I finally get organized, everything finally has a spot, out of the way where I know where to find it and then put it back when I am done (a fancy new adult idea), the walls are decorated with posters and cut outs and calendars, (yes more than one calendar and yes 90 % of all of that is Harry Potter). With everything in its place I finally had a system down, methods to my madnesses. It only took me a year.
Then I decide to move. Last night I finished getting all of my stuff-and when I move I am reminded just how much stuff I really have once it's all been removed from its place, out of sight, out of mind-got it all into my new room, finished cleaning my old apartment and turned on Criminal Minds to watch while I put my new room to rights. Problem is, I didn't get done and to my new place until 11 pm, my bedtime, though I rarely make it to bed that early. I figured I could at least go to bed at 12. Nope. Too much stuff. I was decently organized during this move, but last night I was sick of it all and just stuff whatever I could wherever I could. Which meant I couldn't find my phone charger. I was too tired to continue once I found my charger and just got out the next day's necessities, then went to bed. Now I am at work thinking of all the boxes I have to go through, all my stuff I have to organize, where I need to put it all, what I need to buy to get organized. I wish I had enough money to get my own place, because I would definitely be able to fill it all up with my stuff. But then I would have to move again and I would rather not move for a while.
Yesterday I worked from 9-5, then stood in line at Comcast until 6:15 to return the internet modem, packed and moved stuff from 6:30-7:30, went to the gym until 8:30, then packed and cleaned and moved until 1 am. I would write more, but I am too tired, and I must save my energy to talk to doctors on the phone.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Monday, August 9, 2010
Chapter One: Dyes and Knives
Hey! Please give me feedback on what you think of this potential first chapter to my novel. I want to know if it is interesting or clear or if the dye part is too boring and detailed. Tell me what you do and don't like.
CHAPTER 1
The grind of the pestle stopped in the adjacent room, followed by the tap tap of dislodging powder residue from the end. Rish started out of her stupor to stir the bubbling red liquid in the vat she watched over. Only when the grinding resumed did she relax again.
For the most part Rish enjoyed her job but maintaining the vats was beyond dull. The simmering dyes had to soak into the cloth for hours before the colors would take. This particular color, sunset red, needed to soak for six hours, and it was one of the faster colors to take to the root weave; probably why it was the most commonly used. It had to be stirred more often though.
Rish settled into the cushions she’d propped against the wall below the window. The harvest heat was still strong outside, but cooler than the boiling room, and the bit of air that drifted down to her was a welcome respite. In another notch burning of the candle she’d make her rounds to the other vats, to stir, swirl, and add either more color or more water to even out the orange of the piculo fruit, the bright red of the piculo flowers, the deeper red of the Lastanae root’s berries, or the dark brown and black of the root itself. In the other room Naria was, no doubt, crushing the piculo flowers the two of them dried every spring. With one last dose of the powder, the sunset red would be done, cloth rung of water, then hung to dry while Rish emptied the vat and cleaned it out.
The end result was worth the effort, when the cloth was dry and displayed for potential buyers. She liked to arrange the colors, vivid red or burning orange against a black background, various browns draped together and the occasional swash of calming colors, as Naria called them. Rish’s gaze drifted to the trunk in the corner of the room. Inside were the dyes they rarely used, the colors that just couldn’t overcome the black and brown lastanae root which made their cloth. The root hairs were combed, soaked, beaten, combed again, before being spun and woven, yet with all the abuse their color would not fade.
The grinding stopped again. She looked over at the candle; time to make the rounds. Rish sprang up from her cushions, back crackling as she stretched and shook her limbs. Her rounds were quick. She’d been working under Naria for seven years and knew the art of dyeing almost as well as Naria herself.
Naria came in, bowl of powder in one hand, pestle in the other, draped in more cloth than necessary, especially in the heat of harvest time, leggings of near black, berry red cloth tied over one shoulder and falling past mid thigh, wrapped about the waist with a brown twist of leather. From each of her upper arms hung, like miniature capes, the jagged ends brushing past her elbows, two cloths of sunset red. At her wrists were straps of cloth of every color Naria could produce. The straps, with metal and bone ornaments clacking, never changed from day to day, though the outfits did, ensembles to display the possibilities in colors.
Her hair was hardly different in its cry for attention. Three weeks ago it had been red and black streaks. Now it was a deep brunette, save for the tied-off streak that was blue, the one thing that never changed. It too was tied with leather, metal, and bone.
“How are the dyes?” Naria asked.
Rish gestured to the vat she’d been watching for hours. “Sunset’s ready for another dosing, as well as the path brown.”
Naria nodded her satisfaction. With quick, efficient moves, the dye master had stirred in the last measure of the red, topped it with a lid to let simmer, and proceeded to assist Rish finish her rounds. Once done they doused the fires for the night.
“I can stay and help with the sunset in an hour,” Rish offered.
“I’ll finish up. You have your Naming tonight; I imagine you’ll want to get home and clean the dye off your hands.”
Rish looked down at her stain tipped fingers. She doubted the colors would come off any time soon.
“Unless you think someone Naming what your future will be is a waste of time. In that case you can stay and I’ll dye your hair blue.”
“How can you say that? The Naming is sacred.”
“So’s my blue. You’d look good in blue. I keep telling you, your hair is too boring.”
“I get enough attention as it is; I don’t need to draw more with abnormally colored hair.” Rish bit her lip, but couldn’t help herself. “How can you be negative toward the rituals when your mother . . .?”
“What? Was the seer before she died?” Naria wiped her hands on a rag which she then tossed aside. “Let me tell you something. You can make your own life what it is. Look at this shop.” She gestured wide, bone and metal clicking together. “Erusa Named my brother heir to the dyeing business. He tried to run away, slipped down the hills and died just about the time your parents returned to the village with you. The seer sees possibilities not inevitabilities. My mother wanted me to lead the village by becoming a sentinel. She was too blinded by what she wanted to realize I knew dyeing better than my brother and always did. She may have been seer, but she was still human.”
“Your life isn’t over yet,” Rish said.
“I hope not,” Naria replied.
“I just meant that you could become a sentinel before you died, which would mean your mother was right.”
“Hah. I lack the aptitude to become a narrow-minded, doddering old fool of a sentinel. Except Marcun; he’s smart, I’ll give you that.” Naria put her hands on Rish’s shoulders. “I know you are nervous about what you’ll be Named. I only want you to take the words tonight with a healthy dose of skepticism.”
“I’ll try.” Rish said.
“Good,” Naria chuckled. “I know that’s a lot coming from you. All that time you spent with my mother she practically was yours too, after your parents died. I’m not trying to speak ill of her, merely point out that she was limited like everyone else.”
That was the end of that. They had often argued about the village traditions, often agreeing about the villagers and their narrow views, but while Rish loved the rituals and festivals and everything about the seer, Naria did not. Though they could say more about the matter, neither was likely to change their stance.
“Before you’re off . . . .” Naria reached into her trunk where she stored the rare colors and expensive cloths she had to purchase that would take the greens and purples, the yellows and whites, and grays, and . . . the blues. Naria pulled out a long tunic of vivid blue.
“Oh, that’s beautiful, Naria.”
“Traditionally parents present their child with an outfit to wear to their Naming. I would be honored if you accept mine.”
Rish’s eyes widened. “For me? But your sacred blue and where did you get the cloth?” Rish fingered the soft, light fabric. The root weave was much coarser.
“I got the cloth when the spring trade caravan came through.” She stopped Rish’s protest. “Specifically for you. Take a look.”
The initial shock wearing off, Rish took the tunic, letting the cloth fall free of its folds. White cloth trimmed the top with two bands to wrap around the neck and tie instead of the usual root collar. A white strip cinched the waist as well. White was the most difficult dye to work with and therefore almost never used. It was also impractical since it quickly dirtied and discolored.
“It’s beautiful,” she repeated. “Thank you.” Rarely did they address each other formally, yet Rish was touched by Naria’s gesture. She bowed. “Thank you, Master Nariakii.”
Rish stepped into the evening air. It cooled the sweat against her bare shoulders before it could trickle down her back or chest.
She straightened her red tunic, a mixture of berry and sunset, which wrapped around her chest and under her armpits and fell to mid thigh over brown leggings. Her tunic was held up by the root collar attached to the middle of her tunic by root hairs woven into the cloth. The thick body of the root stretched up from her tunic and wrapped around her neck, ending on the other side just above her collar bone. Sprouting from the sides of the root were its wispy hairs which brushed against her skin with the breeze.
She hugged her new tunic to her chest. It was the best present she’d ever gotten. Tonight she wouldn’t have to use the hook root as a collar for her tunic, a clear sign that she did not have even a shred of Sai Sing ability. Though men were the Singers, who could manipulate the roots into whichever desired shape they wanted, house or bed or chair, the women were still allowed their ‘hearth tricks’ such as singing to the roots attached to their clothing, or to open the root pods holding grains, spices, and fruit strung across their kitchens. Rish was unable to perform even the hearth singing and therefore had to rely on others.
Braxton always offered to Sai Sing for her, but it was too embarrassing to have her little brother, younger by nine years, help her dress. She would rather stick with the hook root collar. Not tonight though. She had a beautiful and unique tunic, blue and white. White cloth to wrap around her neck instead of the roots.
The festival tonight was going to be wonderful. So was her Naming. Things were going well; there was no way the seer would doom her to a life stuck in the village until she died. Ojuic was not exciting.
CHAPTER 1
The grind of the pestle stopped in the adjacent room, followed by the tap tap of dislodging powder residue from the end. Rish started out of her stupor to stir the bubbling red liquid in the vat she watched over. Only when the grinding resumed did she relax again.
For the most part Rish enjoyed her job but maintaining the vats was beyond dull. The simmering dyes had to soak into the cloth for hours before the colors would take. This particular color, sunset red, needed to soak for six hours, and it was one of the faster colors to take to the root weave; probably why it was the most commonly used. It had to be stirred more often though.
Rish settled into the cushions she’d propped against the wall below the window. The harvest heat was still strong outside, but cooler than the boiling room, and the bit of air that drifted down to her was a welcome respite. In another notch burning of the candle she’d make her rounds to the other vats, to stir, swirl, and add either more color or more water to even out the orange of the piculo fruit, the bright red of the piculo flowers, the deeper red of the Lastanae root’s berries, or the dark brown and black of the root itself. In the other room Naria was, no doubt, crushing the piculo flowers the two of them dried every spring. With one last dose of the powder, the sunset red would be done, cloth rung of water, then hung to dry while Rish emptied the vat and cleaned it out.
The end result was worth the effort, when the cloth was dry and displayed for potential buyers. She liked to arrange the colors, vivid red or burning orange against a black background, various browns draped together and the occasional swash of calming colors, as Naria called them. Rish’s gaze drifted to the trunk in the corner of the room. Inside were the dyes they rarely used, the colors that just couldn’t overcome the black and brown lastanae root which made their cloth. The root hairs were combed, soaked, beaten, combed again, before being spun and woven, yet with all the abuse their color would not fade.
The grinding stopped again. She looked over at the candle; time to make the rounds. Rish sprang up from her cushions, back crackling as she stretched and shook her limbs. Her rounds were quick. She’d been working under Naria for seven years and knew the art of dyeing almost as well as Naria herself.
Naria came in, bowl of powder in one hand, pestle in the other, draped in more cloth than necessary, especially in the heat of harvest time, leggings of near black, berry red cloth tied over one shoulder and falling past mid thigh, wrapped about the waist with a brown twist of leather. From each of her upper arms hung, like miniature capes, the jagged ends brushing past her elbows, two cloths of sunset red. At her wrists were straps of cloth of every color Naria could produce. The straps, with metal and bone ornaments clacking, never changed from day to day, though the outfits did, ensembles to display the possibilities in colors.
Her hair was hardly different in its cry for attention. Three weeks ago it had been red and black streaks. Now it was a deep brunette, save for the tied-off streak that was blue, the one thing that never changed. It too was tied with leather, metal, and bone.
“How are the dyes?” Naria asked.
Rish gestured to the vat she’d been watching for hours. “Sunset’s ready for another dosing, as well as the path brown.”
Naria nodded her satisfaction. With quick, efficient moves, the dye master had stirred in the last measure of the red, topped it with a lid to let simmer, and proceeded to assist Rish finish her rounds. Once done they doused the fires for the night.
“I can stay and help with the sunset in an hour,” Rish offered.
“I’ll finish up. You have your Naming tonight; I imagine you’ll want to get home and clean the dye off your hands.”
Rish looked down at her stain tipped fingers. She doubted the colors would come off any time soon.
“Unless you think someone Naming what your future will be is a waste of time. In that case you can stay and I’ll dye your hair blue.”
“How can you say that? The Naming is sacred.”
“So’s my blue. You’d look good in blue. I keep telling you, your hair is too boring.”
“I get enough attention as it is; I don’t need to draw more with abnormally colored hair.” Rish bit her lip, but couldn’t help herself. “How can you be negative toward the rituals when your mother . . .?”
“What? Was the seer before she died?” Naria wiped her hands on a rag which she then tossed aside. “Let me tell you something. You can make your own life what it is. Look at this shop.” She gestured wide, bone and metal clicking together. “Erusa Named my brother heir to the dyeing business. He tried to run away, slipped down the hills and died just about the time your parents returned to the village with you. The seer sees possibilities not inevitabilities. My mother wanted me to lead the village by becoming a sentinel. She was too blinded by what she wanted to realize I knew dyeing better than my brother and always did. She may have been seer, but she was still human.”
“Your life isn’t over yet,” Rish said.
“I hope not,” Naria replied.
“I just meant that you could become a sentinel before you died, which would mean your mother was right.”
“Hah. I lack the aptitude to become a narrow-minded, doddering old fool of a sentinel. Except Marcun; he’s smart, I’ll give you that.” Naria put her hands on Rish’s shoulders. “I know you are nervous about what you’ll be Named. I only want you to take the words tonight with a healthy dose of skepticism.”
“I’ll try.” Rish said.
“Good,” Naria chuckled. “I know that’s a lot coming from you. All that time you spent with my mother she practically was yours too, after your parents died. I’m not trying to speak ill of her, merely point out that she was limited like everyone else.”
That was the end of that. They had often argued about the village traditions, often agreeing about the villagers and their narrow views, but while Rish loved the rituals and festivals and everything about the seer, Naria did not. Though they could say more about the matter, neither was likely to change their stance.
“Before you’re off . . . .” Naria reached into her trunk where she stored the rare colors and expensive cloths she had to purchase that would take the greens and purples, the yellows and whites, and grays, and . . . the blues. Naria pulled out a long tunic of vivid blue.
“Oh, that’s beautiful, Naria.”
“Traditionally parents present their child with an outfit to wear to their Naming. I would be honored if you accept mine.”
Rish’s eyes widened. “For me? But your sacred blue and where did you get the cloth?” Rish fingered the soft, light fabric. The root weave was much coarser.
“I got the cloth when the spring trade caravan came through.” She stopped Rish’s protest. “Specifically for you. Take a look.”
The initial shock wearing off, Rish took the tunic, letting the cloth fall free of its folds. White cloth trimmed the top with two bands to wrap around the neck and tie instead of the usual root collar. A white strip cinched the waist as well. White was the most difficult dye to work with and therefore almost never used. It was also impractical since it quickly dirtied and discolored.
“It’s beautiful,” she repeated. “Thank you.” Rarely did they address each other formally, yet Rish was touched by Naria’s gesture. She bowed. “Thank you, Master Nariakii.”
Rish stepped into the evening air. It cooled the sweat against her bare shoulders before it could trickle down her back or chest.
She straightened her red tunic, a mixture of berry and sunset, which wrapped around her chest and under her armpits and fell to mid thigh over brown leggings. Her tunic was held up by the root collar attached to the middle of her tunic by root hairs woven into the cloth. The thick body of the root stretched up from her tunic and wrapped around her neck, ending on the other side just above her collar bone. Sprouting from the sides of the root were its wispy hairs which brushed against her skin with the breeze.
She hugged her new tunic to her chest. It was the best present she’d ever gotten. Tonight she wouldn’t have to use the hook root as a collar for her tunic, a clear sign that she did not have even a shred of Sai Sing ability. Though men were the Singers, who could manipulate the roots into whichever desired shape they wanted, house or bed or chair, the women were still allowed their ‘hearth tricks’ such as singing to the roots attached to their clothing, or to open the root pods holding grains, spices, and fruit strung across their kitchens. Rish was unable to perform even the hearth singing and therefore had to rely on others.
Braxton always offered to Sai Sing for her, but it was too embarrassing to have her little brother, younger by nine years, help her dress. She would rather stick with the hook root collar. Not tonight though. She had a beautiful and unique tunic, blue and white. White cloth to wrap around her neck instead of the roots.
The festival tonight was going to be wonderful. So was her Naming. Things were going well; there was no way the seer would doom her to a life stuck in the village until she died. Ojuic was not exciting.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Well, I'll Be
Funny about how as kids you don’t really think about which parent you are more like. I grew up hearing that I looked like my mom, but I also was always told how messy and disorganized I was like my dad, who had also taught me to be the avid reader that I am-losing myself to the world around so I wouldn’t even hear someone talking directly to me.
As kids it was like this: my brother Davy and I were the most alike. We looked like our mom but we were probably more like my dad and his side of the family. We were FREAKISHLY energetic, all over the place and going going going, loudly and obnoxiously. We were impulsive and social and had lots of friends but definitely had a lot of people who didn’t like us b/c we were so social and therefore they would try to bully us. My brother and I were messy and disorganized and didn’t think things through. We were always in the moment.
My sister Jeanne and my oldest brother Jerry Ray were alike. They looked like my dad, but were like my mom, organized and responsible. They were quieter and focused on keeping things in place and organized. They took care of everyone else and were the nurturers. They protected the younger siblings. They didn’t have as many friends, but they were respected and well liked and had very few problems with people.
My middle brother Art wasn’t like anyone else.
Suddenly as an adult I am finding the pairings we had as children no longer fit. I am more apt to think things through before speaking, I am less inclined to be social and energetic until I have assessed the situation first. I still have bounds of energy when I am comfortable and with people I know, otherwise I have to reel it in. I am also becoming more organized and clean. I still love the clutter in my work area, the chaos and noise it brings to my surroundings calms my ever-going brain, but I am not dirty and I do not like dirty, I want things organized and efficient. I visited a friend's home and it was messy and all I could think about was wanting to clean and reorganize it because it was not set up efficiently. Obviously I couldn’t do that so I went home and deep cleaned my entire bathroom and organized my room. Who does that? My mother and my sister when she was younger and Monica Geller. I think things through, more so than is ever necessary. I plan every little detail and think of all the possibilities so I can plan for them. I am not so impulsive any more. I want to be able to rely on something, to know I can count on it and not be so whimsical. I am calm and rational and more like my oldest brother now. My oldest brother is 8 years older than me and I used to not know so much what to say to him. Now we get along really well. The rest of the siblings come to us for advice. When did I become my mother? That’s not insulting; she is an amazing woman, but it is very surprising.
As kids it was like this: my brother Davy and I were the most alike. We looked like our mom but we were probably more like my dad and his side of the family. We were FREAKISHLY energetic, all over the place and going going going, loudly and obnoxiously. We were impulsive and social and had lots of friends but definitely had a lot of people who didn’t like us b/c we were so social and therefore they would try to bully us. My brother and I were messy and disorganized and didn’t think things through. We were always in the moment.
My sister Jeanne and my oldest brother Jerry Ray were alike. They looked like my dad, but were like my mom, organized and responsible. They were quieter and focused on keeping things in place and organized. They took care of everyone else and were the nurturers. They protected the younger siblings. They didn’t have as many friends, but they were respected and well liked and had very few problems with people.
My middle brother Art wasn’t like anyone else.
Suddenly as an adult I am finding the pairings we had as children no longer fit. I am more apt to think things through before speaking, I am less inclined to be social and energetic until I have assessed the situation first. I still have bounds of energy when I am comfortable and with people I know, otherwise I have to reel it in. I am also becoming more organized and clean. I still love the clutter in my work area, the chaos and noise it brings to my surroundings calms my ever-going brain, but I am not dirty and I do not like dirty, I want things organized and efficient. I visited a friend's home and it was messy and all I could think about was wanting to clean and reorganize it because it was not set up efficiently. Obviously I couldn’t do that so I went home and deep cleaned my entire bathroom and organized my room. Who does that? My mother and my sister when she was younger and Monica Geller. I think things through, more so than is ever necessary. I plan every little detail and think of all the possibilities so I can plan for them. I am not so impulsive any more. I want to be able to rely on something, to know I can count on it and not be so whimsical. I am calm and rational and more like my oldest brother now. My oldest brother is 8 years older than me and I used to not know so much what to say to him. Now we get along really well. The rest of the siblings come to us for advice. When did I become my mother? That’s not insulting; she is an amazing woman, but it is very surprising.
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