September 17th, 2004

Sister Mystic - X'Ana/Shrijani

The good stuff...

Scribbled by candlelight late last night...

Spinning - the clouds are like time-lapse photography, swirling and swirling and occasionally letting the occasional star peek through. Beautiful wind. Daughter of moon and wind and sea. The sky is preternaturally bright.

When the wind accelerates, you can see and hear and feel it coming, a roar, a tingle in the bones. Otherworldly. Once it went so fierce so abruptly that I ran for the porch, certain that it would catch me up if I stayed - I stood with my palm against the glass door, unwilling to leave the wind.

There's electricity in my bone marrow - I'm humming with it like a tuning fork.


I was going to quote kires on something, but then I saw that it was a locked post, so - if you read kires, you can probably figure it out.

Yes. Last night was amazing. I swear I felt high.

The regular Friday post

Happy early birthday to charleseb, mightyafrodite, photognome, and sk4p!

Snug black shirt with a cherry on it like where an Izod lizard would be. Jeans. Black cardigan. Black Docs. Strawberry Shortcake socks.

Child is in back office. She is wearing a long-sleeved ivory shirt with a leopard-print butterfly on it. Tan cords. Sneakers, socks. Baseball cap.

I'll be reading Burning Florence by bitsyboo on the airplane...

Did I mention the airplane? Going down to the beach house. Happy 'song!

Actually had to call kires last night to share being storm-high, as he may be the only one I know who groks this in its fullness.

Queen Dork of Dorktown

strangestgirl has just made a discovery about me.

It's just one of those weird, utterly random things that takes up space in my brain.

I know "Ice Ice Baby" by heart.

And now it's going through my head and it is her. fault.

WSo here, I'm going to earworm the rest of you.

In the words of strangestgirl and Rob Van Winkle... "Yo VIP - let's kick it!"

*copies* *pastes*


Ice Ice Baby, Ice Ice Baby
All right stop, collaborate and listen
Ice is back with my brand new invention
Something grabs a hold of me tightly
Then I flow like a harpoon daily and nightly
Will it ever stop? Yo -- I don't know
Turn off the lights and I'll glow
To the extreme I rock a mic like a vandal
Light up a stage and wax a chump like a candle

Dance, Bum rush the speaker that booms
I'm killing your brain like a poisonous mushroom
Deadly, when I play a dope melody
Anything less than the best is a felony
Love it or leave it, You better gain way
You better hit bull's eye, The kid don't play
If there was a problem, Yo, I'll solve it
Check out the hook while my DJ revolves it

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You're welcome.
  • Current Mood
    cold too cold

Why I know "Ice Ice Baby" by heart

No, seriously. There is a reason.

It's the wilderness survival camp my parents put me in when I was 16-17. They made us hike every damn day. (Well, there was the time that I refused to hike. For a month. But that's another story.)

No, this was not a fun camp. This was a camp for Bad Seeds.

Anyway. We hiked. We hiked a lot. Every day. So instead of doing military cadence chant thingies... we did pop songs.

I actually didn't even *hear* "Ice Ice Baby" for like 4 months after it came out. I was held back from "run-in" - release - for an extra two months, and was shoved into a new group. Right after the song had come out.

So. Jimmy taught us the song. As a hiking chant.

That's how I learned "Devil Went Down to Georgia", too.

The weirdest things stick in my brain...

And yeah, this is another song like "Build Me Up, Buttercup", the entire soundtrack of "Rent", etc., that I will be forced to sing in its entirety if I get earwormed.
Mommy & Elayna

(no subject)

We've had Tibetan monks creating a sand mandala in the atrium of our building all week. I'm still kicking myself for continually forgetting to bring my camera to work to capture it...

From above, it did not look like sand. It looked like painting on silk. Incredibly vivid jewellike color. Incredibly intricate detail.

Up close, it was even more amazing - far from being streams of sand, it was created with individual grains of sand. Of course it was, you say. No, really. It was incredibly textured, little crennelations of white sand separating blue from green, raised black swirls like tribal tattoos.

Over the course of a week, we watched as the mandala expanded outward - eight hours a day of red-robed monks tapping, scraping, sand out of narrow metal horns, working gracefully, precisely. Until it filled the table.

Elayna said that it looked like it belonged in a museum.

At one o'clock today, the monks began to chant.

This was a fifteen-minute ceremony. I brought Elayna into the crowd, got her up to the front so she would watch closely...

(You can always tell a mother in the crowd; instead of watching the monks, enthralled - she watches her daughter watch the monks, enthralled.)

No cell phones went off. No one spoke. The only sound was that of chanting, deep and harmonic, filling the atrium, where dozens of people had stopped to just watch.

Ten minutes of chanting.

And one began to circle the table, ringing his bell... and placed his fingers at the corners and pushed inward, blending the vivid colors, creating a tiny mound of indeterminate color sparkling in the center of the table. Four times, as they chanted. Then four more.

He took a pinch of sand, placed it on his head, and replaced his hat; then he returned to the side of his fellow monks, and they finished chanting.

Silence in the atrium.

Another monk came forward and pushed the remains of the mandala into the center. Still precise. Sixteen light swoops, then sixteen heavier pushes, until all of the sand glittered in the middle; they filled tiny plastic bags with the sand, all of the beauty mixed together, and gave them out. For luck.

Elayna smiled and nodded and thanked him, and held it up to eye level, and said it was beautiful.


It feels like my writing comes from a different portion of my brain than that affected by the seizures and the medications.

My brain gets horribly fogged, tangled, brambled. I've written here while I'm like this. But if the path is clear - if I can access my writerbrain, I can hold that connection open. And my writerbrain is crystal-clear.

It's just that I can't always reach it.

Interestingly enough, the chanting during the ceremony calmed me completely. I was getting all awfully brainfidgety during lunch, all Mexican-jumping-bean, but that calmed me, and I came back up and used the nonfiction part of my writerbrain, and I think and hope that maybe I did the event justice. But now I'm tangly again.

The worst part is when I can almost see Story, but can't... quite... access it.

But when that door opens... my brain just works differently.

This merits study, I believe.