Shake your bon bon

I'm a desperado, underneath your window, in the Sahara sun I wanna be the one who's gonna take you make you . . .

It's embarrassing how much of that song I just know.

Anyway, I went on an adventure over the weekend, and by adventure I mean "to Grandma's house" and by that I mean, "I had no internet." So there you are. I love my grandmother dearly, yes, but she is tragically behind the times. Although she does get like 5000 channels, so that's something, I guess.

Anyway, I wrote a little, but mostly I'm re-reading Bea's story again. It's been a while since I looked at it, and time lends you a really good perspective. I'm noticing things, seeing things I want to change, and OH GOD MY WRITING STYLE. It needs work.

Of course, I'd love it to be beautiful and perfect and gorgeous, I mean, that goes without saying. But the flip side to that is I've never done this before. And so I'm sort of taking the zen approach to it: it will be perfectly imperfect. I must tell myself it's perfect - hit a point where that is my mindset - and at the same time accept that there will always be something else, something more that I know I could have done, or added, or changed. I'm not at that point yet, so it's not like this is how I'm going to justify the overall shittiness I've created, but I think I'll know when. At some point it's going to be as good as I am capable of producing at this point in my life/writing career, or maybe even a little better than that, and that's going to have to be okay for me. I'm not going to be Steinbeck my first time out. I don't even think Steinbeck was Steinbeck the first time around.

Anyway, my emo whining about writing aside, here's another journal entry! This one is about yoga and music for dying people. And also Good Omens. And classic rock.

"The two lectures this week were both really interesting, if for different reasons. The first lecture, on the mind/body connection and the benefits of meditation, really hit a chord (haha! A pun, get it? Music thanatology, chords, oh how hilarious. I crack myself up) with me. I have always loved meditation, especially in conjunction with yoga or other activites.

            In a way, horseback riding has always been a form of meditation for me, albeit possibly and overly-technical one. It links the peace of my mind – and really, when I have my leg over a horse it’s the only time my mind really does relax and focus on one thing – to the awareness of both my body and how I’m using it, and my horse’s body and how she’s responding to me. I can feel every muscle, it seems like, every tendon and how I’m using it, and although my heart rate goes up with the exercise, the stress just seems to melt away.

            That said, it’s peanuts to how I feel after a session of hot yoga. When I’m on a horse, there’s always something analyzing – “cut a corner there, need more right leg, she’s cycling on her left shoulder, Jesus I wish she’d lay off the bit for a minute” -  but when I’m doing yoga, it’s just me and my body. I know its flaws, I know how it wants to move and how I can manipulate it otherwise. The breathing is incredible, and at the end of each session my breaths are deep and relaxed. The meditation at the end is truly incredible – there’s no adjective to describe it. The closest you might get is “sleep but not” or “active dreaming”. The body rests and the mind follows suit, and there’s not a thought in the world that can stir the waters. It’s beautiful, and I’m absolutely floored that it’s not more pervasive in healthcare. Nothing counters stress and illness like a meditation session; it can’t cure your pneumonia but damned if it can’t help you release the tension and the stress in your chest, and focus on your breaths, impaired or not.

            Of course, meditation is a sin according to some book in the Bible, so that probably explains a lot of why it’s taken so long to get a foothold in this country.

            Music thanatology, on the other hand, that could go around like a flu in a daycare if it were more widespread. I’m hard-pressed to think of anyone that doesn’t enjoy music, and gains relaxation from occasionally just kicking back with the stereo and their own thoughts.

            Even now, the soothing and dulcet tones of AC/DC act as a balm to my weary soul.

            Now, harps are the obvious choice, I think, for thanatolgy – angels play harps, supposedly, although I think if you really wanted to imagine angels playing in any kind of Celestial Supergroup it would more accurately be a jazz band. If they do play harps – and here I’m assuming the existence of angels, because why not – it’s not much of a choir. You have your voices, and you have your harps. Where’s the percussion? Where’s the brass? Where’s the piano? Are you telling me Hell got all the decent instruments and Heaven ended up with harps? Where is the guitar?

            I sincerely hope that if I’m dying someday and someone comes in and starts wailing on a harp, they at least have the decency to learn the harp versions of some Rolling Stones songs in advance. I mean, good Lord, I love music. I mean, really. I’ve had religious experiences listening to music.

            And not a single time has that been in response to a damn harp. They’re pretentious.

            There’s a book out there where the Apocalypse is approaching – the book is set in the ‘80s, so it’s a scant 6000 years since the whole world began, anyway – and an angel and a demon are mourning the death of the planet, and their own returns to their respective sides. The angel asserts that it can’t be that bad for him, because of course Heaven will win. It isn’t until the demon points out that Heaven’s only composers are Elgar and Liszt that the horror of a heavenly victory dawns on the angel.

            And they’re the side with the harps. The demon, however, is mollified in his horror at his certain eternal suffering in the case of an Infernal victory by the fact that at least they’ll have every other musician.

            Not to say that harps aren’t great. They aren’t, but that’s not the point.

            The point – which I seem to have wandered a pretty far piece from – is that music can be comforting to the dying but, and I think this is the really important bit, music that was never comforting to them before is not going to become so just because they’re dying. They’ve done studies, which I’m not going to look up. But they’re out there. The most important thing is that the beat has to be soothing, and it has to be multitonal.

            And I’ve got news for all the harpies out there (Oh, God, I’m hilarious): the harp doesn’t have a monopoly on that in this day and age.

            So bring on the Stones. Blast the Kiss. Let me not go gentle into that good night – I want to go with guitars screaming, a drum set being veritably destroyed, and Freddy Mercury crying out in beautiful exultation.

            Hallelujah, Galileo, Figaro. Magnifico."

Homoeroticism is starkly underrated

I don't even know where that title came from, but honestly I am at the point where making up titles is a little bit repetitive. I mean, how many "LOL SCHOOL" titles can I really do? So I figure the more sensational, the better, am I right? So behold! A title.

This mindset may explain why I have yet to title my book. I don't think "Science and Zombies and Shit" would go over well, personally.

So I am still trawling through Homestuck, and I'm getting closer to the end. It's kind of glorious. Besides that, I've been totally unproductive this week, really. So since I have nothing interesting to blog, I present:

A JOURNAL ENTRY FROM MY ONE CLASS WHERE I HAVE TO TALK ABOUT MY FEELINGS.

I don't do well with talking about my feelings, so obviously this is going to be hilarious. Anyway, for my one class we have to examine our feelings a lot and crap like that, and then talk about them. For the journal assignments, we have to write down our feelings about particular lectures. So since I have nothing else to post at the moment, I will re-post these natural disasters for the entertainment of one and all.

 The first entry was on cultural competence (I have none) and spirituality (I think it's mind-boggling interesting). BEHOLD, RAMBLING.

"This week’s lecture – on culture, cultural competence, spirituality – was extremely interesting for me. I’ve always been interested in people, why they do the things they do, where culture actually comes from, etc., and how all those things combined make them tick along as a paradoxically unique person. After all, there are certainly members of the same culture who share the same spiritual beliefs, same general upbringing, and yet they are never really that similar. And at the same time, there are ‘brain twins’ – people from two different backgrounds, who have histories so dichotomously opposed, but they get along famously, as if they’d been raised side-by-side and developed the same tastes, interests and beliefs. Culture has to be at the root of this somewhere, maybe, and spirituality too, but as wonderful as those two things are, how far can they really go toward explaining the mad, chaotic, beautifully wonderful horror of humanity?

           Spirituality, I think has a lot more to do with it than culture, but of course it’s foolish to try to compartmentalize the two. Without spirituality culture can’t exist – there’s no shared fantasy among the group, nothing to believe in – and without culture spirituality shambles into disintegration, ripped to shreds by separation of interests. For the sake of this entry, though, I chose to solely consider spirituality, without the basic cultural aspect, because really, that’s where the interesting stuff is.

            When we’re kids, most of us are taught to believe in Lies, with a capital ‘L’. You start with little lies – Santa, the Easter Bunny, ghosts and ghouls and monsters and fairies and elves and magic – but those are warm-ups for the big Lies the grown-ups teach you later. Morality. Justice. The Greatest Good. We practice on the poor Easter Bunny until we’ve got it right – we know it can’t be real but we have no other way to explain the eggs around the house in the spring – and then we’re fully ready to buy that the good guys will win in the end, that humans will always pick the option that’s best for everyone. And we run with those Lies our whole lives, and act shocked and hurt when someone goes against them and acts in their best interest, or get away with a wrong. We believe in those Lies, and we commit ourselves to them wholly and blindly.

            That’s spirituality, as far as I’m concerned. You can’t prove something, there’s probably bucketloads of evidence to the contrary, and yet you still have faith that you’re right. It’s a trait unique to humans – dogs don’t believe in the goodness of humans, and if you hit one too many times it’ll shy away from people for the rest of its life, until experience teaches it otherwise. But humans are different, they really believe in society, in goodness, in justice and truth. And every day the world and other people prove them wrong in a thousand little ways, and humans just shrug it off and move on and believe.

            I’m not going to even bring a concept of God into this because the same applies there. Evidence piles up, the universe is gradually stripped naked of its secrets, and people look around and say “Golly, someone must really love us for this to happen.” Statistics scream that it’s possible, and in the grand scheme not even that far-fetched, and people sing praises to God.

            It’s all a little crazy.

            And it’s just so damn endearing.

            I realize that from the above I probably seem fairly nihilistic, possibly disgusted with the state of humanity. I’m not. I’m disgusted by society, sometimes, and I’m disgusted by people and just how terrible they can be, but for every crooked banker, for every murderer, for every psychotic gunman, there’s a person who soars so high above that, who is so much more for being human, for having the will and the faith and the belief to make that choice for the Greater Good.

            And the minute you lose sight of that, the minute you forget that unsung saint, is the minute you lose your spirituality. It’s the minute the Lies are laid bare and the wriggling underbelly of humanity takes center stage.

            As a nurse, you can’t afford that. You have to hang on to the Lies, even if it’s hard, even if you can’t imagine there’s a scrap of Truth left in the whole world, because when you let go you don’t listen anymore. Patients can be awful – it’s naïve to think they’re all pious and kind people who love their dog – but in the next room, or the next bed even, there can be someone so interesting, someone so refreshing, someone so delightfully peaceful because they choose to that it’ll take your breath away. The temptation is to disregard the monster, the one thing from our childhood that was never a lie, even if the tail and the horns and the green slime dripping from its back were, and focus on the other. But that’s wrong too.

            They both have a story.

            They both believe something. And whatever they believe, it gives them peace.

            We’re not miracle workers, we can’t change them more than they want to change. But when they’re sick, or dying, and they’re scared, we can listen. We can let them believe any and all Lies, no holds barred. We can let them, for a little while, think like kids – believe in all the lies and the Lies, and take solace in whatever sandcastle their mind has built against the encroaching tide of mortality. We can listen to their stories, and they can tell us their own lies, and we can give them the peace that even if no one else listened to them, someone did. It’s a delicate position, putting aside your own personal construct to let someone else’s in, but it’s something others need sometimes, and something we have to acknowledge. It lets them relax, it lets them be peaceful, it lets them be humans.

            And whatever else happens, humans will always be wonderful."

I'm pleased I worked the Greater Good in there. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to don my black robes and hood and murder some loiterers outside. The Greater Good. 

SCHOOOOLS OUT FOR SUMMER!

Okay, so not quite yet, I still have some Holistic Nursing stuff to finish up but SCHOOL IS OUT.

So obviously this is my cue to spam you all with shitty Homestuck art. WHO IS EXCITED? You guys.

K4rk4t h4h4h4h4. PH33R MY SH1TTY T4BL3T SK1LLS.

Impressed? I thought you might not be. Anyway, moving on, it's time for a review of

HARRY POTTER AND THE DEATHLY HALLOWS, PART DEUX (aka: Wizards should learn to fistfight)

So last night I finally went to see the new Potter movie. I've been dying to since it came out, but with school and horses and all the other crap I was dealing with, it's been impossible for me to get to the theater. But last night the stars aligned and I finally was able to take it all in.

First impressions: Whether or not you like Potter, it's just a really good movie. Some of the deaths at the end lose their impact if you're a Potter virgin, but otherwise the movie's great - so much better than the book, actually. Well. Maybe . . . No, yeah, it's better than the book. It's amazing.

More in detail thoughts: This isn't going to be organized or anything, because I'm having trouble keep linear track of everything, but here we go. First of all, there was some BRUTAL stuff in this one. It seems like as the movies go on, they become more determined to set themselves aside as films more tailored to adults, rather than children; I think that's because Potter's original fanbase was . . . well, my age group. And each movie has sort of followed that - we're all 20-somethings now, and this was definitely a movie with that in mind, I think.

I remember just wincing at Snape's death. It was pretty harsh. Almost moreso because they didn't show it on the screen; you just heard the snake striking again and again and seeing the body slam up against the glass. That was . . . intense. The scene right after it though, where Harry finally saw Snape, that was kind of lame. Alan Rickman's terrible wig really distracted me though, so . . . I don't know, I feel like they sort of fell flat there. The scene, not the wig.

The scene with the resurrection stone was understandably emotionally wrenching. In the spirit of full disclosure, I had started crying when the stone guardians of Hogwarts were activated, and by the time we got to that scene I was primed to be a sobbing mess. Which I was. Seriously, tears and snot, so much of both. All Lily had to do was say "I'm proud of you, Harry," and BOOM waterworks. Harry's death was less emotional, which was good, because I'm not sure how much I could have taken.

The fight with Voldemort, after Harry came back was also fairly epic. Neville was suitably hardcore in the Nagini-killing, and VOLDEMORT WAS REALLY, REALLY GAY. I'm sorry, I feel like this needs to be pointed out. It started when he finally killed Harry; he pimpslapped Bella off himself (which was hilarious - bitch don't TOUCH ME EW), and then returns to Hogwarts and does a little dance. WTF, movie. This is Voldemort, not some terrible bad guy. He's actually a half-decent villain, let him have his moment. Anyway, then Draco goes back to the dark side (really he and his parents just peace out, which was cool; family first with the Malfoys) and Voldemort surprise hugs him. That was singly the most hilariously awkward moment in the entire movie. The manly shoulder pat was just . . . oh my God I laughed. Everyone did.

When Molly Weasley killed Bella, the theater erupted in applause and cheering. When Neville killed Nagini, it was like some no-name had just made par in a Master's Tournament. I felt like we should have been howling, cheering for Neville. But no, polite applause. It sort of bothered me. But maybe we were all distracted by the EPIC SLAP FIGHT between Voldemort and Harry, which was simultaneously thrilling and goofy. And the slow-mo wand scamper that immediately followed. But Voldemort's death was well-done, I thought (none of that JK Rowling 'shove the corpse in a broom closet' shit), and really satisfied.

Then I started crying again, not because I was happy, but because it was over. Over for the characters, yes, but more importantly, over for me. I started reading Harry Potter when I was 11. It has been a constant in my life for 12 years. And as the next generation boarded the train, and that original theme song kicked in, I lost it, because that's it for Harry Potter. There's no more movies, no more books. I was saying goodbye, and while I had expected it, I wasn't ready for it. I'd grown up with those kids, watched them go from little adventurers to heroes, watched them rise high even as their friends fell. And here it was: finality. Closure.

I didn't want it to happen. I didn't want the end to come. But it did, and I sobbed like a retard. I watched the credits roll and I cried and I said goodbye to Harry, and Hermione, and Ron and Draco. I said goodbye to Hogwarts, and to McGonagall, and Slugworth and all the professors. I said goodbye to the Weasleys, to Voldemort, to Lupin and to Snape. And even though I was crying, and even though I'll miss all of them, I was happy, because it ended right. Not well, not for all of them, but it ended right and that was important.

Thanks, Harry, for everything you've done for me. You introduced me to fandom, and what that meant. You brought me to fanfiction. In a way, you started me on the path of becoming a writer. And I'm not sure how else to properly thank you for that but in words, since you're fictional. But thank you all the same.

I'll miss you.

Oh lawds.

I may or may not have used this post title before, and I'm okay with that.

Anyway, I have been a HUGE slacker with the whole blogging thing recently, but not for a bad reason! See, because the accelerated nursing program is retarded, we go to class during the summer. So right now, I'm in class. Well, not at this moment, since it's Saturday morning (although I wouldn't put it past them!), but you get the idea.

It's wrapping up, though. I've finished up with clinical, and boy that is a blessing. Strangely, though, it wasn't bad. I actually kind of enjoyed it. They say med-surg is the hardest, and the one everyone enjoys the least, but I don't know, it didn't seem so bad. I wouldn't mind working med-surg for a couple of years, until I can get into critical care or something before I go back to school, is all I'm saying. But that's a long way off - hopefully years. I don't think I could go right back to school right now.

OH H4Y BURNOUT, N1CE TO S33 YOU.

And the l33t-sp34k in the above lends me on to my next point: I AM NOW OBSESSED (full-out, no holds barred, no arguments) WITH HOMESTUCK. For those of you who don't know what I'm talking about, here is the link. It . . . takes a while to get into. The discussion of captchalogs and sylladexes is kind of trying at first, it really is, but once you push through that the whole story sort of grabs you and pulls you along.

I got it on my third try. The first try I really wanted to like it, I really did, but I got so bogged down in the technicalities early on that I couldn't do it. The second try, I got a little further, but it was so ridiculous (Betty Crocker the batterwitch aside) that I couldn't keep up. The seed, however, was planted - I wanted to know more. I honestly did mean to go back to it.

Months passed. And then, as I was browsing DeviantArt (don't judge me), I ran across this picture, which was just a delightful blend of Discworld and Homestuck. And the guy in black intrigued me. You don't know me if you don't know I have a soft spot for misanthropic, sometimes psychotic skinny guys in black (Lord Vetinari, Sirius Black, Voldemort, Spades Slick, Crowley in Good Omens, Crowley in Supernatural, Famine in Good Omens, Pocket, oh the list goes on . . .), and my interest was piqued. So I looked around at more pictures of Spades and found that not ONLY was he a skinny psycho in black, he's a skinny psychotic ALIEN with one eye and A ROBOT ARM in black! With an unrequited/masochistic love interest and he plays piano too!

I had to know more.

So I started reading Homestuck again, with the singular goal of getting to the intermission so I could welcome the pointy, stabby joy of Spades into my life. And I made it there. And then I had to learn more about the trolls, because I'd been listening to the soundtracks and I sort of knew about them. Plus at that point I was pretty much really interested in Rose and John and Dave and Jade, and how they were going to get out of the game and . . .

And then I was hooked.

So long story short, I read Homestuck, I'm hooked and they've earned another fan out of the faceless internet masses. It's very fun for me to see an internet comic finally pull off a coherent story - prior to this my internet comic reading consisted of Cyanide&Happiness, Looking for Group, the occasional foray into Least I Could Do (which, honestly, if it weren't for the art I wouldn't be half-interested - I hate Sohmer as a writer with a weird passion), and Penny Arcade. Of those, LFG is the only one with a coherent beginning-to-end storyline, and Sohmer is writing it.

So it's pretty terrible. But again, the art and, oh, another skinny undead psycho in black. Richard. <3

I think I have a problem.

Anyhow, I really do love how Homestuck uses the medium, and the animation style has really grown on me. I'm reading through (I'm almost to July 2010), and really enjoying it. Soon, I think, I'll catch up and then sadness will reign, 'cause I'll just have to wait around for another update. :( But until then . . . :D!

And this has been your weird internet-comic-centered post for the day. Adios, amigos.

Ashley's Bathroom Reading!

So, for the new feature on the blog, I present to you: ASHLEY'S BATHROOM READING!!!! 

What's this? you might ask. Well, it's basically like a book review, but subtly different. I read a lot, and I don't have a lot of time, so one of the best places for me to read is in the bathroom. Theoretically. Usually I just end up starting reading while I'm brushing my teeth or drying my hair or . . . whatever . . . and wander out of the bathroom, book in hand. And then I waste hours on the couch reading my "bathroom book". BUT THE PRINCIPLE REMAINS UNCHANGED. Typically I like books that are light, entertaining, and can be read in short snatches without losing the thread of the story.

The other unique thing about books I choose for this is that I give myself permission to stop reading them if I don't like them. It's my equivalent of a Friday Night Kill Spot on TV - if a book gets downgraded to Bathroom Reading from regular reading, I'm thinking about kicking it. On the other hand, some bathroom books I've absolutely LOVED (Good Omens was a recent bathroom book, true facts, and I'm totally obsessed with that book). So just because a book hits this category doesn't mean I disliked it, or was lukewarm toward it.

Anyway, the first book in this installment is: Fool by Christopher Moore!

Chris would be honored by this, I'm pretty sure. Anyway, I do love Christopher Moore, but I really could not get in to Fool the first time I read it, when it was first published. So I let it hang out for a few years and just now tried to pick it up again. Frequently books like this become bathroom books - if I still don't like them, I just stop again and end up donating them to a local library.

Happily, this was not the case with my second attempt at Fool. The book is not for everyone - it's vulgar, it's dark, it's smutty and it's sacrilegious to the work of Shakespeare, but my goodness is it hilarious. The book basically takes place during Shakespeare's 'King Lear', but it's re-told from the point of view of the faithful, trusty court jester, Pocket.

Pocket is the kind of hero I can really get behind, and by that I mean he is pretty much a villainous, traitorous anti-hero. You get to watch as Pocket goes from relative complacency (with a dash of mild worry about Lear's sanity) to heartbroken vindictiveness, to absolute outraged fury, to, once again, happy complacency. I do absolutely love characters like this - TVTropes refers to them as Magnificent Bastards, and the name is so very rightly earned in Pocket's case. Because he's magnificent, oh yes, and a total bastard.

I'm sure Shakespeare didn't really consider that Lear's fool might be a conniving, passively homicidal man who carries daggers around with him, but nevertheless Moore pulls it off well enough to be funny, if not totally convincing. It did occur to me while I was reading that Fool sort of felt like, and could be perceived as, an attempt to recapture the same glory he got with Lamb: take a well-known, "sacred" work and put your own off-color flare on it and let it run. Lamb pulled it off gorgeously; no, I wasn't convinced that Jesus really had a best friend named Biff that ran around with him on fabulous adventures, but I laughed and I appreciated the New Testament more after reading that book, rather than losing my faith or being offended or what have you. Fool, I think, does try to do this again, but it's less successful. I certainly didn't gain a new appreciation for the message or the story of 'King Lear', and if I were to go to a performance I don't think I'd have a greater appreciation of that either. Sure, I loved the book and thought it was funny, but the book doesn't add anything to 'Lear', and it doesn't increase your awareness of some of the more appreciable aspects of the play. Where Lamb was all at once funny, touching, tragic and thoughtful, Fool only really manages to capture the funny and the tragic - it makes up for the touching and the thoughtful with vulgarity and sexiness, which is not necessarily less enjoyable, but certainly doesn't give the reader the same experience.

I did have a few issues with the speech - Moore tried to blend colloquial American English and British English with Olde English and I actually think the book might have suffered for it. The British phrases were subtitled, which lent more of an awkward and stilted feeling to the use, and overall the dialogue ended up feeling like an uncomfortable jumble when he tried too hard to incorporate the "local flavor" elements. To put it another way, I had a very hard time "hearing" the characters speak when these turns of phrase were thrown around - they seemed garbled and off-mark. It's not a big issue, and it is absolutely not enough to turn me off of the book, but it did grate a little.

That said, I loved the pacing of the book. I have the worst time with pacing, as an author, and Moore really pulled it off well. Seriously, I'm considering studying the man on this: we all have something to learn from every book, and by God if I learn how to pace my books better and handle the passage of time more gracefully that will not be the worst thing that could happen. He handled the action so that it didn't seem rushed or too fast, but it didn't drag either. The plot sidelines were balanced nicely with actual plot elements to provide relief from the otherwise heavy story, without overwhelming the story and distracting me. And, this being a book I read in short snatches rather than longer sessions, I was able to keep up with the story without losing track of it - here and there I had to read a few pages over again to clear up something I was confused about, or felt I'd missed, but overall I could pick it up and put it down as I pleased without it being too complicated.

Final Thoughts?: Fool was generally a really good book. I does try a little too hard, I think, to recapture the recipe of Lamb, and the dialogue gets uncomfortable at times, but overall these issues are small and do not take away from the actual fun entertainment the book provides. And since it's a humorous fiction work, well, fun entertainment is the name of the game, isn't it? So well done, Christopher Moore: I tip my hat to you once again, and all your profane and hilarious glory. Keep 'em coming, 'cause I'm out now.