shaking again. I gasped and turned to Rivka, sitting peacefully on the couch. "Is it my imagination, or...?"

"No, it's really shaking."

"Earthquake. Did you feel the one last night?"

"No." Rivka was still buried in The Witch of Blackbird Pond, so she mumbled, and I had to ask her to repeat the word twice. But eventually she got her meaning across, and we lapsed into silence.

I looked up the earthquake on Google, but all I found was the one last month and one back in 2004 that killed many. But apparently this one hasn't been noted yet, or it wasn't very serious. Ah, well. This is the third (or second, if it was simply an aftershock) one in two months. In the two years I've lived here, it's only the fourth (or third) one...

Potatoes

I haven't been writing lately, I know, because I'm making a plug-in for EV Nova, a computer game from Ambrosia Software that my father likes a lot and is my absolute favorite. It's basically a space game where you get involved in these "storylines" which involve doing everything from outrunning the bad guys and landing on a planet to shooting the bad guys. Anyway, my plug in just makes a new storyline and adds another three planets at the end. Pretty simple, if I could make that one planet landable...

...but that's not what I wanted to write about. You probably guessed that from the title, unless you were wondering how soon I was going to say: "But that's just small potatoes." I'm actually quite proud of the thing, but it's been severely cramping my blogging time. I have a deadline for this plug-in, as you shall soon see.

Potatoes. They're not native to Ireland, but they came to Ireland after the New World was discovered and quickly became a staple. And then the blight came. I read about it rather callously before now because it didn't quite make sense and it just didn't seem real. I have problems like that with history. Lately--either I've grown up some, or my emotions have been heightened by the impending move--history has become a lot more real, and some accounts are just devastating.

Then came school. And Nory Ryan's Song.

That book, by the way, is by Patricia Reilly Giff, and if you're prepared to be depressed, I highly recommend it. I would have devoured it had I not been forced to read a certain amount of chapters a day. As it was, I read it quickly and reread certain parts of the day's reading all day long. I have been fascinated by Ireland since I got into Celtic music, and I always wished that my ancestors from the British Isles were Irish, not Scottish! I didn't know much about Scotland, but more about Ireland, I confess, but the thing is, it seems there are a lot more Irish-y things where I live. Maybe my British Isles ancestors were Scots-Irish! There's a concept for you...

Anyway, I haven't read much about Ireland fiction-wise, and that's part of the reason I devoured the book. On Thursday, I was to write a newspaper article about the Potato Famine in which I might have interviewed Nory Ryan herself. So I had to do a wee bit more research. I looked up the Potato Famine, and found a comprehensive site on it. I turned on my Irish tunes (I do everything better while listening to music) and dived in to do my research.

What I found horrified me. The desolation a blight combined with some rather stupid-sounding English could bring. But I was transfixed. Pictures from the period showing what was going on heightened the reality.

The "Kesh Jig" echoed eeriely in my ears as I read about families dropping dead from hunger by the side of the road. Was this song, so airy and joyous, and this account, so tragic and horrifying, from the same place? Never mind about times. I continued to read, and I was astounded by the story. Planting small potato crops simply because there weren't enough potatoes, and why plant to have a foul rot set in, anyway, and all that--then having the crops turn out fine. But then when the farmers set a risk and planted their big crops again--BAM--that blight set in again.

I continued to read about coffin ships, poor immigrants, and those left behind. Then I came to the section about "after the famine". In Ireland. I was sitting there, thinking, "What? There were actually folks left in Ireland? Oh." I know that Ireland is still around today, and I've heard radio direct from Ireland. I've heard about the Sinn Fein, the Fenians, the IRA and the PIRA. I've finally cleared up in my mind the difference between Dublin and Belfast. But after reading these devastating accounts, my mind shut down, and I was legitimately surprised that there was anybody left.

"Rosin the Beau" was playing, and I realized that, yes, there are Irish left in Ireland, and, yes, I'd love to go there someday. Yet I know I'll never look at the Potato Famine the same way. How would history in Ireland--and America--be different if that had never happened?

P.S. I did get a pretty high score on my "article". Daddy gently added, though, that he could accuse me of "biased Journalism". Oh, well--I'd like to think that the English were just plain stupid. "Laissez faire" when people are dying by the truckload?!?! Come on, people....

Welcome, Royal Charlie!

Note: I am assuming you know about the Jacobite cause, here. Here is a link that should give you necessary background.
My English neighbor would probably kill me. It's all I can do to keep from singing Jacobite songs in the hallway. But I love Jacobite songs, and I sing them all the time. I checked to see which side the clan that maybe some of my ancestors came from was on. I found out they were neutral. They live just at the border of the Highlands and Lowlands according to the map I found, so I guess neutral was a good thing for them. But then I found "Bonnie Dundee"--a Jacobite guy from Charlie's father or grandfather, I forget. If you weren't on his side (and he had some religious skirmishes going on), he was "Bloody Clavers". History (of which I don't know the bias) seems to favor the "Bloody Clavers" side of this things to this neutral, peace-loving American hundreds of years later, but there is a song about "Bonnie Dundee". While: 1.) I don't like the song, and 2.) It's unlikely that "Bonnie Dundee" and I are related, it is fun to look at a song and wonder if the guy in the song is related closer than everybody is.

But my favorite Jacobite period is that of 1745, Bonnie Prince Charlie's time. My impression is that "Royal Charlie" was a class B jerk and the loyalty of his Highland men was undeserved, but, then again, who deserves loyalty? But I also see him as a fellow who was just 24 years old and probably somewhat spoiled, who probably wasn't too mature (but who am I to talk? I'm fourteen and act about half my age!), who never thought he could loose and never thought that there were folks (besides the obvious, I mean) who didn't like him. He had to be led away from Culloden Moor, shocked at his own defeat.

Anyway, I am working on a project to learn songs either from Charlie's time or a long time after (like Lady Nairne's songs) which are about him or the cause at that point. It's coming along slowly, as I bogged down in a song with a long list of--what? Clan names? Names of places? Famous people? I don't know!

I hope to post it here when I'm through, and it should be more interesting than my pondering about a cause I doubt many kids my age are even interested in!...

The Empty Halls

I live on a college campus. Not a very big or active one, but a college campus all the same. One of the classroom buildings has a little library only open three nights a week, but the room is adjacent to my mother's office, so I can go there between times and look around.

On this campus, there are bells to mark the beginning and end of every break, and they don't turn them off during weekends. So the bells ring anyway, automatically, and it's an eerie sound.

Suddenly, you hear this incredible bell ringing the way that it always does--but then you hear something else. Or you hear the absence of it, I should say. There should be a thousand students bursting out of the halls, talking and laughing, eager for a break--or else the sound of teachers beginning (my mother begins with a song) a class, and running feet as the tardy ones hurry. Instead, it's quiet.

Oh, so quiet.

Haunting. Like somebody's hijacked a student and now they're cancelling all students for awhile for safety's sake. Yet the bells are still there, ringing, calling--"Come" or "Go", to the dust mites on the walls and the ever-ticking clock.

Yet with the strange, haunting sound comes the knowledge that tomorrow is Monday--and the halls will be bustling, once again.

Dumb Songs

There are some really dumb songs out there. I mean in every genre, though what I'm targeting right now are folk songs. There are tons of songs out there (especially ballads) which tell stupid stories. I don't mean wrong (I don't like "Bogie's Bonnie Belle", but it's got a good story, I'll say that for it), I just mean stupid. They get by because of catchy lyrics or tunes. Here are a few examples:

Barbara Allen. The whole story is stupid. Poor William is in love with Barbara, who could care less about him. You'd think he'd take the the hint that she isn't this great match for him, but, no, he just goes and dies and makes her feel guilty for it before he goes (though he does charge his kith and kin to "be kind to Barbara Allen"). So guilty, in fact, that she dies. And then they are buried together and are so in love that their graves grow red roses and green briars which tie into lover's knots. Oh, please.

The Foggy, Foggy Dew. This one, the story is so bad that I'm not even going to recount it. I found the lyrics once because there were a few in a book I read and that was enough. But let's just say that most of the chorus is some guy making excuses for himself (you can save people from the foggy, foggy dew many other ways than...) and then all of a sudden it's years later and he's still making excuses for himself. And his son happens to be there, working at the weaving trade with his father. Apparently the kid (young man? How old is he, anyway?) takes after his mother. (The one redeeming quality about this song (besides the tune, that is!), is that in more expanded lyrics you find the woman died and so the line "he reminds me of her" is very poignant.) I have mixed feelings about this one.

So, there, I vented about folk songs. You may or may not disagree with me. Who reads this thing anyway? Feel free to leave a comment if you have questions, comments, or just want to say hello. I try to answer all of them.

Auchindoun

It's raining today--and Mt. Flag is covered in a blanket. Mt. Flag used to have a flag atop it (though a friend claimed it was only a red sweatshirt), but the flag has since disappeared. This I hear from word of mouth and pictures--I haven't had time or stamina to get to the top.

Across from Mt. Flag is the many-peaked Mt. Jasmine. Actually, the locals call it something else. Mt. Flag is the real name for the hill so proud outside our kitchen window--we even have our Mt. Flag Road here. Mt. Jasmine is my name for the hill that is simply known as: "the mountain behind the village". I call it Mt. Jasmine because there's a lot of flowers.

The way the mountains look reminds me of the picture I saw of Auchindoun castle. Auchindoun is in Scotland. It's had a turbulent past--at one point the McIntoshes destroyed a previous version of it, commemorated in that ballad, "The Burning o' Auchindoun". I have no idea whether or not there was a real Willie McIntosh, who in the ballad says: "Hang me, heid me, that will never fear me!" I guess he really wants to burn down the castle! Anyway, it was either gutted, but not burned to the ground; or else it was rebuilt, because it stands in misty ruins now. It's beautiful, really. Here's a picture. Oh, I guess they did rebuild it after the McIntoshes burned it.

Anyhow, I like this better than the castle that "my clan" (since I'm not a member and neither are my parents, it's simply a name similarity) has, for the simple fact that it's prettier. All alone, kind of wrecked and ruined...what might have gone on in more peaceful times? I love thinking about it...

Why is everything at elevens?

I shouldn't be writing this now. I should sit on my duff like a good little girl and wait until September, at the sixth anniversery. But I'm writing a song for then, and I was just thinking about it, so I'm going to write the prose now.

I was not directly affected by 9-11. I never lost anyone I knew and loved; I never knew anyone who was affected by it; and I lived in Washington State. Not only were there no victims from Washington State, but my very protective parents made sure I saw no footage, no pictures--in short, what I've learned has been from my own resources, grapevine fashion (driven from desperation, because I had a need to write about it). I wasn't really affected.

But in a way, every American was--the first attack on our soil in years. And so many innocent civillians dead--though death of any kind is horrible, the thought of angry, twisted folks killing soldiers isn't so bad. But civillians...just ordinary folks living their lives, who did nothing wrong but work at a tall, beautiful building or board an airplane to California. And so we were are affected, because we are civillians. And it could happen us, if we were at the wrong place at the wrong time.

I lived through a historical moment that my grandchildren are going to be reading about in school. So someday, I wonder, will they know or wonder what was going on at that time far away? Will they care? Will they care that Grandma Cait was busy playing with paint samples with Great-Aunt Rivka when they heard the news? Is it important?

I read a book about Pearl Harbor. It was historical fiction about a girl about my age who lived in Hawaii during that time and saw some of the attacks. Heavy stuff. But it took place in Hawaii, not San Jose or Seattle or Chicago or something like that. That's because Hawaii was where the action was. San Jose, Seattle, and/or Chicago was boring. Those folks were either not awake or not bothering. Then the news came 'round, and they were all shocked.

Like it happened here. I guess a lot of peoples have drawn parallels and that's because there are parallels. My homeschool curriculum is big on "comparing and contrasting", so if I really thought and studied on it, I could probably come up with some of the biggest differences and all that. But...hm, still.

I don't know. It was a big tragedy, 9-11 was, that we haven't quite come out of yet. Friends and family still mourn. Caring people still sympathize and cry over the old stories. The New York Skyline is still missing its buck teeth. There's a big hole where once hundreds of people worked, cried, laughed, and lived normal lives. We still have security measures that would be unneccessary were it not for the horror that people seem to want to inflict on others.

I think that's what makes history. Joys and sorrows that many, many people face that are preserved for generations by their long-time healing, their effects that change--if not the world--entire cities, states, nations. And it's scary to think that, not only will I one day reminisce about the "good old days" with my cronies as we sit in the nursing home, but my children and grandchildren will be wondering what I was doing at the time that was history. Because I was alive at the time, and I have memories.

I only hope that it doesn't give them too many sleepless nights. Or nightmares. Or fear of the dark.

Means to an End

We went hiking today. It was wet, and rainy, and kind of humid, but we went anyway, meeting outside of our apartment building. I went down the stairs humming "Skye Boat Song", but I stopped as soon as I got outside and met up with our English neighbor, who was hiking with us. He forgot his umbrella, so he went back up the stairs to get it, and immediately, I came in where I left off--"Many's the lad fought on that day..."

Our English neighbor has a Scottish wife, so a better way to describe them would be: "British". Except, he's incredibly English, and she's definitely Scots. One time they were listening to me play the tin whistle--which is more compact than a fiddle or a recorder, which is why I was playing it--and I accidentally played "Scotland the Brave". I hadn't thought of the implications that would bring. Anyway, Mrs. W was tapping her toe and grinning (grinning for her, I mean) and Mr. W was sitting there with a sort of a strained expression and managed to gasp out something not unfavorable, but not exactly delight, either. It was actually kind of funny, because I hadn't meant to do anything of the sort!

Up we went into the mountains. There was mist all over them, and it was beautiful. But it was tiring. There were winged insects flying around, with four wings not unlike dragonfly wings, but with really short slim bodies. They looked like butterflies, fluttering about. Mr. W said they were lacewings, then later corrected himself and said they were flying ants. Lacewings or ants, they were pretty. One got caught in a spider's web. I saw its body, drained of fluid, transparent; its wings darkening. Death in an insect is not unlike death in a person, at first glance, which is why I hate to see that. I have no moral or personal convictions against eating meat, but I cannot see the death without feeling ill and horribly depressed. The utter resignation and limp appendages dangling--it's poetic, but also terribly, horribly tragic. This should not be.

I began to wonder--not because of the dead insect or anything--just why was I hiking? I could have stayed home today. Sadly, my answer probably is: "because I'm not in good shape". I'm in terrible shape. Part of my dumpiness is attributed to that, which doesn't concern me so much as the incredible fatigue that overtakes my soul and body as I try to climb up a fairly easy trail. But I also enjoy looking at mountain scenery--truly, unspoiled by cable cars or roads. Just being out in the middle with only a trail marring the unspoiled beauty of it.

However, our first resting spot was good enough for me. I might have stayed there for a long time and then gone down, had it been up to me. I have neither the stamina nor the desire to go up to the highest altitudes. Stunning views are camera and paintbrush fodder; if they're that stunning, I'll see them eventually. Just to get to where the pines grow--that's enough for me. Then I just like to be. I like to sing...spirituals, folk songs, rebel songs...all of those. To stroll and explore a finer area instead of reaching the great heights. To just sit and do something normal--maybe even read a book--just to be in the clean mountain atmosphere. That's what I want. I'm not complaining. It was a good hike today. But it seems that to me, hiking is not the end, it is the means to an end. And the end is...atmosphere, rest. That's what I like.

Extemporanea

It's hard starting a new blog. It's as hard as writing the first chapter in a book...or coming up with a title for your poem...or finding an introduction for the piece you're trying to arrange.

I've been doing this all, trial and error, for at least a half-hour. I finally decided I didn't have anything philosophical to say, and anyway, I must be on adrenaline or something--sobbing my heart out because of the song "Going Up Home" performed by Jerimoth Hill. I love that song; it's so true! But it doesn't generally make me cry. Must be teen hormones or something.

I thought I'd describe this room to you, but that seemed pointless. I thought I'd talk about the McIntoshes and Auchindoun castle and the ballad that sparked from that, but I didn't want to bore you with my ideas about what a great historical fiction book that could be built around that. I thought I might describe myself--but I'm no judge of who I am. How could I tell you the right thing?

So, I decided to simply start this blog. It's Gravelly Homestead--an alternate translation of my last name. I meant to start it in August, then that became July, then June...now May, because I didn't want anybody taking my address. If you spell it the British way, apparently somebody has. But I'm not British, I'm American, so I didn't need to worry.

It's raining outside, and, earlier, before the sun set, I saw it all green and gray--my favorite colors. Not even blue matches the strange mixture of mist and hills which comes with a rain. Now I'm listening to Atwater-Donnelly--my favorite music group--and their haunting, wistful harmonies and instrumentation...which make me think about rain and the strange world I built in my heart for the wispy spirits of the folksongs they sing. The rain blends eerily with them.

I love rain. I know there are folks who get depressed during winter and need to go to a sunnier place, but I love rain. Sun gets too cruel, sometimes. I just love rain and the softening of things...the feeling of gritty mud on my feet where it seeps over my sandals...the feeling of raindrops in my hair...the mist on the mountain.

On right now is Aubrey Atwater's song: "Quiet Sky", written about 9/11. I haven't heard many songs or poems in response to that, but this is the best I've ever heard. One line that sticks in my head: "Such a perfect day, in a perfect month". It did seem a perfect day that day, before I knew that, across the country, there were evil, twisted men shattering the lives of thousands.

And yet, Ms. Atwater's wistful voice, her quiet guitar doing a strange but beautiful accompaniment pattern--it all seems to match the rain, too. I suppose that's the way a song is. It starts out one way--written for one thing...but then brings more meaning to something totally different. I wish I could write like that.

I know this post is disorganized, but I think life is truly what Dorothy Parker called, ironically, "a medley of extemporanea". At least, my life is. So perhaps it's fitting that I start the blog this way.