Aurora

Everything was beautiful, that day. Positively radiant.

It was my first blessing. I was so very, very young, back then, still dazzled beyond words at the great hall, the great food, the twelve matching golden plates. Exactly twelve, that's important. Her parents had twelve made, just for the christening of their daughter, and they invited twelve fairies to be her godmothers and to grant her blessings. I would go last, being the youngest, and so simply watched and listened and waited my turn. Everything was so beautiful, distracting, gorgeous, I hardly touched my food.

The eleventh finished, and I stood, ready with my blessing, one of a sweet singing voice, for singing was always a splendid talent for a royal, even when no one thought it necessary. The girl's mother, the Queen, looked at me and smiled. I remember every glowing moment from that day.

The doors slammed open. Rhamnusia stood there, radiant in all her frightening glory, silencing the grand hall.

I've experienced pain severe enough that it deafens one, occasionally. I don't think it's ever been a physical thing. It's just a complete shift of focus, to the one point where your body is screaming to Pay attention! This was the only time I remember fear doing it. The only thing I cannot remember from that day are her words, though even through the fear, her intent was clear enough.

"Rhamnusia!" The Queen said, smiling with only the slightest strain in her eyes. "So glad you could make it. We, ah--" To all of us, she had said, 'We prepared a golden plate for you,' but they had not.

I stood, and moved to her."'Nusia," I greeted, curtsying. "Your seat is just here, I am so glad you could--"

"That is not my seat."

I bobbed up from my curtsy.

"You prepared me no place. You forgot me." The room remained silent, and I forced myself not to tremble. "You never shall again." Rhamnusia stepped up to the princess's crib and placed a hand on her forehead, as if about to bestow a blessing.

"On the first hour of the girl's fifteenth year, she will prick her finger on a spinning wheel and die." She looked up. "Remember, next time." And she left, one step at a time. I knew how the story would go--a puff of smoke, a laugh, and then she was gone. But no. It was not that no one could lay a hand on her. It was simply that none of us dared.

I stepped forward, gifts of song behind me, and placed a hand on the girl's forehead. "Death is not a jealous one. I am sure he will not miss you for the years you live, when you spend so much time with his brother." The murmurs were starting up again, people comparing stories, already what happened being turned into something a touch more palatable. "On the first hour of the girl's fifteenth year, she will prick her finger on a spinning wheel and sleep a hundred years and a day." A hundred years would be at least fair, to stave off death. The day was good faith, for I did not know Sleep as well as Death, and knew not how jealous he might be.

There came more, after. A hundred and fifteen years of after, then a day and the dear princeling who walked through the parted briar to kiss our dear princess, the day we all woke. But this is the day I remember, and this is the story I have to tell.

Conviction

Convictions form the heart of anyone's power. Though conviction alone is not enough to accomplish one's goals, nothing matters without conviction. All the ability in the world will come to nothing if the person with the power has no impetus to use it. Therefore, when discussing power, one must discuss conviction. My favorite language for doing so comes from Dungeons and Dragons: The game separates the characters well, while still leaving them leeway enough to be as dynamic, static, round or flat as the character demands.

Alignment

In Dungeons and Dragons, there are nine alignments: Lawful, Neutral, and Chaotic pair off with Good, Neutral, and Evil. These define the basics of a character’s morality, and most characters fit the alignment one would expect: a knight in shining armor would be Lawful Good; Robin Hood would be Chaotic Good; most flat villains would be Chaotic Evil; Lex Luthor would be Lawful Evil. The interesting part comes from working out what each alignment means. What makes a character an alignment is the character’s motivation—so what motivates Robin Hood that sets him apart from a knight? What makes Lex Luthor different from the sort of villain who twirls his mustache?

A character need not be intelligent or stupid to be a specific alignment—and so an Evil character does not need to go around kicking puppies and distressing damsels. That could lose valuable allies! An Evil character simply thinks only of his or herself. Evil is selfish. On the opposite side, a Good character can be an idiot who accidentally harms people left and right—selflessness defines goodness. Lex Luthor, like most stereotypical villains, puts himself first. Where Robin Hood or the classic knight in shining armor regard people as ends, as reasons to fight in themselves, Lex Luthor or the cackling villain see them as means, stepping stones along the way.

Similarly, a Lawful character need not follow the laws of the land—indeed, that Lawful Good knight would need to work against an unjust law. Anything else would go against her convictions. A Lawful character believes in reacting to situations as an example of the general: that a specific situation is best dealt with by thinking of similar examples and what turned out to be a good or bad idea in those situations. Similarly, a Chaotic character does not disobey laws randomly. Chaotic characters believe each event should be judged unto itself. Though laws matter less to a Chaotic individual, this fact is because law reflects a mindset that a Chaotic individual disagrees with. The law of the land usually lines up with what intelligent Lawful individuals would agree with, but the fact that something is the law is orthogonal to whether a Chaotic or Lawful character would do it. Neither Robin Hood nor a Chaotic Evil villain particularly factor the law into their convictions, because they do not care. Lex Luthor or a shining knight do care, the former for convenience and the latter for the sake of doing what is right. Just as Evil characters will not factor other’s well-being into their motivations, Chaotic characters need not factor in the law.

Raskolnikov demonstrates all four of these convictions in his two competing halves. One half—the half which kills Litzaveta—is convinced rightness lies in Chaotic Evil, taking each situation selfishly and as the only comparable example—the selfish superman. The other half wrote the paper justifying the killing—explaining that an “extraordinary man…[has] an inner right to decide” what right and wrong mean, and does so for the common good—the egotistical superman (242). That half believes in being Lawful Good. The heart of Raskolnikov’s split is that he believes he should be and is Lawful Good, yet the patterns he seeks to follow are closer to Chaotic Evil. In the end, Raskolnikov is True Neutral—he cares for his family, but not for people in general, and he takes events as things unto themselves or as parts of a whole as suits him. He remains True Neutral to the very end—finally coming to his senses for Sonia’s sake, rather than his own or everyone’s, and understanding that the law has its place.

Hamlet of Oz

Hamlet, like Raskolnikov, is split down the middle. Hamlet, however, evens out to Lawful Neutral. Hamlet finds the idea of allowing his father’s murder to go unavenged unconscionable, and killing his uncle and king without adequate proof similarly awful. Hamlet’s split originates from his lack of relevant conviction—though he may have known who he was at university, upon coming home, he is unsure of his rightness, his birthright, and even his parentage.

The hardest times for Hamlet are when he believes he is “alone.” During those times, Hamlet not only doubts his father’s ghost, but believes firmly that he lacks the power to act. His first step towards action, therefore, must be working around this conviction. Where Raskolnikov performed the same action by shutting himself off from everyone, Hamlet reaches out. Horatio helps Hamlet much, partially because any back-up helps, partially because Horatio’s agreement about the ghost and Claudius’s guilty appearance begin to convince Hamlet that he is right. Having a second opinion lends him the motivation to move forward.

Having gained the necessary conviction, Hamlet moves in pursuit of his goal—revenge—however he can. Despite disliking sneaky tactics for being closer to his father’s murderer than his father, Hamlet uses them: “the play’s the thing”, or sending Rosencrantz and Guildenstern to their death by sending a false message with them. The prince’s conviction gives him permission to use less savory tactics. As Glinda said to Dorothy, “You’ve always had the power,” but Hamlet had to “learn it for himself.” As soon as Hamlet gave himself permission to focus on one goal and use whatever tactic presented itself to avenge his father, the task became easy.

It is a testament to the importance of conviction that Shakespeare created a compelling play out of a character’s shifting convictions, with only the last scene showing Hamlet accomplishing anything pertaining to his vengeance.

Antigone

Antigone’s conviction takes her so far that she no longer feels she has a choice. She is, depending on interpretation, Lawful Neutral or Neutral Good—she believes that the gods’ law is the only important one, and needs to be followed, come what punishment may. If she follows that law out of moral belief that the gods’ law is just, then she is Neutral Good; if she follows out of a belief that the gods’ law defines what is makes sense to do, then she is Lawful Neutral. Antigone herself would not care in the slightest. She believes that the gods’ law is more important than her relationship with her ruler or her sister, and acts accordingly. Where Hamlet and Raskolnikov convinced themselves that their actions were justifiable, Antigone starts with the conviction to complete her goal, to satisfy the gods’ law.

Were Antigone’s goal to bury her brother, she would be going about it poorly. Her ruler’s guards catch her, and she is punished and prevented from properly burying her brother, almost before she can even cover him with a proper layer of dust.

But simply burying her brother is not Antigone’s goal. She believes in the gods’ law, and absolutely refuses to hide. When her sister offers to keep her secret, Antigone reproves her: “Shout it from the rooftops.” Where Hamlet was uncomfortable with sneaky practices because they reminded him of his uncle, Antigone actively hates them, because she feels certain she is doing nothing wrong. The only wrong, she feels, is in those who would bow their heads to such injustice.

This being the case, Antigone’s actions all fall into place. She will not make a fool of herself shouting against Creon, nor will she remain silent at his injustice. When she steps forward to bury her brother, the burial itself is incidental. She wants her brother to go through the proper ceremonies, just as she wants Ismene to join in her fight, but nothing will deter her from showing that Creon’s choice was wrong. She is so certain of that fact that, even though she loses her family, she does not go uselessly insane like Raskolnikov did. Her conviction is strong enough to push her forward in her goal and keep her feet firmly planted on the ground, even with every human in her world turning against her.

Where Raskolnikov had no one, and Hamlet had Horatio by his side, Antigone stands firm by the gods, and so no mortal power can dissuade her.

State of Wonder

Where Raskolnikov was True Neutral for being too split to fall anywhere else, True Neutral Dr. Swenson simply does not fit anywhere along the alignment spectrum of a normal person. She could have loyalty to her funders, but treats them more like a nuisance. She could be protective of those under her care, but, again, treats them as a nuisance, except occasionally when they make good test subjects. She protects the Lakashi tribe she studies, but that, again, seems more out of the annoyance that visitors would bring to her lab than any real protective instinct for the people. With her being so uncaring about what anyone else does, it would be easy to peg her as Chaotic Evil—caring nothing for tradition, and for no one except herself.

Yet Dr. Swenson does not even care for herself in the traditional way. When an experiment is dangerous, she considers her body just another available test subject. She tests a fertility drug on herself and becomes pregnant at a post-menopausal age, when pregnancy in a perfectly healthy woman could be dangerous in her environment. And, though she appears to care for no one, she is focused on synthesizing a malaria vaccine, because she knows it would save millions of lives. Dr. Swenson’s motivation does not fall neatly onto Good or Evil, and her methods do not fall neatly into Lawful or Chaotic. She is a thing unto herself. She refuses to be anything else.

Most importantly, Dr. Swenson is a thing certain of itself. Though her motivations are (nearly) incomprehensible to those around her, she will do everything in her power to make that malaria vaccine. The fact that she is good at manipulating people helps, but the impetus for all this is her being certain that she is doing what she should be doing. And, unlike Hamlet or even Antigone, she needs no one, mortal or god, to tell her so.

Protector of the Small

Keladry, knight of the realm, is Lawful Good. She is one of the most solidly Lawful Good characters I have ever interacted with in any format. When her friends are in danger, she puts aside her own fears, embarrassment, and well-being to protect those in her care—and ‘her care’ includes just about everyone. When she goes on a trip while training to be a knight and the group she is with is attacked, she takes the lead, not because of any given authority, but because she can and she is best for the job. No one ever asks Kel, and no one ever has to. Like Dr. Swenson, Kel pursues her goals with the single-minded determination of someone who knows she is right—though Keladry “Knight in Shining Armor” of Mindelan has a more archetypal and understandable worldview.

By the end of the book series, everyone who knows Kel knows she will do anything to protect those in her care. Those fighting on the other side of a war against Kel’s Tortall do not know this, and so are surprised when Kel goes against her king and commander’s orders to save a group of children. Though her tactical skills help, she succeeds in saving the children because she never hesitates: Had she waited for orders, she would have been too late; had she doubted herself, she would have scared the children into crying more loudly and the guards would have set off the alarm. Kel’s conviction, like Antigone’s and Dr. Swenson’s, not only moves her to act, but pushes her beyond the bounds of ordinary people. Kel could not do what she does with only conviction, but her conviction lends her the ability to focus entirely on what she does.

Dounia and Sonia: Planted Firmly

Dounia begins the tale with conviction, enduring insult and marrying or not marrying someone for her own reasons—and only for her own reasons. From the first page, no one can dissuade her from her own judgment. New information may change her mind, but Dounia is devoted to her brother and her mother, and will not be moved by offers of money or her own security from Luzhin, nor by possibilities even from Raskolnikov himself, until she has rational reason to change her mind. Dounia is Lawful for her rationality and practicality, and Neutral because she works for her family, rather than on a grand, charitable scale. Dounia differs from Kel mainly in scope. Dounia’s mother is also Lawful Neutral, but finds it difficult to make a stand for herself, because her ideals, though identical to Dounia’s, are beneath a layer of worry at going against the grain. Growing up in a house with such a worrying mother likely gave Raskolnikov his split, for lack of a role model, and Dounia her conviction, as she needed to hold up the family.

Sonia, similarly, stands firm in her beliefs to protect her family. Her power is a touch subtler than Dounia’s, and much subtler than anyone else’s I have listed in this paper. Sonia is sure of her faith in God. This first manifests in a steadfast protection of her family by keeping them fed: she has little choice, but she has the choice to leave them, and does not. Her most important action in plot terms employs an oft-overlooked power: forgiveness. Sonia believes no one is beyond saving, including Raskolnikov, who killed her friend Lizaveta. Sonia’s belief in God and forgiveness pushes Raskolnikov to confess.

Neither Dounia nor Sonia do anything as grand as marching across enemy lines, or curing malaria, or killing someone wicked. But what they do is find what they believe to be right, and stand by it, come what may. Lawful Neutral Dounia will sacrifice herself for her family, and will not give in to an evil person, and Lawful Good Sonia redeems Raskolnikov. No death, no blood, yet each makes the world that much better.

Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality

Chaotic Good Harry Potter in Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality often embodies how far guile and flexibility can get one. He takes each situation, looks at every angle, and helps all the people he can, as much as he can. Almost nothing can hold him back, and his classmates are under the impression that he can do impossible things. For a given definition of ‘impossible,’ this is even true. Harry outright says, “If you think hard enough you can do the impossible,” and believes every word with good reason—the average person’s definition of ‘impossible’ does not apply to him. Harry knows that he can move Heaven and Earth. All he has to do is find that one immovable spot to stand and one particularly long lever.

One day, Harry finds his best friend Hermione in danger of a fate worse than death, because she has been accused of a crime she did not commit. Nothing in his life has been clearer: Hermione cannot save herself, so Harry must find a way, some way, to save her, before the next day’s trial. It would not matter how. His conviction reached the point where any and every option is viable, be it new evidence, morally questionable scheming, self-sacrifice, or all of the above.

And Harry learns, first-hand, a lesson he already knew.

If you think fast enough you can sometimes do the impossible quickly...

...sometimes.

Only sometimes.

Not always.

Not reliably.

Strength

Conviction spurs people into action. Having conviction as solid as bedrock can make the world appear as if the character gained new strength, because unthinkable options become thinkable when the alternative is worse. But conviction cannot make something from nothing. Conviction is a push. If there is nothing to push, all the conviction in the world will never come to more than a zephyr.

The Dungeons and Dragons alignment system is made for powerful characters, whose conviction will be readily apparent. No matter how strong or weak a character’s conviction, sufficient power will illuminate it—the knight strikes down the dastardly villain; Batman takes down pickpockets, muggers, and murderers. Conviction spurs a character to action, and grants them the strength of doing what another person might believe impossible, or unconscionable.

Though all the conviction in the world cannot make up for a lack of strength or knowledge, it extends power, and power is useless without it. If a character finds no reason to do anything, then there is no point, and the character would not do anything.

Works Cited

Advanced Dungeons & Dragons, 2nd Edition, Player's Handbook. Lake Geneva,

WI, USA: TSR, 1989. Print.

Dostoyevsky, Fyodor. Crime and Punishment. New York: Modern Library, 1950.

Print.

Patchett, Ann. State of Wonder. New York: Harper, 2011. Print.

Pierce, Tamora. Protector of the Small. New York: Random

House, 2002. Print.

Pierce, Tamora. The Will of the Empress. New York: Scholastic, 2005. Print.

Shakespeare, William, André Gide, and Jacques Schiffrin. Hamlet. New York:

Pantheon, 1945. Print.

Sophocles, and Richard Emil Braun. Antigone. New York: Oxford UP, 1973.

Print.

The Wizard of Oz. Dir. Victor Fleming. Prod. Mervyn LeRoy. By Noel Langley,

Florence Ryerson, Edgar Allan Woolf, Herbert Stothart, Harold Arlen, E.

Y. Harburg, and Harold Rosson. Perf. Judy Garland, Frank Morgan, Ray Bolger, Bert Lahr, Jack Haley, Billie Burke, and Margaret Hamilton. Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, 1939. DVD.

Yudkowsky, Eliezer. "Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality." Harry Potter

and the Methods of Rationality. Web. 04 May 2012.

Childish Sight

My name begins with an I. You need not know my name to hear this, and I choose not to give it. You may use whichever pronoun you choose for me, or just call me "I." Or nothing.

There were things I saw, when I was younger, that I didn't put into words. I didn't have the words for them. But then, we never do, at the time, do we?

In my mother's house, there is an old painted bell. The sound it made was my first definition of 'silver', though I might also use 'crystal'. It has that perfect, sparkling clarity. The handle is worn with use, and even now, when I hear someone talk of pealing, I think of that bell, that handle, and that crystal-silver ring.

The bell was my grandmother's, before she passed. My father's mother. Even after the divorce, my mother always got along better with her than her own mother. Grandma must have liked their visits, too, though I saw little of her before she died. Grandma left Mom the pealing bell in her will.

In my father's house, there is a piano. It was grandfather's--my father's father's. I don't know anything of my grandfather except that everyone agrees he played the piano beautifully, and I wasn't allowed to see him. If it weren't for a handful of hushed conversations, I might think he was dead.

My mother's parents are fine. They always have good things in their house. Sweets, candies, cookies, cakes. Shiny toys that I can take home, if I want. I don't know why, but they flinch, sometimes, when they see my mother. Like they failed with her. I don't know why that was yet, but I'm old enough to know I shouldn't ask.

Words and History

I watch a show called Once upon a Time, and an episode (4/1/12, "The Stable Boy") had an interesting way of approaching a problem. An author character was talking to the sheriff, and suggested that she get past her block on an investigation the same way he gets past writer's block: Reread, now knowing how the story so far goes.

This is great for moving forward, I think, because we already know how we saw the story at that point in time. But, it works because it adds a perspective. There is something important about this perspective. There is also something important in how the author saw it the first time through.

History is a study in retrospect. We work like the author rereading a work to see where it was, in relation to the moment of where it is. The problem is, we don't always remember to think back on what is was when it was.

The first time I remember coming into contact with this was a biology class. We were learning Lamarckian evolution--which is wrong. My previous teachers had said, "This is what he thought; this is why it is absurd. Now, look at this Darwinian stuff!"

And then, one teacher said, "Now, this is wrong, but it's still important, because Lamarck came up with some theory for how it worked. He was trying to figure it out."

Which was a complete revelation to me, at the time. And I've thought about such things, since.

I've thought, Now we're in a world where, "Lamarckian evolution," "alchemy," and "magic" mean "fake," or "wrong," and where, "religion" means "unchanging."

It was not always so. It is not always so.

Lamarckian evolution and alchemy were attempts to understand the world. Attempts that came before us. They look no stranger to us than we will to those who follow us. Magic obviously exists--it describes anything people don't understand. And religion could change as things became more useful. It still does.

I have never heard anyone who was complaining about religion actually complain about religion. I have heard people complain about small-minded people, people who will not listen to reason, people who hate other people for what they are rather than who, people who cling too tightly to old ideas, but never about religion. I have heard some people say that all Christians are against gays, and that all gays are against Christianity, and I know that both ideas are absurd.

Were I placed in an English-speaking nation a few centuries ago, I would find the language difficult to incomprehensible, and they would find mine the same. The same language is entirely different a few centuries apart; individual words change even more quickly. Outdated concepts were not always outdated, and the words around them had not always shifted so.

Welcome.

I come to speak of art, of the arts I know and love.

I come to speak of music. You have heard, I am sure, of the beauty of the song. Of the absolute spell-binding soulfulness, of comparisons to religion that may not fit, but do fit as well as anything in our language can. Of the flow, of the heart, of the wonder. Of everything we think of with, "art".

Those who speak of the work speak more quietly, or less frequently. Of long hours and difficult days. It may be for pride or humility, or simply for fear of scaring another artist from the land we know and love so well. And we do speak of the smooth, cornered, orderly side, of math and new languages, but we often speak only among ourselves, for too many have learned to fear math, or that they can't learn languages. For we know it doesn't matter if the beliefs are true, only if they believe.

I come to speak of math. You have heard, I am sure, of difficult equations. Of long hours and difficult days. It may be for pride or humility, or simply excusing one's own fear of the mathematical domain. We speak of the sharp, cornered, orderly side, of formulae and diagrams memorized.

It is difficult to speak up, for we have few role models who spoke the words. When someone, even an artist, a lover of music, says unapplied mathematics is useless, boring, it is difficult to speak back. I do not know a song to let play in my mind, to push me forward; I know no grand speeches.

Yes, math builds things. Music can inspire armies. But, at its heart, the beauty of math, the song and color and life, is intrinsic. One need not add anything to math to make it good, anymore than one need add to music.

Music has math in it, and math art.

Rose and Briar

Rose's first thought had been, Me?

She was pretty; she knew it. Catalogued it, in fact. Nothing memorable--brown eyes, skin actually pretty similar to 'nude' clothing, mouse brown hair in a practical cut--but symmetrical. No scars from before her turning, and, of course, nothing she got afterward had stuck.

The vampire tried not to use this to her advantage too much, because an attractive woman could be memorable. Rose didn't mind being remembered for a few minutes, but she valued her freedom. Memory was fine, recognizing and calling her from across a room was not.

"Yes, you." Melia was her sire, and so had access to any unguarded thoughts. That first, Me? had been too sudden to guard, and her face would have given it away regardless. "He asked for someone no human would miss. You are the only one who fits."

"...And if I do not go?"

Melia held Rose's gaze. "Then," Melia said, as if the idea had only just occurred to her, "I will."

Rose took a breath. Avery liked her, but would move on quickly enough. Melia's Harmony would not. And, of course--Melia would never have asked Rose had there been a better candidate--only
Harmony was human.

"Why?" Why no humans?

From the outside, Melia gave Rose a neutral look.He had a bad experience with a human in the past, apparently. Torches and pitchforks sort of thing. He avoids them now, whenever he can.

Rose nodded. She knew the Beast. Had seen what he had done, and how little he understood. There was no bargaining; he would not understand he was hurting you. Like a dominance fight with a gorilla.

But he had never gone back on his word. He understood that. If he had promised to stay in the palace, and his one request was company...

It will only be dangerous for me, she thought, guarding, unsure how Melia would feel about that thought.

"When do I leave?"

Quiver

There's a thrill to this, she thinks. And she knows that there's supposed to be. Each story she's heard of this sort of hunt speaks of something special. Seasoned hunters, warriors, soldiers, suddenly tensing up, getting oddly irritable, or just running. And the stories often speak of exactly the feeling she's getting: shivers down the spine, hair raised on the back of her neck, fidgeting because she wants to move. (It isn't the right thrill. The thrill isn't supposed to call her closer.)

Katherine blinks, then replays her thoughts. Hunter-warrior-soldier, tensing-irritable-running, shivers-nape-fidgets. Three groups of three. She'd heard of threes being important. But surely that wasn't so. It didn't happen like that--people told stories, but unicorns couldn't actually influence one's mind so finely, not by simple proximity.

A twig snapped. Her breath was speeding, and she should be afraid, but wasn't. What was it? This was a creature who had killed her kin, who had a horn more wicked than many swords, who defended the forest without a second thought--

Wait. What? She hadn't been thinking that last one.

The stories are true, then. Kate nocked an arrow, trying to find the thing. A twig had snapped, where had that been? Right. Near the rising sun. That was east, to her right. And there, right there, framed by the glow of a sun yet beneath the horizon, stood the unicorn.

He came toward her at a gentle trot.

She should be doing...something? (She lowered her bow. Katherine didn't want to shoot an ally, and there were no enemies near.)

A unicorn's horn, though wicked sharp, would heal things. Purge waters, wounds, sickness. That was all she thought of when he leaned closed to her, touched his horn to her forehead. (For surely, it was all he thought of.) The touch lifted an old pain, an old weight, one she had stopped recognizing when it became too consistent. (She dropped the bow and arrow, the beautiful bow. Remembering, that was always the part that baffled her the most. She could have put it away, it would have taken barely a moment.)

"Kate!" someone unimportant called. She heard a whistling sound, and then--

It lay dead at her feet. She blinked. The weight and pain were still gone, and the fearful beast was gone. It would make a splendid story for David to tell around the campfire, she supposed, him having saved her life, and her having been hypnotized by the unicorn.

He looked at her. Two dead eyes, in the wrong place for a horse's skull, looked at her. They had spoken for a moment. Communicated. Communed.

She wondered if Dave had needed to kill the unicorn. (She wondered if that was another trick of unicorn hypnotism, or her own thoughts. She wondered if she would ever be able to not-wonder that again.)

She shook her head to (loosen her mane) clear her head. The unicorn had taken blood of her tribe, and her tribe had taken blood of his to stop it. There was no shame in that.

"The beast is dead!"

Clean, Or: The Half-hidden Muse

There's a phrase-pattern I've heard from a few artists that interests me. It's...the worship of the untouched piece, I suppose. The chunk of marble for a sculptor, or the blank page for a writer, or a blank canvas for a painter. The first few times I heard it, it seemed like grandstanding. 'Anyone could do this, I just do it.'

But, having written with the idea in mind...I think I get it. I've gotten the advice, 'Start writing, then don't stop,' from a variety of reputable sources, and sometimes I even follow it. Often, this leaves me with a disorganized bundle of things that I can then sort out into a functioning piece because I've at least gotten them down.* The editing comes in, and then I understand my thoughts, so I can rewrite most of it and re-arrange what's salvageable.

And then I get these oddball things. Like, I was writing a paper in English class. It was on power, and I wrote a blog post on it before I even really knew how I was going to write the paper. The problem was, even after I figured out the basics of what I wanted to do, I didn't really have a starting point. I knew I wanted to make the point that power and choice were essentially synonymous, and I had some examples from Hamlet to back that up, but none were really worth starting the essay on.

Finally, I sat down. Step one: 'Start writing.'

Midas would work well here, said the blank computer screen. And I went, Oh, of course. Midas's turning-everything-to-gold thing seems like a blessing of power, and then he turns his daughter to gold and we realize that it's a weakness too, because he has no control over it.

Blank spaces are magic. Clear water, clear skies, random patterns in the clouds, bits of grain in the wood or lines in the stone. Something that is beautiful and inspires something by saying only, A thing could be here is magic, if anything ever was.

* I can also get it falling more or less into place, but if it falls that neatly, I probably didn't need someone to tell me to write.

Half

If I may speak--sorry? No, I'd rather stand, if that's alright. I've been sitting all day. Thank you.

If I may speak? Thank you. I don't really understand why you needed to see me for this. Yes. Yes, of course. It's your decision. I understand. You don't have to explain yourself, I was just registering my lack of understanding on the record.

Right.

So.

I don't particularly think it matters. I mean, any of it. I understand that it matters to some people, including intelligent people. I just don't know why it matters. Like, if you show me a spectrum, and say, "Here's the red; here's the orange," I understand that a lot of people would agree with you on that. I probably would, though I'd draw the line a little differently. But that doesn't explain why we drew the lines there. The what and the why are different things.

That's kind of why I didn't want to be seen. I mean, I came, of course; you can see that. But, if I could choose my medium, I'd rather it be only my words. My tone and body language, too, if I could do that without signaling other things about me, but just my words would work well.

Yes. That's why. Everyone's a little prejudiced about something, so I'd rather be unseen, so each person can make as few assumptions as possible. Yes. I know. They'll probably assign me a gender and things like that. But it's a bit better--like the way that Dr. Thomson probably pops into your head as male if you expect doctors to be male. It's the default, so that means I get your default settings.

Okay--okay, yes, I'll start.

It's an issue of sexism.

No. No, it's not an issue of sexual orientation. I mean, maybe it started out that way, maybe that's a root or even the root, but in practice, it's sexist. It's like that law where more African-Americans were being executed than any other group. The idea behind the death penalty wasn't racist, but it was applied in a racist fashion.

It's true, that a heterosexual person can marry the sort of partner he or she is likely to choose, and a homosexual person cannot. But both of them are granted, for instance, the right to a loveless marriage, and their pools are equally limited.

Anyway. That's not even the argument I hear the other side use. It's about making a cohesive family unit. Or something of that ilk. I don't understand that at all--we get abusive relationships between partners of the opposite sex, and I have to imagine that's worse on the theoretical child. And there are people who can't conceive. But that's not where I'm going.

What about people who are bisexual? You're not stopping me from marrying someone I like; you're stopping me from marrying half my pool of possible mates. It's exactly like outlawing interracial marriage; it's racist because you're telling me who I can and can't marry based on race. Therefore, telling me who I can and can't marry based on sex is sexist. You are taking my race and my partner's sex into account, but you were also taking both our races into account. It's the same thing.

Oh, wait. I wanted to keep anything about me out of this. Can we strike me saying I'm bi? No, I'd say the same stuff; I'd just leave it vague that I am-- Oh. No, I understand. Can we strike this, then? Thank you.

Yes. Yes, I know. Rome was not built in a day. We know the words. Hm? Yes, I said, 'we'. Why? Because we all do. Everyone who's been through any human rights movement does. "Wait," means, "Never," and both sides tend to make in-groups. That's actually an interesting one, from our perspective, since I refuse to pass for gay or straight, so I end up being accused of trying to pass for both--because mixed-race children always had it easier, right? I mean, where I grew up, it was pretty much social suicide to say that someone who'd come out as homosexual was straight and "just confused," but saying the same thing to a person who'd come out as bisexual was fine. Asexual, too.

Hm? Oh, no, that time was intentional. If they're going to know anyway, I might as well make use of it. Uh...I don't see why you'd want to, but I didn't say anything important here. Sure.

I guess my main point is that it's just a human right. You can find a lot of cultures that accept it, and it pops up a fair bit in the animal kingdom, so it's odd to call it unnatural. Really, monogamy is more unnatural than homosexuality. However you look at it. Promiscuity and polyamory are more common than monogamy. No, I'm not condemning it. No, not condemning that either. Wait-- No, just--

Wait.

...

Thank you. I'm not condemning anything. That's not why I'm here, and I wouldn't be here if that were my purpose. I'd just like to be able to raise any children I might have while secure in the knowledge that the law is on their side, if they want to do things that other people have the right to do.

Thank you for your time. I'll show myself out.

Blade and Fang

The part of a recent-ish English paper that I liked. Except the pictures, because I don't know how to make blogger actually re-size. (As opposed to saying it re-sized the image.)

Lies. The word hisses like a venomous serpent. We are told from a very young age that honesty is the best policy, that we should not emulate the boy who cried, “Wolf!”

Then, as we grow, we are taught of ‘white lies’. These are lies that we may tell. White lies protect lives, secrets, and happiness. The white lie to keep a secret is a tame snake: the little one is your pet, but it is yet reptilian, and close enough kin to the hissing striker of a black lie to make many uncomfortable. Still, we feed these snakes; we let them in our homes. They are not dogs, to sleep at the foot of our beds, but we live happily enough with them. Some may even enjoy the company—a lie told gives closure in a way that, “I can’t tell you,” does not. Yet still. It is odd to allow them too close. Strange to like them too much.

Last, we have the shining white lie. This is no serpent-kin, but a knight in shining armor, forever at the ready to protect others from horrors which might be too much for the poor things’ constitution.

When lies are wrong, they are a failure: A black lie is a failure of conscience. A white lie is a failure of creativity. A shining white lie is a failure of empathy. As Elizabeth tells Will in Pirates of the Caribbean, and Will spits back at her, “It wasn't your burden to bear”—each decided the other would rather not know a secret, and each was wrong. The speaker pities the listener enough to withhold information. Or, sometimes, it is a failure of courage: the inability of the speaker to face the truth, and so the inability to speak it. Or the inability to admit to a secret by saying, “I can’t tell you,” or, “It is not my secret to tell.”

All lies have two elements: the living half and the tool half. The living half has a mind of its own—a serpent-lie may come back to bite the liar; a knight-lie may slice into someone the liar did not intend. The living half comes into being once the lie is told, and then cannot be taken away completely, not even by telling to truth. Truth means little without trust. The tool half, on the other hand, remains whether or not the lie is told. The sword rests sheathed on the knight’s belt; the serpent’s venom rests in a vial. The important thing to remember is that lies need not destroy. Next to the sword rests the shield—a shining white lie is assuming another’s weakness; the liar need not be wrong. And, though we are right to be wary of snake’s venom, the venom is its own antidote. The trick is that we need someone with a clear head to wield both sword and shield, and to measure out the venom. Lacking that, a liar may slice off a limb without meaning to, or poison someone who needed no antidote. The liar needs to understand the situation.

Put it simply: Liars should not lie to themselves. A liar who breaks this rule is trying to self-apply an antidote while delirious with fever. One who tells a shining lie without facing the truth strikes at a dragon while blind and deaf.

World Poetry Day

Today is. And I haven't written a poem in too long. This is...free-form, I suppose?

Once upon a Time

I love the old stories
When I was young, glories
Beautiful little things of light.

I'm older, know older ends
The wolf at the door doesn't always die
It's not always alright.

(I knew dragons, but not in my tales
(Didn't know how to speak without veils.)

Red died, sometimes.
Before then, she was clever.
(The trick with the rope around the tree.)

Rapunzel's witch was strong
She wandered with twins
(Her he saved, then him she.)

Beauty wasn't always smart
But she was always a hero
(Sacrifice, endurance to earn her glee.)

The old stories are always important, I think.
The dark can win--yet we try, still.
And, important to me, if a subtler hill:
Stories of women's strength are older than a blink.

Senioritis

Rapunzel was in a tower for most of her life. Her first step out into the world was, interestingly enough, the outside world coming in--the prince. The second was the desert. She had the good and the bad, and, since it's a fairy tale, it worked out in the end.

Now, you're Rapunzel. Specifically, a Rapunzel who has been warned of the outside world, and also told some of the amazing things. The witch held up leaving the tower as one of the most important moments in your life, and explained that it will happen on this very specific date. That you have a tower filled with books, movies, songs all based around the various lands outside your tower. And it is very important that you keep up on your studies, because if you fall enough behind, you'll get stuck in the tower, and never learn of the land outside.

Enter: Prince.

The prince smiles. He points out the time that can elapse between now and your leaving the tower. Then, he shows you exactly how little work you have to do to leave the tower, between now and then. All these things you've been doing just to leave the tower now barely matter. Because the date is set. Unless you actually try to get stuck here, he explains, you'll leave.

Your first feeling is probably simple glee. You've been working your whole life to reach this goal! There are so many wonderful, unbelievable things outside your tower!

And you're safe. For the first time in your life in nearly two decades, you don't have to bother. You get to leave on a schedule; you know when it's coming. And you're probably a touch restless. That may make you want to try new things: sneak out of the tower, or not study for tests, or stay up all night doing something frivolous. And there would be few or no negative consequences for doing so.

Then it strikes you, quite suddenly, that you may never have this opportunity again.

In that moment, the witch's warnings mean very little. That novel you wanted to pick up, the movie you wanted to stay up all night watching, the prince's touch, mean much.

You are free. You are old enough to be left alone to do things, and can shuck responsibilities without hurting people. You have been in the tower long enough to know this combination has not happened before, and know little enough of the world outside to not know if it will ever happen again.

Your future is set and planned for. Your past is done.

The prince's hand fits well in yours, and you live your next few months of moments in the present.

Let Light In

What makes this picture fascinating enough that my English teacher shows it at the beginning of each year? Much of it, I think, is the mystery. We cannot see the man's face, and most of his body is covered--enough that I could argue that the wanderer is female, if I cared to. The background is fogged beyond recognition, even more so than the wanderer: we can say with fair certainty that he is a human male, and can see his hair. But does he look on fogged ocean, with rocks jutting from the waves? Does he look on the ruins of ancient temples in a wide, green meadow? Does he look on mountains? All we have are guesses, so we never need stop guessing.

The mystery adds to this piece's artistry. But not all work needs to be mysterious--there are other things even in this work. The careful brush strokes to make realistic hair, or the ragged edges and gradually layering of the fog itself.

The mysteriousness adds to this work, but a work need not be mysterious to be good. Yet critics often say the same thing of works that are comedic: They cannot be 'true' art--whatever that means.

Even our language reflects this reaction: is serious literature good literature, or literature that is not comedic? Comedy cannot be serious literature; it hardly matters. Franz Kafka put this idea as bluntly as one can: "I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound and stab us. If the book we are reading doesn't wake us up with a blow on the head, what are we reading it for?"

Comedies can teach us about life. If every piece of wisdom we gained left us a shattered wreck, all geniuses would be sociopaths in self-defense. There's a limit to how many times one can shatter before losing pieces. And an entirely angsty work has the same issue a saccharine one does: the audience stops caring.

Perhaps comedy does not fill our hearts the way tragedies do. But then, angel food cake won't do if one wants black forest cake. Comedy is not automatically immature. Comedy is not a failed attempt at being tragic. Comedy is a choice to look into another side of our lives.

Anyone who says rain washes away sin has never laughed in the sunlight.

Birthright

You are born to the Earth. Whether you believe it to be merely a test for the next world or wholly valuable in itself, you are born.

And it is no mean thing to be born. In your line are nobles, kings--for the blood mingles each generation, the blood spreads. In your line philosophers. In your line warriors. In your line heroes(; in your line villains). Always, always strength.

For you, little green-white-red-black growing thing, are born of survivors. Little sun-yellow one, you are born of those who saw the serpent, who fought the dragon, who ran swift', spoke well, lived.

A boy in one of our legends--for we still make legends, even should few think to call them that--is, simply, "The Boy Who Lived". He fights, and he wins, by power of love and bravery. What do you think you are, dear star-bright? What do you think your ancestors fought for?

We are pack and tribe. We are young and old, dark and bright, good and awful. We are we. When the world shakes, and there's nothing left to hold, a hand is there.

You are born of fight and fire and loss and love. You live, little dear one mine. Never forget.

On Teenagers and Immortality

Humans are social animals. This means, among other things, that others' view of us seriously affects our views of ourselves. So, when asking something like, "Why do teenagers think they're immortal?" two other questions should leap out. The first is, "Where did I get the idea that they do?" and the second, "Who would have reason to think that they are?"

The former makes some amount of sense: teenagers are just starting into the world. And there's a bit of a cycle here, because people who are worried about teens getting hurt tend to try and stop them from doing dangerous things. But we learn to do things by doing them, so that can just end up meaning that we step into the world and do all the dangerous things a few thousand miles from home, without a safety net to catch us. There's a lot of room for a self-fulfilling prophecy here.

And, of course, those cool things that aren't worth the risk...they are all new to us. Life is awesome. Remember being young and just-free? The risks may not be lower--though we heal pretty quickly, so sometimes they are--but the rewards are higher. Ask any economist, higher benefit is functionally identical to lower cost.

The answer to the second also sheds some light on the first. We're teenagers. To people younger than our peer group, we are the cool older kids. To people older than that, we are immortal.

No, seriously.

Immortal doesn't mean, 'living forever', or even, 'living a really long time'. Break down the word, and you'll get, 'not', 'dead', and 'this word is an adjective'. Immortal means deathless, undying. We will probably outlive our parents--and certainly no one wants to think about us not doing so. Our not being immortal is an awful thought, one people do not want to think.

And, by that marker, it's mostly true. Even in places with high infant and child mortality rates, teenagers don't tend to die. We are hitting our prime. Unless the mortality rate is made artificially higher*, we don't tend to die as much as any other group. We may not be totally deathless, but we do tend to die less.

In summary: teenagers have reason to think they're immortal--and even if they don't know them, other people do, and that affects our self-image.

* e.g. all the teens get sent off to war

Othering

Between this post and the previous, this blog reached 4,000 hits.

"You'd allow one of them in your house?"

Hardly any time passed before I responded. From the other's perspective, I looked at him queerly for a moment, no more. But I remember the ideas I thought, impossibly quick had they been in words, but faster than sound, than light, than anything, because I simply thought them. They went something like this:

What an interesting form of othering. (Othering was thought as a word, for it was new enough, a fresh flavor on my tongue, sweet for the knowledge and bitter in understanding.) 'One of them.' Because, though he has just accused me of going over to the other side, of being a traitor, that very fact means he thinks me part of his 'us'. Hm. I'm thinking of him as other. Is that othering, or merely a trait of thinking of myself as having a self? Are the two separable? I certainly think one is worse.

And of course, the little one is othered. 'One of them.' You can't get much blunter than that, though I suppose one could make a case for, 'One of your/their kind.' I am not. Yet.

And that's the point. That statement is a threat. 'If you allow one of them in your house, you are a them.' Perhaps not at the same level. Perhaps worse. Traitor to your own. Turned your back on your own. Saw the light and turned away. All these little separating things, and if being other is bad, becoming other is worse.

I could claim that. Take the name of traitor for myself, wear it as a badge, my security in the knowledge that I am right. Stand up tall with my back to him, my hand extended to the scared one I protect.

But that wouldn't be honest.

By the line he draws, I was never that 'us'. I can be no traitor to a side not mine. I can betray no special loyalty if I was not specially loyal.

Then the next words rang out through my mind, the whole sentence in place and the sentiment true. Perhaps he would hear something I did not intend, but then, he would, regardless. I am no perfect communicator.

"I will always make a spare place for one of us."

On Lockhart's Lament

When my choir teacher calls unapplied math boring, this dies in my throat.

When people ask me why I love math ("How can you?"), it stands, but is smothered by lack of self-awareness.

When one assumes that liking math is anomalous ("Oh, it's 'cause you're so good at it," is backwards) this rears up as emotion, but the lightning flash turns to a flicker through the walls of bad memories.

"Mathematics is the music of reason."

Yes!

The beauty of proofs was that I could make the teacher do math--they couldn't say I was wrong because I was different. If something is true, it is so--I can prove it a half dozen ways, and be judged only on accuracy and clarity.

"A proof should be an epiphany from the Gods, not a coded message from the Pentagon."

Yes! It's a beautiful moment that makes everything stop because this is right, and you understand. That's the point--you proved it. One can discover a flaw, but none can harm a proof that is right. The proof is in the information: the writing may be smudged, torn, burned, ruined, but the idea remains untouched.

"Most mathematics is done with a friend over a cup of coffee, with a diagram scribbled on a napkin."

Yes! I've done math on my own or with friends, family, on whatever scraps I can find--paper, napkin, cloth, even on tabletops. And I've found nothing comparable to the shock of understanding, and of helping others understand.

Lockhart's Lament is worth reading if you have ever enjoyed math or hated math class or been frustrated by a math teacher. Read on!

The Wretch (Adam)

Quotations are from this article.

Ladies and gentlemen, I am the scariest being alive: a normal teenager.

That is, I must be the scariest creature alive. Were I not, I could imagine no reason for so many people to try and explain why I make bad decisions, to say that an adult who is overly cruel and immature is "acting like a teenager", or to explain repeatedly why my generation--that is, the generation on the cusp of inheriting the Earth--behaves so horribly.

Do you not believe me?

"What was he thinking?" It's the familiar cry of bewildered parents trying to understand why their teenagers act the way they do.

Do you see how absolutely terrifying I am? When one speaks of me (when one dares), one need not even give evidence or examples. One need only say how awful all the world knows teenagers to be, and go on with what someone needs to be convinced of. One need not be told how awful I am--every creature on this Earth knows me well enough to know me horrible.

The old have always complained about the young, of course. But this new explanation based on developmental timing elegantly accounts for the paradoxes of our particular crop of adolescents.

There do seem to be many young adults who are enormously smart and knowledgeable but directionless, who are enthusiastic and exuberant but unable to commit to a particular kind of work or a particular love until well into their 20s or 30s. And there is the graver case of children who are faced with the uncompromising reality of the drive for sex, power and respect, without the expertise and impulse control it takes to ward off unwanted pregnancy or violence.

But it is not even my kind! It is me, only me, that is so horrible, so devastating in my mistakes, so awful in my effects. The only hope I may hold in my heart is that I may become better as I gain wisdom. And perhaps, maybe, that I might spare the next generation the destructive environment that made me as I am.

The good news, in short, is that we don't have to just accept the developmental patterns of adolescent brains. We can actually shape and change them.

*clear throat* Hi. Speaking as myself from here on in. Oh, and Mary Shelley referred to Frankenstein's monster as Adam in her personal notes, for those of you who are curious about the header of this post.

The article's title was the first thing to bother me. "What's Wrong With the Teenage Mind?" First of all, the 'with' in the title should be lowercase, since 'with' is a preposition. Second, imagine that title referring to any other group. "What's Wrong with the Black Mind?" "What's Wrong with the Female Mind?" "What's Wrong with the Homosexual Mind?" Yet people can say "What's Wrong with the Teenage Mind?"--on the internet or in public--without fear of reprimand. With hardly any fear of disagreement.

Thoughts have inertia. People tend to keep thinking what they have been thinking unless something radical hits--for a long time, a person who performed a good deed might be met with, "Oh, that's very white of you." The person wouldn't be a good African, s/he would be an African who was 'acting white.'

Therefore, if everyone agrees with a thought, that is probably a good thought to examine. In Heart of Darkness, the Europeans knew that the Africans were beyond fully civilizing, but could still be helped. Buried deep in this idea is another: "Africans aren't people." Oh, they may stand on two feet; they make speak; we may be able to teach them things, but they are not, at heart, one of us. So it is with teenagers. Oh, there may be good ones, of course, but a good teenager is one who is "mature", who acts like an adult. And an adult who fails this test of maturity is "acting like a teenager."

What is buried in that thought? "Teenagers can't help it." Yet this is not a reason to forgive us. It is an excuse to be suspicious of us, to try to figure out what's wrong with us. I'll be as honest as I can in text:

Ow.

Okay? I'm forming as a person. I get flak for being weak--I'm a girl. I get flak for being confused--I'm bisexual. I get flak for being fat--and no, I'm not. I don't need flak for figuring myself out because everyone is.

And if you're not, you're not just dying. You're dead. You just haven't started rotting yet.

Moving

The word of the day is: Nomad.

When I was fairly young, my grandfather got me a book called Alanna: The First Adventure by Tamora Pierce. I loved it. In fact, I bought every book Tamora Pierce had released, and then kept up with each new book she was releasing--including anthologies she was included in. In the houses I've stayed in since, it was easy to find where I kept my books, because there would always be an entire shelf dedicated solely to my complete collection of Tamora Pierce books. I've been particularly emotionally attached to the spot where my collection switches from softcover to hardcover--when I started buying the books as they came out.

This has been next to my bed ever since I moved to this house. It's been right there. I could pick up any Tamora Pierce book, reread any of them whenever the whim struck.

...It hasn't.

Don't get me wrong. I still enjoy Tamora Pierce. I still read everything she writes. But the thing is, I haven't been keeping the books because they're making me happy. I've been keeping them because I felt guilty about getting rid of them.

And so we come to the title of the article and the word of the day.

I'm heading off on my own soon. I'll have a home to go back to, should anything go badly, but that's the thing: I will have a place to go if. But if things go well, I will be moving between houses. I am not willing to buy two copies of the books, nor to move them. I'll keep reading, of course, and buy books, but I'll prefer the library for my reading. When one's house is the size of a dorm or a first apartment, renting often makes more sense than buying. There simply isn't space.

And there exists that fantasy about living in a house where I build a library, but there's another fantasy about travelling the world for the rest of my life. The joy of this moment in my life is not knowing--I don't know anything about more than half my life.

So...it's time to send those books off. To those who are more stationary because their parents are, and those who have chosen to be so. Perhaps the books will cycle again. Perhaps they'll fall into an enormous collection, perhaps next to other editions of the same book. Perhaps some will be the book that some world-walker carries throughout all the travels. Perhaps they will sit and gather dust.

But, regardless, it makes little sense for me to keep so many books when I will be moving so much in the next decade of my life. And so, off they fly, to other hands and other eyes I may never meet. Bon voyage, mes amis.

This does not diminish my grandfather's gift. First of all, the books did genuinely give me pleasure for nearly a decade. Second, he introduced me to the author--and that's a gift that is still renewing.

I didn't get rid of all the books.

Elevator

They were in an elevator, since their debriefings took the same amount of time. It was a pretty glass one, with a lovely view they were both pretending to look at.

"You could literally defeat anyone, up to and including countries. What could she possibly have shown you, to get you to back off?"

The woman in red flipped her knife in the air, caught it by the handle, then flipped it so the point balanced on her first finger. The knife was sharp enough to give papercuts, but it never split her skin. "There is a ridiculously obvious answer to that question," she said, sounding bored. "Which is: I am afraid that, someday, I will go bad, and it will take uniting the world to stop the slaughter. One can fear one's own power. Everything around me is made of cardboard and tissue paper, after all."

The man in the sharp suit pretended to focus on her balancing the knife, but kept his attention on her eyes. "I notice you never said that was the answer," he responded conversationally, shifting back to the view outside the elevator.

"What did it show you?"

"Oh...you know. My world crumbling around me. Apocalypse is nigh, my family died horribly and now clones are coming back to guilt-trip, torture and kill me. Mostly about failing in my duty. Made me feel like I deserved it. Pretty much what you'd expect." The woman in red would spot the forced lightness in the sharply dressed man's tone.

"Were you that honest with your agent?"

"That honest, yes. Vaguer. You?"

She waited two floors, arranging her thoughts. "I did not lie."

"But?" He said promptly.

"I told them exactly what I told you. Said something safe. They like the idea of my having a healthy fear of my own powers."

Three floors. Tall building, slow elevator. "But, in reality...?"

"Do you know how they keep elephants pinned at the circus?" she asks, then doesn't wait for an answer. "They pin them down, very young, when it's still possible. Because really, think about it. Even if they wanted to spend the money on a chain strong enough, they'd need something remarkably heavy. So, when they're young, the elephants struggle and pull, but they can't break loose. Then, when they're older, they just don't try anymore. They remember the chains being unbreakable, so they are."

They shared a glance, then both looked back out the elevator.

"When I was very young, I had no idea how to use my powers. A group of kids would pick on me. It's nothing major, but...I dunno. Suppose it's just whatever made you feel most helpless. I've been scared, but I haven't felt helpless in...ages."

He nodded.

Had the silence stretched, then doubtless the conversation would have continued. Even a comfortable silence would have meant something, been some marker of companionship. Even small talk might have started some friendship, after that conversation.

The doors opened. He went left; she went right.

To Discussion, Always

Related reading: Gender and Sexuality, Opening the Closet

A few weeks ago, a classmate an I were discussing same-sex marriage for a history assignment. I told her I was having trouble writing my bit, because I honestly didn't understand why anyone would be against same-sex marriage. Don't get me wrong; I understand that people are against it, and I understand that intelligent people are against it. I just hadn't heard any argument that actually meant anything to me.

She explained that in her family, it was considered against family values.

"What makes family values good?"

"Well, what makes them bad?"

And I entirely froze up. She had established that family values meant the values her church held in relation to family, and so any answer to that question felt horribly insulting. However, we were both trying to clearly and honestly communicate our views, so I believe that my knee-jerk reaction was wrong. I should have spoken, so I will speak now.

I believe in freedom of religion until it hurts someone. People are hurting. Imagine, for a moment, that you couldn't marry the person you love because of your respective whats. Not who you were, not that you were incompatible, but simply that one of you was a different race, or that you were both the same sex. Imagine not being granted visitation rights, or inheritance rights, or not being able to get the most important person in the world a green card.

Of course, I'd bet that not all of my readers need to imagine.

I drew the parallel between those against same-sex marriage and those against miscegenation. I've been told that I shouldn't bring up racial issues when discussing sexuality issues, because they are too inflammatory. To this I say: they are inflammatory. Inflammation of the body means that one's immune system has spotted an issue, and is helping to heal it. We need times of tumult, because we need the issue to be visible. Different rights for different people should stick out like a sore thumb--but, and this is important, it doesn't. There was a time when separate but equal didn't seem obviously wrong.

I do not call family values bad, as a whole. Even if I wanted to do so, I could not. I have never found two people who agree on what family values are, save something that aids family stability. I believe that family stability is an admirable goal. The only place I could see an exception is when the family is toxic--in which case I'd argue that it isn't stable. If one needs fear to keep stability, that is not stability. That is slowed decay.

This has been said, but it always needs saying: It gets better.

Part of this is my optimism showing. I believe people are good. I believe that each culture gets better, if far too slowly for my tastes. We see the wrong of a decade ago. We will see our cultures wrongs a decade hence, because we will have improved.

But there is more than that. Even if, somehow, nothing were to change, it would get better for you. There are about seven billion people in the world. Given sufficient numbers, any minority can reach critical mass. It may be hard to remember; your people may be hard to find, but stay alive. I found my music geeks; I found--many!--communities of those who accept bisexuals. In the grand scheme of things, my life is likely far from over, and already I know where I can go for community. Whatever you need, you can find it.

Keep living. Keep looking.

You are not alone.

A Riddling Story

ONCE

upon a time, there were three girls who were the best of friends. Childish Naomi had hair of gold, determined Rachel of fire, and quiet Eve of moonless midnight. When they were young, they ran everywhere together, and found places and rhymes that they kept among themselves. As they grew, each found a husband, and each grew a family of her own, and they drifted apart. However, as they were such friends, they still spent time together, even if they did not run so quickly as they once had.

On one such sunny day, they believed they had stumbled upon a place no one else knew, for though the field was lovely and lush, they saw no sign of any human.

Naomi, on her first excursion since her child was born, laughed aloud when she found the flowers in the clearing. She grabbed Rachel first, who play-fought to keep Naomi from weaving flowers into her hair. They seemed to come in every color and size, and Naomi managed to make Rachel's hair an explosion, if not the most symmetrical of things. The new mother moved on to gentler Eve, who made her first sound of the visit--a chuckle--when Rachel said she was jealous of the eldest's flowered braid. Naomi teased, "Lovely, if you want flowers done with skill, then you must learn to sit still."

At which point Rachel dove for a lily in Eve's hair, and Rachel and Naomi fell into a laughing tumble. Eve smiled as she watched them, and even she did not notice the shadow that moved just beyond the trees.

Then, the old witch cried: "Who has been picking my flowers!" The voice sent frost across the clearing. "Who has been picking my flowers!"

Eve stood, and then Rachel and Naomi stumbled to their feet. "Please forgive us, miss; we did not know--"

The old witch's cane struck frozen ground, and the three were not allowed another word in their defense. They were flowers, each identical to any human's eye, but not, through her magic, to the witch.

"You have been picking my flowers!" she cried at one of them. "And you rolled all over them. And you..." The witch paused, with an expression no human could decipher. Out of mercy or whim, the witch made one last motion. "May spend one last night at home." She leaned over and whispered the rules of engagement. For fun or some idea of fair-mindedness, the women had a way out.

Sure enough, as the sun set, the flower disappeared and Eve rose in its place. After running for too much of the night, she arrived at her house. "Husband!" she whispered, remembering not to wake the children.

"Sweetheart, welcome home--" He pulled her by the fire and, therefore, into the light, where quiet Eve's face spoke volumes. "What happened?"

"A witch cursed us to flowers." Her husband would understand who 'us' was, so Eve wasted no syllables explaining. "I am free this night, but you must pick me. If not, we remain."

"The witch told you this?"

Eve nodded, and he held her tightly, at least as scared as she. "Rest, dear one. We will walk back together in the morning, and I shall see you transform into the newest flower."

And so they lay together, near the warmth of the fire, until sleep came. Eve's sleep was troubled, but the rest helped them both, as it helps all creatures.

Eve woke, and stood to go. "Rest, dear one. We have time for breakfast before we walk." And she ate, but lightly, for though she knew she had not eaten for a day, she knew a too full stomach made it more difficult to run than a too empty one.

Eve ate, and stood to go. "Rest, dear one. We will be swift." And she rested more, for no reason but her fear.

Soon the two ran across the countryside, for there was not enough time, each had fooled themselves into a few more moments together, and it was the downfall of the plan. Even as they approached the clearing, Eve disappeared, and only the wind over the grass even showed him where the three flowers were.

He had hoped to find some difference: a lock of black hair, or one ducking in the wind, but there was not such hint. Each could have been the same plant in three places. He looked closely, desperately...

And smiled.

He picked the flower that was his wife, and each woman stood free.

Now, how did he know which flower was she?
















(This was her dear husband's clue: Eve, who had stayed inside, lacked dew.)

Grimm version.
Erstwhile's version introduced me to the tale.

Complement

I am Watcher, and I am Untempered's shadow.

She has a name--they all do, come to that. Long ago, in her first age, in their first age, some would ask her for it. They spoke the language she had, then, so recognized that what they called her--Watcher--was no name, but a title. The askers faded in numbers, slowly, slowly enough that she didn't notice for centuries when they stopped altogether.

She picked up new languages as most people adjust to new temperatures. One might put on a coat, or take one off, but one barely notices any minor shifts. Old German to new German, or to Old English; Latin to French and Spanish and Italian...she was there, alive. In the first years, only her family noticed, and she when they told her, that she slipped into the accent of those she spoke with. As languages changed, she slipped into the new ones, hardly noticing the change.

She could notice, when she paid attention: hear the subtleties or obvious differences. But the only time she had to notice was when they spoke her title, her for-all-practical-purposes-name, in one of the new tongues. Her name was still Watcher to her, and these odd words for it always sounded uncanny--I am watcher, and watcher, and one who watches, yet they only know me for Watcher. None asked her name, anymore. Watcher was a name, now, though uncommon in most of the world. Even in those places that would find it an odd name for one of their own, it made perfect sense that she was Watcher. Some tried to make meaning of it, but few, and ever fewer. It was like a child named Violet--hardly anyone mentioned it; fewer sought meaning.

They had trouble guessing why she had her 'name'. Why was a trickster called Watcher? She made mischief. Perhaps it was for a habit of making particularly ingenious plans, for watching every angle? But the myths did not speak of planning, merely of a shadow that tripped the mighty.

And no one--no one at all--guessed why Untempered was called that. They guessed that it was because he was known for fighting bare-handed, so lacked any tempered steel. Which bothered Watcher intensely whenever she thought of it, because they were going by a pun that did not exist in the language, or hadn't when he was titled first: To temper steel and to temper oneself. Temper became what one did to steel, because they had no word in their language, so they translated the word the other languages had and used it for both.

His hands clench into fists, now, as another says just the wrong thing. And Untempered is strong, and quick in movement but not in thought, which means that he never turns off a train of thought, having started on it.

I see this, as I must see it always, as I do see it as often as I can.

(I am a watcher. A shadow that trips the mighty needs to see who, how, and when.)

Then a rubber ball from the display behind me finds its way into my hand, and who am I to deny the poor thing its purpose? It might cheer me up, at least. "Hey, Untempered!"

His head whips around, ready to snarl, just in time for the child's toy to snap into his nose. "Ow!" The train of thought does not break, but he's after me, as I laugh in his face and skip away. Never running, of course: I might get away.

Untempered is my charge. Willed as such to me when our guardians passed, for he learned more slowly than I. Those of shorter generations forget, for I was not to speak of it, nor was anyone else. For he would not stand being a charge. So I walked beside him as a shadow, and waited through centuries for him to grow up.

After the first few millennia, though I yet walked, I gave up waiting.

Appreciate the Journey

Half my English final. I had to write an essay combining Siddhartha, Frankenstein, and Kafka's Metamorphosis, which meant that my teacher called the assignment siddfrankengregor. We were encouraged to bring in other sources, and the prompt was just, 'interpret from a mythological standpoint'.

My main regret on this essay is that I didn't find a way to bring Kamala in. She was interesting, both as a character and as her effect on the story.

A traditional hero needs three traits: a drive to act, an ability to find fulfillment in acting, and success. Failing in the first gives hardly any story—an apathetic character is, at best, a source of passive decay. Without finding fulfillment, the hero will go insane, and likely turn against his or her original goal. Failure in the third is a heroic failure, one of a tragic hero. The character in question still is a hero, but one people do not enjoy thinking of as often.

Superman embodies all of these aspects: his drive is compassion for his fellow man, his fulfillment is in feeling that he does his part, and his super-human abilities give him success. Though darker, Batman is as obviously heroic. Batman’s drive comes from empathy with the victims he protects, for he knows how much a person can be hurt from one crime, and Batman, though tortured, does find fulfillment in protecting those he has taken as charges. This hero’s success comes from the facts that he is clever, rich, and willing to use psychological warfare.

Obvious heroes are not only found in the realm of comic books. In Siddhartha, the eponymous character also fits this—demonstrably flexible—mold. Siddhartha’s drive is a general restlessness with his incomplete life. Siddhartha’s drive comes from the same place his success does: Siddhartha is gifted enough to question, and so becomes restless at even the charmed life of a Brahmin, because it does not stimulate him. Siddhartha finds fulfillment in every step of the journey because each step is new knowledge, and he loves gaining new knowledge. The end of the book may seem a break from this, where he settles down by the river, but even then he meets new people and thinks new thoughts. Siddhartha finds the ultimate fulfillment in the journey: he finds fulfillment in each endeavor. His journey is his goal.

Victor Frankenstein and his monster—whom Mary Shelley called “Adam” in her personal letters—are both fallen heroes. Adam’s drive is a desire to be around other people: to not be alone. He finds fulfillment even when only trying to achieve this goal, as he finds himself content to spend time simply watching a family and learning their language and social hierarchy, expressed most simply in Adam’s learning of the family’s different names for each other (because the girl is both sister and daughter, and the boy is both brother and son). Adam even finds a short period of success when he visits the blind father, for Adam is well spoken and kind. But the success does not last, and Adam is thrown back out into the cold. Being so lonely warps his sense of fulfillment until he no longer has it, only the drive to act—which is no longer desire to be with anyone, but simply desire to hurt his maker as much as his maker hurts him.

The warping pattern is a fairly common one. Victor Frankenstein also finds himself warped, though in the opposite direction: Victor relied upon the goal of creating life, rather than the process of scientific discovery that led him along it. Therefore, when the final product—a life—is other than what the doctor had envisioned, he breaks down. That mistake haunts him, as Dr. Frankenstein is haunted both within his own psyche when he goes into hysterics, and by his creation, who kills everyone Victor loves before finishing off Victor. This pattern also appears with more subtlety in Rodgers & Hammerstein’s Cinderella. The stepmother (Bernadette Peters) acts as antagonist throughout the movie, yet she is not a flat villain. She reacts wistfully when Cinderella describes the ball in romantic terms, and this helps the viewer remember that, when Cinderella lost her mother, her stepmother lost her husband. In her own words, the stepmother “fell in love with love one night when the moon was full”—her story appears remarkably similar to Cinderella’s. The difference began in a lack of success: “but love fell out—with [her]!” Cinderella’s stepmother lost her love, which was her success, just as it is Cinderella’s, our hero’s. But where Cinderella keeps her love, the stepmother loses hers—and so loses touch with love altogether. The stepmother is perhaps the scariest failure at being a hero, for she does the same thing Adam does: she loses her success and her fulfillment, but not her drive. Cinderella’s stepmother does not kill people, but she does deprive them of life, in her way. She will not allow her daughters to go through the pain she went through, and so warns them away from any sort of love with an almost flippant “learning to trust is just for children in school.” This teaching is the only place she shows any love for Cinderella, for she gives her stepdaughter the same warning. Under all this flows an undercurrent—having realized that the stepmother truly loved Cinderella’s father, her hate stops being a plot device and starts being—perhaps—a reaction to a person who looks too much like what she lost.

A character needs not fall so dramatically. Metamorphosis’ Gregor appears to fall at the beginning of the book, when he turns into a vermin, but his fall came much earlier, and much more quietly. When he was young, he took the job he still had just before the book begins to support his family (journey), and was happy (fulfilled) to bring home money they could use (success). By the time the book begins, however, the family takes Gregor for granted, and the only way Gregor can find any happiness is in the thought of sending his little sister Grete to the conservatory--he finds his satisfaction from daydreaming of his goal, not walking along his journey. When he becomes vermin, he loses any hope, and then loses his drive—the last few pages in which Gregor lives describe him laying down to die, for he gives up even on living.

Within Metamorphosis’ pages, Grete is the hero. She starts out as a background character, but even then journeys firmly and contentedly—she plays the violin, and must be practicing regularly to play it as well as the other characters’ reactions imply. When Gregor repulses the entire family, she finds the drive to aid him, and the intelligence to figure out how to best help him. Though she may not enjoy interacting with the vermin, Grete actively wants to help her family, and so finds fulfillment that way. The climax of the book—when a knight in high fantasy would slay a dragon—is Grete standing up and saying that the family cannot live as they have lived. Her speech convinces Gregor to lie down and die. Though this is not as unambiguously inspiring as a knight slaying a dragon, Grete still acts as a hero because she is the primary force in the book that makes things better—for her brother, for her family, and for herself.

A hero is not a hero is not a hero. Though there are clear examples, such as Superman, there are also those whose lack of success or lack of fulfillment warp them so badly that they become unable to be heroes—Victor Frankenstein, Gregor—or even become villains—Adam, Cinderella’s stepmother. And there are those who, despite the story not revolving around them, are still heroes—such as Grete. Pinning down heroes is difficult, because they are cultural constructs that change their cultures. Siddhartha brought enlightenment, Batman and Superman safety, Grete hope. Each, through their drive, their ability to walk the journey without warping themselves, and their success, changes the world. That is a hero.

Works Cited
Cinderella. Dir. Robert Iscove. Perf. Brandy Norwood, Bernadette Peters and Veanne Cox. American Broadcasting Company (ABC), 1997. Television.

Hesse, Hermann. Siddhartha. Toronto: Bantam, 1971. Print.

Kafka, Franz, and Stanley Corngold. The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka. Toronto [etc.: Bantam, 1972. Print.

Shelley, Mary. Frankenstein. Ed. Johanna M. Smith. Boston: Bedford/St. Martin's, 2000. Print.