leave me alone (I'm lonely)
The weather really does effect my mood; after a couple days of unrelenting hard grey skies and cold rain I was very purely miserable last night. I tried to think of things to relieve the gloom, to no avail-- I did not want to do anything. Fortunately I had a lesson with Sensei, which was good because it gave me something to focus on. Today, though, the sun has managed to occasionally put in an appearance, and I find myself in much better spirits.
Sensei told me a story last night, paraphrased from a short story by Ryunosuke Akutagawa called 蜘蛛の糸, "the Spider's Thread." In this story, the Buddha was walking around the lotus pond in paradise. He looked through the waters into hell, and there saw a very bad man named Kandata who was suffering very much in a lake of blood.
Now, Kandata was a very bad man, and he had spent his life stealing from people and destroying things. However, in his life he did one good thing: walking through the forest one day, he saw a spider. At first he was going to crush it, but then he thought to himself, "that spider is very small, but he also has his own life, just as I have my own life." And he did not crush the spider. So for this reason the Buddha knew he was worthy to enter heaven. He held out his hand and a spider's thread descended through the surface of the pond, stretching all the way into Hell.
Kandata saw the thread descending to where he was in the lake of blood. He reached out and grabbed it, and climbed up hand over hand. He was very strong after his life of wickedness, but it was still a very long way from Hell to Paradise. He looked down, and saw that many of the other people in Hell had also seen the spider's thread, and were climbing up after him, making the thread sway and shake.
"Go away," he shouted down at them. "Let go and stop climbing! This thread is only for me!"
And with his words, the thread broke, and they all fell back into Hell.
The Lord Buddah up above was watching through his pond. "Oh my god," he said.
. . . I wish I could tell this story perfectly the way Sensei told me. His version was complete with his phrasing, his tone of voice, his illustrative hand motions and expressions, and was about a million times more excellent than my poor retelling here.
As I am having some luck lately with writing teenagers-- I was decently proud of KH fic that went up for majochan before this-- I have decided to try my hand at a teenage version of Alasdair, as per aiara's request. Alasdair first saw the light of day years ago, as my character in a shared story that the two of us were writing. It was great fun, as I recall, even if it is mildly embarrassing to look back at the story now.
Alasdair is one of a winged race of people I dubbed the Aethraeans, who have a culture vaguely based on that of ancient Scotland. I liked him for his cheery disposition and strange sense of humor, neither of which prevented him from kicking serious amounts of ass. I . . . alas, forget the names of his mother and his sister and brother, so I made up new names for them for this story based on my faint memories of their past appearance. I will correct them when I can find my source material again. This bit of story . . . is not great, but I hope it is at least amusing.
Among the Trees, for aiara
"Alasdair!"
The young aethric looked up from where he'd been brooding inside his wings. His mother's voice sounded close by, and he hopped to his feet on the wide tree branch on which he perched. A quick scan of the interwoven forest of massive limbs revealed no winged forms save those of some crows eyeing him scornfully from a higher branch.
"Alasdair!"
He jumped to a lower branch and ran along it, following the sound. Beyond one of the massive trunks he saw his mother's figure far below, walking along the ground and looking up. She spotted him at about the same time that he found her, and motioned him down.
He would have preferred to stay up high; he found it easier to deal with his thoughts when he was far from the ground. Maybe it would be easier to discuss them, too. But it was difficult to talk while awing, and from the way his mother was patiently waiting on the ground he could tell she had talking in mind. He sighed, jumped the gap between two intervening tree limbs, and then took the direct route down.
He flared his wings at practically the last second and landed with a jarring thump on the forest floor in front of her. The rapid descent had pulled strands of hair out of queue he had tied it back in, but he judged that to add to the overall effect.
His mother, Muire, was shaking her head. "You realize that showing off is completely wasted on your mother," she said mildly.
"I have to practice or else it won't be good later," he said, pushing the feathery blond strands out of his face. "How'd I do?"
"Not bad," she acknowledged, "but don't try it in a kilt."
"I thought of that," he said. "I've got some of the waste lead from the forge and I'm going to put it in a sporran to weight it down."
"Is that what you were thinking about up there?" she asked, raising her eyebrows as she headed back through the woods.
"No. Um, well, yes. Yes and no," he clarified. Alasdair tried to figure out what to do with his hands, which felt too big for his wrists, and gangling. He tried hooking them in his belt, but it didn't feel quite right. All of his limbs seemed to be the wrong size lately, growing at different rates and faster than he could keep up with. His mother had taught him how to sew, but now he wished she hadn't. It meant that he was in charge of fixing his own clothing, and he was thoroughly tired of letting out seams and affixing patches where jutting elbows or knees kept poking through.
She waited, patiently. She was good at that. There was some quality to her silence that made you want to fill it in with whatever information she wanted.
"I'm fifteen winters, now," he said, deciding on the direct route. He wasn't very good at being subtle. "I think I'm old enough to know who my father is."
Muire looked startled, and then laughed. "Is that all?"
"What do you mean, all?" he asked, a little miffed. It wasn't "all," it was important!
She waved a placating hand in the air. "I mean, is that what you've been thinking about lately? You've been as broody as a hen at laying."
Now he felt insulted. "I'm not a hen, and I'm not broody!"
"Of course not. You've just been sitting in a tree for the past few hours because you like the view," she smiled.
"I do!" he said. "It's . . . you know! Nice!"
"The only thing you can see from up there is other trees," Muire pointed out. "We're in the middle of the woods. Not much of a view. Ergo you must have been broody."
"I'm not broody!" he said.
"Teenagers get broody when they don't have enough to do," she said, thoughtfully. "You must be bored lately, I'll have a talk with your teachers."
"I'm not broody and I'm not bored!" he stamped his foot, but the effect was rather lost due to the muffling drifts of decomposing leaves on the forest floor. "You're changing the subject!"
His mother appeared to be deeply amused. "I am?"
"Yes, you are! I want to know who my father is! Why haven't you ever told me?"
"Ah, Alasdair." Muire shook her head. "It's not like it's any big secret, it's just that it never came up. I would have told you at any time, had you asked."
Her attitude was making him feel more silly by the moment. If that was the case, then why had he spent the last few weeks thinking about it and trying to figure out how to ask? "So? Who is he?"
"He's a tree, dear," Muire said.
Alasdair paused. "A tree."
"Yes, a tree." Muire nodded.
He tried again. "My father is a tree."
She smiled at him. "That's right, I'm glad that you understand. But you see how it never really come up."
Alasdair nodded; it really wasn't the sort of thing that people had everyday conversations about, that was certainly true. Then reality caught up with him. "Wait, that doesn't make sense! How can my father be a tree?"
Muire sighed. "How can you be an aethric, and I an aethra? It's the same."
"How is that the same?!" Alasdair felt a distinct urge to pull his escaped hair in frustration.
She spread her hands. "It's not really something that I can explain, Alasdair. Nonetheless, it's the truth."
He crossed his arms, scowling as mightily as he could. It didn't make sense, but his mother never lied to him. "Well, which tree, then?"
"Hm? Oh, I'm not exactly sure. They all look alike to me, I probably couldn't pick him out in such a crowd," Muire tilted her head back to look at the interwoven branches above their heads.
He tried to puzzle it out. "Then what about Sorcha and Devin? Who's their father?"
"Same as yours, Alasdair. They're your full siblings. Really, what do you take me for?"
"How do you know?! You just said you couldn't pick him out!"
"As a tree," Muire pointed out. "Trees tend to look similar, with trunks and branches and leaves and such."
Alasdair's head hurt. "I don't get it!"
"That's all right," Muire patted his arm comfortingly. "It will all make sense one of these days. He does come back periodically, he just tends to lose track of time. As one might expect from a tree."
There's still a slot left in terms of the meme, but perhaps I'm best off not tempting fate. I've been pummeling my brain for something to write in response to penguinontherun's request for Shuurei and Juusan-hime from Saiunkoku. Of course she had to explicitly say "no pron," so now all I can think of is pron, which I never would have thought of otherwise, because I don't write pron.
Um, mostly. ::coughs:: With maybe one or two exceptions.
By the way, for an annotated version of President Obama's inaugeration speech, check here at Slate. Obama is no T.S. Elliot (fortunately; check out this annotated version of "the Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock," or this one), but it is interesting.
Sensei told me a story last night, paraphrased from a short story by Ryunosuke Akutagawa called 蜘蛛の糸, "the Spider's Thread." In this story, the Buddha was walking around the lotus pond in paradise. He looked through the waters into hell, and there saw a very bad man named Kandata who was suffering very much in a lake of blood.
Now, Kandata was a very bad man, and he had spent his life stealing from people and destroying things. However, in his life he did one good thing: walking through the forest one day, he saw a spider. At first he was going to crush it, but then he thought to himself, "that spider is very small, but he also has his own life, just as I have my own life." And he did not crush the spider. So for this reason the Buddha knew he was worthy to enter heaven. He held out his hand and a spider's thread descended through the surface of the pond, stretching all the way into Hell.
Kandata saw the thread descending to where he was in the lake of blood. He reached out and grabbed it, and climbed up hand over hand. He was very strong after his life of wickedness, but it was still a very long way from Hell to Paradise. He looked down, and saw that many of the other people in Hell had also seen the spider's thread, and were climbing up after him, making the thread sway and shake.
"Go away," he shouted down at them. "Let go and stop climbing! This thread is only for me!"
And with his words, the thread broke, and they all fell back into Hell.
The Lord Buddah up above was watching through his pond. "Oh my god," he said.
. . . I wish I could tell this story perfectly the way Sensei told me. His version was complete with his phrasing, his tone of voice, his illustrative hand motions and expressions, and was about a million times more excellent than my poor retelling here.
As I am having some luck lately with writing teenagers-- I was decently proud of KH fic that went up for majochan before this-- I have decided to try my hand at a teenage version of Alasdair, as per aiara's request. Alasdair first saw the light of day years ago, as my character in a shared story that the two of us were writing. It was great fun, as I recall, even if it is mildly embarrassing to look back at the story now.
Alasdair is one of a winged race of people I dubbed the Aethraeans, who have a culture vaguely based on that of ancient Scotland. I liked him for his cheery disposition and strange sense of humor, neither of which prevented him from kicking serious amounts of ass. I . . . alas, forget the names of his mother and his sister and brother, so I made up new names for them for this story based on my faint memories of their past appearance. I will correct them when I can find my source material again. This bit of story . . . is not great, but I hope it is at least amusing.
Among the Trees, for aiara
"Alasdair!"
The young aethric looked up from where he'd been brooding inside his wings. His mother's voice sounded close by, and he hopped to his feet on the wide tree branch on which he perched. A quick scan of the interwoven forest of massive limbs revealed no winged forms save those of some crows eyeing him scornfully from a higher branch.
"Alasdair!"
He jumped to a lower branch and ran along it, following the sound. Beyond one of the massive trunks he saw his mother's figure far below, walking along the ground and looking up. She spotted him at about the same time that he found her, and motioned him down.
He would have preferred to stay up high; he found it easier to deal with his thoughts when he was far from the ground. Maybe it would be easier to discuss them, too. But it was difficult to talk while awing, and from the way his mother was patiently waiting on the ground he could tell she had talking in mind. He sighed, jumped the gap between two intervening tree limbs, and then took the direct route down.
He flared his wings at practically the last second and landed with a jarring thump on the forest floor in front of her. The rapid descent had pulled strands of hair out of queue he had tied it back in, but he judged that to add to the overall effect.
His mother, Muire, was shaking her head. "You realize that showing off is completely wasted on your mother," she said mildly.
"I have to practice or else it won't be good later," he said, pushing the feathery blond strands out of his face. "How'd I do?"
"Not bad," she acknowledged, "but don't try it in a kilt."
"I thought of that," he said. "I've got some of the waste lead from the forge and I'm going to put it in a sporran to weight it down."
"Is that what you were thinking about up there?" she asked, raising her eyebrows as she headed back through the woods.
"No. Um, well, yes. Yes and no," he clarified. Alasdair tried to figure out what to do with his hands, which felt too big for his wrists, and gangling. He tried hooking them in his belt, but it didn't feel quite right. All of his limbs seemed to be the wrong size lately, growing at different rates and faster than he could keep up with. His mother had taught him how to sew, but now he wished she hadn't. It meant that he was in charge of fixing his own clothing, and he was thoroughly tired of letting out seams and affixing patches where jutting elbows or knees kept poking through.
She waited, patiently. She was good at that. There was some quality to her silence that made you want to fill it in with whatever information she wanted.
"I'm fifteen winters, now," he said, deciding on the direct route. He wasn't very good at being subtle. "I think I'm old enough to know who my father is."
Muire looked startled, and then laughed. "Is that all?"
"What do you mean, all?" he asked, a little miffed. It wasn't "all," it was important!
She waved a placating hand in the air. "I mean, is that what you've been thinking about lately? You've been as broody as a hen at laying."
Now he felt insulted. "I'm not a hen, and I'm not broody!"
"Of course not. You've just been sitting in a tree for the past few hours because you like the view," she smiled.
"I do!" he said. "It's . . . you know! Nice!"
"The only thing you can see from up there is other trees," Muire pointed out. "We're in the middle of the woods. Not much of a view. Ergo you must have been broody."
"I'm not broody!" he said.
"Teenagers get broody when they don't have enough to do," she said, thoughtfully. "You must be bored lately, I'll have a talk with your teachers."
"I'm not broody and I'm not bored!" he stamped his foot, but the effect was rather lost due to the muffling drifts of decomposing leaves on the forest floor. "You're changing the subject!"
His mother appeared to be deeply amused. "I am?"
"Yes, you are! I want to know who my father is! Why haven't you ever told me?"
"Ah, Alasdair." Muire shook her head. "It's not like it's any big secret, it's just that it never came up. I would have told you at any time, had you asked."
Her attitude was making him feel more silly by the moment. If that was the case, then why had he spent the last few weeks thinking about it and trying to figure out how to ask? "So? Who is he?"
"He's a tree, dear," Muire said.
Alasdair paused. "A tree."
"Yes, a tree." Muire nodded.
He tried again. "My father is a tree."
She smiled at him. "That's right, I'm glad that you understand. But you see how it never really come up."
Alasdair nodded; it really wasn't the sort of thing that people had everyday conversations about, that was certainly true. Then reality caught up with him. "Wait, that doesn't make sense! How can my father be a tree?"
Muire sighed. "How can you be an aethric, and I an aethra? It's the same."
"How is that the same?!" Alasdair felt a distinct urge to pull his escaped hair in frustration.
She spread her hands. "It's not really something that I can explain, Alasdair. Nonetheless, it's the truth."
He crossed his arms, scowling as mightily as he could. It didn't make sense, but his mother never lied to him. "Well, which tree, then?"
"Hm? Oh, I'm not exactly sure. They all look alike to me, I probably couldn't pick him out in such a crowd," Muire tilted her head back to look at the interwoven branches above their heads.
He tried to puzzle it out. "Then what about Sorcha and Devin? Who's their father?"
"Same as yours, Alasdair. They're your full siblings. Really, what do you take me for?"
"How do you know?! You just said you couldn't pick him out!"
"As a tree," Muire pointed out. "Trees tend to look similar, with trunks and branches and leaves and such."
Alasdair's head hurt. "I don't get it!"
"That's all right," Muire patted his arm comfortingly. "It will all make sense one of these days. He does come back periodically, he just tends to lose track of time. As one might expect from a tree."
There's still a slot left in terms of the meme, but perhaps I'm best off not tempting fate. I've been pummeling my brain for something to write in response to penguinontherun's request for Shuurei and Juusan-hime from Saiunkoku. Of course she had to explicitly say "no pron," so now all I can think of is pron, which I never would have thought of otherwise, because I don't write pron.
Um, mostly. ::coughs:: With maybe one or two exceptions.
By the way, for an annotated version of President Obama's inaugeration speech, check here at Slate. Obama is no T.S. Elliot (fortunately; check out this annotated version of "the Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock," or this one), but it is interesting.