Smoldering Ink

So there’s a video on YouTube* making the rounds of an elephant painting a “self portrait.” The idea that an elephant could have enough self awareness to be able to render it’s own image absolutely blew my mind until I learned that elephants who paint non-abstract pictures have been trained to do so by ear touch. While it’s still pretty fantastic to think that an elephant can somehow be trained to paint an image simply by handling it’s ear, it’s not quite as humbling as thinking it can render it’s own image unaided. Although, there’s still a good short story in there somewhere.

* I actually saw the video on Cute Overload, which I would rather link to than YouTube anyway. Here it is.

Anyway, after I saw the video I started thinking about how cool it would be to buy something an elephant painted. Turns out you can at The Asian Elephant Art & Conservation Project. Personally, I fancy this yellow piece by Sela… …although I’m sure someone will snap it up before I can save up 500 beans for it.

And here’s the artist at work.

Check out the site, it’s pretty cool.

The folks over at io9 posted this beautiful chart of Indo-European languages, which you can click on to see in another window.

Links in the comments led me to The Language Construction kit, which seems to have a very useful, nuts and bolts approach to the business of conlanging. Very interesting, whether you’ve ever toyed with constructing a world from the glottal stop on up, or just really love words.

Let the record show that Ursula K. LeGuin is possibly my favorite science fiction author, certainly the one I most admire. I spazzed out on one of my writer friends the other day and insisted she read The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas before I died of a heart attack.

So it is difficult to write about The Left Hand of Darkness. It is a masterpiece, just like the blurb says. And you know if some fancypants magazine like Newsweek is bothering to pay attention to a little old genre novel, it’s really something special.

The novel takes place on a world called Gethan, or Winter, where all people bisex- not that they are both sexes at the same time, but rather that most of the time their sex organs are retracted, and they are sterile and uninterested in procreation, but after nearly 26 days they reach the fertile part of their cycle, and become either a man or a woman for a few days, depending. So a Gethian who is the mother of three children could also very well be the father of three more.

A human man named Genly Ai comes to Gethan to try to convince the Gethians to join the Ekumen, a confederation of planets united by their willingness to share knowledge with one another. That is the plot. The real story is about Genly learning to accept and trust these Gethians, these alien others, who are neither male nor female, but both, and who by and large consider Genly an unfortunate pervert for being always in heat, so to speak.

Of all the Gethians Genly meets, only one is willing and able to accept him for what he is- one part of a duality. And Genly’s real struggle, his inner struggle that he fights even harder than he tries to convince the Gethians to join the other people in the stars, is to be able to accept the Gethian who accepts him, to see past issues of gender, so important and yet so superficial, to the reality of the soul.

Light, we learn, is the left hand of darkness, and darkness the left hand of light. As we read, we consider the darkness within ourselves, the subterranean masculity of our external female, the hidden femininity of our maleness. That person, buried deep within our psyche, who is us, who is the mirror image of us, and thus the reflection, and thus the opposite. This motif is repeated over and over, in the concept of shifgrethor, a deadly important game of honor, in the ancient lore of the land without shadow, in the Handdarata religion where the gift of foretelling is both used and regarded as useless, in the names of the days of the 26 day cycle, which, after the first 13 days are the same name over again with the prefix Od- Op- Ot- or On- added to them, which means “Un-.”

The end result of such a thorough weaving of story and theme is that one pauses after nearly every paragraph to both savor and digest what LeGuin is saying. In short, The Left Hand of Darkness succeeds at what all art strives to do- it holds up the mirror to ourselves, forcing us to contemplate what we are, what that means, and what, in a different world, it could mean.

I guess you could say I was on vacation last week, except that usually one does fun things on vacation. Going to job interviews and stressing about it is not a vacation. But the good news is that I got the job I interviewed for and I am leaving the legal world (hopefully forever)! What is this magical job, you ask? I am going to be the manager of my local Bikram yoga studio, the same yoga I rambled on about a few mondays ago. So I’m thrilled. I feel like I won the lottery.

I think I first realized that I really needed to get a new job was one bleak January night when this Monster.com commercial made me cry.

You can see it here in case the embedding breaks. The first time I saw it, it made me laugh, but every repeat viewing made it more and more poignant to me until a tear actually rolled down my face. This is notable because I very rarely cry for movies or other external reasons.

I think it’s a combination of the idea that there could be an entire community of people who felt so miserable and trapped in their jobs that they would band together and take up arms against it, and that hint of fantasy, of possibility that they could succeed somehow, that there could be a day when Monday would be no more. Flashes of the end of Fight Club, “…tiny figures pounding corn, laying strips of venison on the empty car pool lane of some abandoned superhighway.”

And it’s not just a fantasy. The reality is that most of us dread the alarm, dread another day spent doing things that make us feel hollow inside.

And so inspired, I decided to find a job that I loved so much I would never have to work again. And amazingly, I may have found it.

Cheaper by the Dozen is a true gem. Not the Steve Martin movie. That is a blasphemy. The book, well, the book is hillarious. Like, laugh-out-loud-on-the-bus hillarious.

It is the very funny and often moving story of how the dozen Gilbreth children were raised by their father Frank, a brilliant efficiency expert and utterly charming wiseacre, and mother, Lililth, a firm but gentle psychologist, as written by Frank Jr. and (darling) Ernestine. The story takes place during the turn of the century and ends sometime in the 1920s. Here are a couple of quotes:

Mother was a Phi Beta Kappa and a psychology graduate of the University of California. In those days women who were scholars were viewed with some suspicion. When Mother and Dad were married the Oakland paper said:

“Although a graduate of the University of California, the bride is nonetheless an extremely attractive young woman.”

….

The biggest problem, on the boat and in the car, was Martha’s two canaries, which she had won for making the best recitation in Sunday school. All of us, except Dad, were fond of them. Dad called one of them Shut Up and the other You Heard Me. He said they smelled so much they ruined his whole trip, and were the only creatures on earth with voices louder than his children.

….

(When Frank Jr. is accidentally left behind during a road trip at the New London restaurant) We had stopped in the New London restaurant for lunch, and it had seemed a respectable enough place. It was night time when we returned, however, and the place was garish in colored lights. Dad left us in the car and entered. After the drive in the dark, his eyes were squinted in the bright lights, and he couldn’t see very well.

A pretty young lady, looking for business, was drinking a highball in the second booth. Dad peered in, flustered.

“Hello Pops,” she said, “Don’t be bashful. Are you looking for a naughty little girl?”

Dad was caught off guard. “Goodness no,” he stammered, with all of his ordinary poise shattered, “I’m looking for a naughty little boy.”

“Whoops dearie,” she said, “Pardon me.”

….

This book is a classic, a real treasure, and if you haven’t yet read it, your local library is sure to have a copy. Do yourself a favor and see if those Mongolians really do come cheaper by the dozen.

Today’s inspiration is my Mom.

I have always been an avid reader and from the time I first received an allowance I would spend my money on books. By the time I was a freshman in college I estimated that I had invested roughly a grand on paperbacks. That is a lot of dusting, vacuuming, and toilet scrubbing. By the time I got through college, I had quite a few more. My post college existence was nomadic, and after I finally settled down in Arizona I asked if my folks would ship my books to me.

That was when my Dad announced that he had misunderstood a prior conversation and donated all of my books to the local public library.

I love my Dad a lot, and while I couldn’t really be mad at him, the loss of my library took me years to get over. I would feel a sting in my heart every time I thought of my lost copies of Little Women, or The Once and Future King, or The Hero and the Crown. The only balm was the thought that someone else might be enjoying them.

A few weeks ago, my mom emailed to tell me that my Dad hadn’t given away ALL my books, and that she had found six boxes of them under the basement stairs. Mom hauled them all to the P.O. and they were waiting for me in the front yard today. Gentle readers, I did not even mind that the postman decided to leave the boxes on top of the dirt pile where the resident stray tabby makes his toilet.

I opened that first box and I laughed in sheer delight and kissed the spine of the book closest to my face, which happened to be Cheaper by the Dozen. My books, my books, my Tale of Two Cities, my Stranger in a Strange Land, my Weaveworld, my Hitchhiker’s Guide, my Wild Seed! My Ishmael, my Fairy Queen, my Redwall, my Song of Solomon, my Stand! My White Fang, my Tigana, my Absalom, Absalom! My embarrassingly complete Pern series! My battered and torn children’s books, my anthropology texts with the orange MSU Bookstore stickers on the spine, my trilogies, my anthologies, my classics, my trash, all I had loved and lost, and now found again.

Dozens of memories flooded back to me, of how that lop-eared rabbit ate the spine of Tales from Silver Lands, and how the Pocket A-Z London guide did indeed sit in my pocket for six glorious weeks, and how Scott H. lent me Interview with the Vampire in high school and I never gave it back. How I ate buffalo with Naya Nuki, how I shivered and starved in the Long Winter, how I wandered through the dusty shelves of Needful Things, but never found what I needed to buy. How I kicked heroin with Eddie Dean and listened to Louis the swan play his silver trumpet and suffered, lovestruck, for poor Johnny Tremain when he spilled that molten silver and burned his hand.

Oh Mom, you are the absolute best. Now if you’ll pardon me, my glass of dandelion wine is getting warm.

This is Maria Snyder’s first novel, and she certainly hasn’t offended me the way Scott Bakker did, so I’ll try to be gentle. It is, undisputedly, a first novel.

I loved the premise of this story, about a young woman sentenced to death who is offered the opportunity to become a food taster for the current ruler of Ixia, the Commander. That was great. The pacing of the story is very good, each chapter ending on a cliffhanger. I loved the character Valek (not his name, but everything else about him- this is no real reflection on the book because I’m highly weird about names), the poison trainer and assassin. Of course, I am a sucker for the silent and lethal type when it comes to fantasy fiction.

Snyder has done her homework when it comes to how to professionally taste things, and I found the training sequences to be some of the most interesting parts of the book.

Unfortunately, I got no clear sense of who Yelena, the protagonist, is, and that is a big deal-breaker for me. In fact, I had to open the book again to remember her name and I just finished it last night. I felt her voice to be inconsistent, and I didn’t find out until 126 pages in that her passion in life was acrobatics. Why wait 126 pages to tell me something that interesting about the viewpoint character, when I should have found it out in the first pages? Why didn’t she miss her practice, why didn’t she dream of it, as she was walking to what she thought was her execution? It created a sense of disbelief, since the story is told in first person, that Yelena never once thought about turning a cartwheel before the fire festival.

Another big issue for me was language. “Wanna” “Pudding” “Boss” and “Factory” all make appearances. “Pudding” was jarring because the cook had added it to a vanilla cake recipe to moisten it. But pudding was initially meat-based. The sweet versions (figgy pudding, hasty pudding) were cakelike and would not have made sense to use as a thickening agent. If he had added custard, the forerunner of the desert we know and love today, I would have bought it. As it was, I got an absurd visual of the cook cracking open a box of powdered Jell-O pudding mix.

“Factory” was no good because it was a very specific, singular factory that was being petitioned to be built, but we never once are told what the factory is supposed to be for. Heck, Yelena and the Commander even travel to the factory after it is built, and there is still no explanation as to what it is for. I do understand why the author hid this information and I’m not going to spoiler it, but it was an unnecessary concealment. I’m not going to spoiler it simply because it would take too long to explain. Anyway, “factory” made me really confused as to the technology level of Ixia. There are factories, but no guns? Wha?

There were other ‘beginner’ issues, concerning the plot, but I feel like I’ve gone into it enough. A novelist’s personality often comes through their work, and I actually feel affectionate towards this author. I want her to succeed, and also not to hate me if I ever meet her at a con or something. I feel like Ms. Snyder is a talented person who would benefit greatly from a tough-lovin’ writer’s group and an agent or editor who has the time and patience to ask for rewrites. Another draft of this book could have been infinitely better, propelling Snyder to household name status.

Poison Study is a Luna imprint, which explains a lot. I don’t know that the good folks at Harlequin are all that aware of what it takes to make a really good fantasy, any more than I could write a ripping good romance novel. So maybe the issue here is that this author is not working with the right people for her.

Overall, I did enjoy Poison Study. I don’t think I would read it again, but I will keep tabs on this writer to see how she evolves.

I have signed up for the 30 Day Challenge at my local Bikram studio and so I thought I would dedicate this Monday’s post to the joy of yoga. (I am on Day 4 of 30, thanks for asking).

This photo is of Bikram himself hopping on some guy in Camel pose. This does not happen in MY class, but it would be awesome if it did. If you can’t tell from the photo, Bikram is a controversial guy, and most people cringe at Camel, but it is my fav.(Photo taken by Ian Smith of the Vancouver Sun)

Bikram yoga is hot yoga. The room is heated to between 90-100 degrees and humidity is raised to 40%. Some people glow or mist. I sweat like a hot dog. I mean, beads of sweat start popping out on my forearms before we’ve finished the warm up breathing exercise.

But I don’t feel particularly self-concious about it, because the Bikram yoga studio is the only public place I’ve ever exercised and not felt judged, even though we face a mirror, as in ballet. Why don’t I feel judged? Because while engaged in Bikram yoga, it is physically impossible to pay attention to anything besides yourself. The challenges inherent in each pose force you to focus on nothing but the moment you are in. Letting the mind chatter means falling out of the pose. It is amazing how the intense focus needed for Bikram both strengthens and relaxes the mind.

And whereever you are at in your practice, be you as stiff as a board or a Cirque du Soleil stand-in, as long as you are approaching the pose in the correct manner, you will get 100% of the benefits. It’s great for people who have joint problems, bad knees, or arthritis. It has relieved me of my chronic back pain (caused from cheap office chairs and desks) and when I do it regularly it keeps my weight down too. You can’t eat a lot of junk before class or you’ll be ill, and you don’t want to eat a lot after class because you’re full of endorphins. I am an emotional eater so this works out really well for me.

Every class goes through the exact same series of poses, and every day the challenges are different. You will feel a sense of wonder and triumph each time you suddenly understand the correct way to do something and, like the final square of a Rubik’s Cube clicking into place, your body slides closer to perfecting the posture. It’s not just learning the poses. It’s learning yourself.

Bikram. It’s 90 minutes of hot yoga. It’s sweat and it’s pain, and it rules.

This story is set in Phoenix, Arizona, and Forks, Washington. I actually have a friend out here who grew up in Forks, and if I weren’t borrowing this copy from someone else, I would lend Twilight to her next. I mean, what are the chances? Anyway.

This book was a fast, enjoyable read, and a perfect romance for the teen and tween set, (as well as for those of us who still sometimes feel like a tween at heart). I’m going to have to cave in and buy my own copy- now that I’ve read it once for pleasure, I’d like to read it again as a writer, in order to dissect Twilight’s well-written romance scenes. Meyer does a masterful job at creating a feeling of innocent sensuality in this book.

My only quibbles: The protagonist’s name is Bella Swan. Bella? Pretty. Love it, actually. But Swan? Practically tips it into parody. But, also memorable. Yes, I am such a nitpicker. But an honest nitpicker! The other quibble is that we don’t find out why Bella moves to despised Forks for several chapters, even though she knows why. I dislike it when authors play that trick, and felt deflated when I found out the reason for the move (it’s not all that interesting). Nitpicks, nitpicks. Otherwise, this book was captivating. I read it in five hours.

If you like suspenseful romance, heck, if you have two X chromosomes, you will enjoy this book.

I just have to add that I absolutely adore all of the covers of Stephenie Meyer’s books. They are simple, tasteful, and poetic, and I can only hope for something so evocative on that fateful far-off day that my own Twilight comes.

While I was image searching for Cheval Noir comic covers I stumbled across Cheval Noir, the portfolio of artist Aya Kato. Kato’s images are a deliciously surreal blend of fantasy, Art Nouveau, and Japanese Pop.

Rapunzel

Whirling Energy (Click for full image)

Queen in Restroom

Blueworld

I almost went crazy trying to just pick a couple to display- her entire portfolio is exceptional and well worth a browse.