Skipping Record

I seem to be a little stuck.

My JET (Japan English Teaching) application is 

going in this week, and I don't even know what to hope.  

Part of me really hopes that I will get in and part of me really REALLY hopes that the book mom and I are finishing up will make both of us filthy rich (a la Harry Potter).  Of course, thus are the dreams of any aspiring author.

I guess this is just one of those times where I am leaping hurdle after hurdle...and still feel as though I were standing in the same place.  The things that I am working on seem so long term that getting them done degree by degree carries with it no feeling of accomplishment.  The book, my application to JET (the results of which I likely will not receive until mid january or later—and that's just whether or not I qualify for an interview), my independent study course, my various and sundry drawing and writing projects, cleaning out my stuff and getting a storage unit and on and on, ad nauseam.  

I feel like I'm waiting for something that never is going to happen.  At least, if it DOES happen, I will be so worn down by waiting that the thing itself will have lost its luster.  

As Hugh Beringar of the Brother Cadfael books said:  "If a man finds at eighty what he was searching for at twenty, he might prove a shade ungrateful."  and Cadfael replies with something like this: "He may have found by eighty that the thing he wanted wasn't worth the having after-all."

There's a lot of wisdom in that, but I'm no sure I'm old enou

gh to really appreciate it yet.

I think one of the reasons why I have not "settled down," in every sense of that word, is that I am really afraid of being bored.  I don't want to wake

 up one morning and look at the life I have made for myself and realize in a panic that I feel stagnant—trapped and unmoving with my 

feet solidly mired.  Of course, if I love whatever it is I am doing, that's not going to happen.  At least, if it DOES happen I'll be able to work through it log

ically.

I guess I just have yet to find anything—or anyone— that I am willing to commit all my considerable energies to.

This post was not going to be about this.  I WAS going to write about how dog sitting my aunt's dogs is like being a single mother with a two year old and a seven year old.  It was going to be witty, funny, dry and philosophical.  At least I got the last

 one—maybe.

Celune briach Cyncad: scholar, mage and directionally challenged.  My World of Warcraft alter-ego.  It's in the middle of being coloured, but I lack the motivation to finish it at the moment...

Filling in the Blanks

I pulled what would have been called a "double-swindle" today, if I lived in the world of crime. Of course, I can't tell the story because the two people whom I "swindled" read this blog. Maybe someday.




I will update soon, I promise! I've been playing WoW and drawing and I haven't wanted to make a new post until I got the picture coloured...but I see now that is going to take much longer than any of you guys will want to wait.

I wanted to throw the phone out of the window at work. Phones are are hateful things—unless of course it's your mum or sister or something calling!

There is a guy I am going to strangle. Male delusions are the bane of my sanity.

...the body of my laptop is cracking. Why?? We CAN'T TELL! I think I'm going to save up for a faster laptop with a bigger hard drive anyway, though. When a single photoshop file takes up 35MB, even a 60 gig hard drive can fill up pretty darn fast! So, if you guys hear of any extra money-making opportunities, let me know. Hopefully between the voice acting money I hope to be earning very soon (I'm ready to record that audition when you are, dad!) and what I'll earn from Jim and Gigi for taking care of the dogs it should get me at least started!

At any rate, here's a bit of a story I'm working on, if any of you would like to read it!

As I put quill to paper I find myself suddenly at a loss as how to begin my tale. My old teacher would tell me to just start at the beginning and keep going until I reach the end, but I’m afraid that there are few stories that can be told in such a simple way. Perhaps an introduction of myself would be the most polite, if not the most literary fashion in which to begin.

My name is Celune Cyncad—it sounds an ill-chosen name for one such as I, I know, but my father was Caradoc ap Cyncad and it was thought fitting for me to bear his name at my birth, girl though I am. My mother gave me my first name for the moon, for my hair was as silver as that lunar orb from the day I was born.

Her name was Elanor Wheelwright and she was the daughter of carpenter who had been raised in Westfall. She, however, left home at a fairly early age to seek training and instruction when her prodigious talent in the arcane arts became apparent. She was as pale a creature as ever walked the earth; her hair was so light a gold as to be nearly white and her skin was like ivory. She had great blue eyes and a ready smile—these are the things I remember best of her.

My father was a priest, and he was the son of Cyncad ap Rhys, the great paladin. He was as dark as my mother was light, with skin bronzed to a rich copper from years in the sun and hair as black as a raven’s wing. The two were like day and night—the dawn and the twilight come at last together.

That, at least, explains my mongrel looks.

I inherited my father’s temperament and my mother’s penchant for all things arcane, though my skill is very small compared to what hers was. My love of books and learning is something I got from both of them, though I believe I have taken it to entirely new heights.

I was orphaned at the age of five. At least, I believe I was orphaned—to this day I still have no proof of my parents’ death. We spent the early years of my life traveling a great deal. One of my earliest memories is being tucked up in a sling at my mother’s back while she and my father walked down road after endless road. I don’t know why we never settled down, but we were content.
It was an abominably rainy spring night when all of this came to an abrupt halt. We had stopped for the evening and my mother was attempting to light a cook fire—even her talents were being taxed by the buckets of water pouring down on us from the heavens—when there came the sound of someone crashing through the underbrush. I remember my father leaping to his feet and my mother diving for her staff when, out of the undergrowth, stumbled a grizzled man in torn grey robes.
“Ælfwine!” My mother cried, dropping her staff and rushing to support him as he stumbled. “What in all the hells—”
“No time,” he gasped. “Get your gear and move. They’re right on my heels!”
I heard at that moment the most bone-chilling sounds I had ever encountered in my short life, and to this day I have heard none to equal them. It sounded like a thousand old bones being rubbed together, and the trees beyond the ring of firelight shifted and swayed through the rain as though stirred by some great breath.
“Take Celune,” my mother caught me up and thrust me into the man’s arms. “Take her and go. We will hold them off and catch up with you on the road. There’s no way all of us could get away, even if we run!”
Ælfwine nodded and clasped my mother’s hand for a moment, then turned and ran with me in his arms. My last sight of my mother and father was them standing side by side, alert and straight with their magic crackling around them as they stood to face whatever it was that was coming for us.

...And for my NEXT Trick...

I know, alot of updates in the first couple of days.

Partially it's because I have alot to say lately--while the other part is that it's just sad to have a half-empty blog.

Art is a funny thing. It comes in fits and starts and then abandons you right on the edge of brilliance to fend for your sorry self. Pieces that you were totally thrilled with not two days ago suddenly turn ugly, and things you swore you'd burn turn up as the standard of loveliness.

Then there's the backsliding and stagnation in skill, style and technique, but that's a whole other sort of vegetable.

This piece is easily one of the best I've ever done. I've been trying to emulate its style and flow lately to no avail--I'll just have to keep on slogging through, it seems.
(WARNING: It's GIGANTIC. O_o)

....I'm the one in the upper right corner with the flag.

New Fears, Old Fears

When I was a child fear took the shape of THE DARK or THE CLOSET or THE THING UNDER THE BED.  It was a real fear—as real as anything we ever feel in our entire lives.  

Are these groundless fears?  One could say yes and one could say no, but they are there and I have never met a child free of fear.  Some have more to fear than others, and to many the fear is of things that are very real and very close; they are things to which no child should ever have to be exposed.

As I grew older the fear began to change.  The childish fears of things with EYES in the closet gave way to fear of shattering myself socially, the fear that I would not be smart enough, the fear that I would never fit in.

I was sure at this age that this feeling of fear was something that would mellow with time and age and would eventually become a comfortable old fear, as familiar to me as my own face.  Then I would cease to fear it and begin to see it simply as was it was—either a reality to be accepted or an illusion to dismiss.

This is true to a certain degree.

However, fear changes shape as one grows out of adolescence.  Suddenly, in those awkward years between the un-childhood of the teen years and the un-adulthood of the late teens and early twenties, things start to take shape in the world and these new visions can be vastly frightening.  Siblings leave home—they get married or they leave on missions or they simply grow apart.  Friends one were certain one would have forever slowly drift away, and the daily routine of life suddenly becomes both alien and precious, something to be held and examined and kept close until the very last breath.  

As the vastness of the world begins to close in and things start to make sense again, things continue to shift out of balance.  Fear of failing classes, fear of new room-mates, fear of having to choose between the people you love.  

These too, however, are juvenile fears.  It is in that first step of adulthood that both the terror of what is to come overwhelms and engulfs.  Fear for oneself turns outward into fear for the people one loves—fear that the one time you fail to say goodbye is the one that matters, fear that you will fail those who have you alone to rely upon, fear that not enough care will be taken in the choices made by friend, love, sibling or child.  There are fears of an empty bank account, fears of natural disaster, fears so horrible you cannot put a name to them, though there are people who live in them as a reality everyday.

The childish fear of the dark finds a new and terrible shape in the fear of people who live in the darkness, and a fear of the darkness that can take hold of the mind.  It is a fear of those who would spread their own darkness to everyone they touch.

Comfortable Phobias.  That is how I've heard some of these things described after they have been felt a certain amount of time.  I can see how it would be so—I mean, one cannot allow oneself to fear all that is to be feared or else one would cease to be.  There would be no joy, no hope—nothing for which one could ever get out of bed in the morning.

I suppose that I, standing as I am on the brink of true adulthood, feeling in a lot of ways as I do that I have only myself to rely on, am feeling these new fears as strongly as I ever will (outside, of course, the experience of a mother fearing for her children.  I imagine that is an entirely new class of feeling).  I imagine that they will fade in sharpness over time, because that is my only answer to these things.

It seems to me that people who find themselves in depression are the ones who can find no answer to these fears—they are the ones who cannot look them in the face, or having done so, deem themselves wholly unworthy of the task to meet them as one must.

  Hope, I suppose, is the only answer to all this.  Hope that the pain will dull over time, hope that things will not turn out as terrible as they seem--hope that the people who love you will continue to love you, no matter the terrible mistakes you may make.

How else am I ever to move forward?

Lost Again...!

So...I just started playing World of Warcrack—er, Warcraft, I mean, and it's really a gas.  I played mostly as my undead mage on a regular PVP (player vs. player) server, but then I ended on an RP/PVP server as a human mage.  (For the uninitiated, a regular server is where you're just playing for the sake of playing the game and you're not any sort or specific character.  On the other hand, a Role Play/RP server is where you come up with a character and a backstory and you play the game as that person, in character.)

At any rate, I've really been enjoying myself even though I'm playing on the Alliance side instead of the Horde side, which is what I generally prefer.

This's all just to lead up to my newest piece of art, titled "Lost AGAIN!"

This is the first time I've ever done a full coloured background on the computer, so I hope it worked out.

On the home front...I need more money.  And less fat.  And more storage space.  Does the year seem to be just sliding away to anyone else?  I blink and a month and a half has gone by.

Everybody's Doing It

Fine.  You all win.  

I'll "blog" (have I ever told you how much I hate that word?) my art outside of DeviantArt, 

but I demand comments!  And piggies!!  

Aw come on...I'll comment on yours if you comment on miiiine! *nudge nudge*

Seriously.  If people read this, I'll be stoked.

As for the title?  I needed something clever-sounding and memorable, and that's what came out.

Be glad—the last time I came up with a "creative" name, I ended up labeling myself as "HarmonianHiccup" on unnumbered BBS across the 'net.

As soon as I can convince "blogger" (eeche.) to upload my art, I will post it.  In the meantime...