Fun and games at the Elfhame Wash & Dash

Laundry day! And since our washer is on the fritz again, I am off to a new-to-me local laundromat (the Elfhame Wash & Dash) to justify my epithet of  "Laundry Faerie." We'll see how it goes.

3:51 p.m.
Just chillin' and sudsin' at the laundromat. As you do.

4:18 p.m.
The handsome fae attendant has twice had to forbid a young vampire from playing in the extra-large-capacity dryers. "One more time and I uninvite you from the premises," he warns. A couple of elderly banshee customers nod and tut in agreement.

The vampire is now sulking punkishly in the darkest corner of the place. He's spotted a rolling laundry cart and it doesn't take an Einstein to figure out what he's planning to do next.

4:19 p.m.
Young punk vampire has now grabbed the cart and is merrily rolling up and down the aisles yelling "I'm Batman!" This won't end well.

4:22 p.m.
Well, Count Suckpunk just ran over several tomtar, who are now yelling at him and cursing rather violently in Swedish. The attendant, looking weary despite his immortal beauty, wades into the fray. Meanwhile I'm loading a dryer and minding my bidness.

4:25 p.m.
The attendant is making the vampire apologize to the tomtar. "I wasn't trying to hurt anyone, I was just bored," he mumbles.

The eldest tomten isn't having it. "I don't care if yer undead, yer cruisin' for a bruisin'!" he says in a carrying voice.

The attendant sighs. He seems to be rethinking his career choices.

4:29 p.m.
Oh hey, one of Santa's elves just showed up. With one of the biggest red loads I've ever seen.

4:35 p.m.
The elf was listening in on the vampire-tomtar brouhaha as he loaded an extra-high-capacity washer.

He is now making a list. And checking it twice.

4:41 p.m.
Wup, the attendant just dropped a roll of quarters. They scattered everywhere and now the young vampire is searching for and counting every single one.

The elf looks over, pulls out his list and makes a few amendments.

4:42 p.m.
"Forty! Forty quarters! Ah ah ah ah" *BOOOOOM*

5:11 p.m.
Welp, my load is dry and I think I'm going to fold this at home, just in case things get any crazier and someone calls the chupacopras. Thanks for coming with me!

Great googly moogly!

You know what happens when Sooz a) is kinda bored and b) has craft items in her possession?

Yep. You get a random case of the googlies.

Googly Daruma!

Googly Dalahäst!

Googly washing machine!

Even googly sister collage portrait! Because that's how we roll around here.

(Great, now her googly eyes follow me everywhere. Creeeeeepy.)

Ways to be magical

was going to write an introductory statement here about why one would want to be a magical person, but you know what? That's nonsense. In a society that seems determined to make life as mundane as possible, the allure of being magic ought to be self-evident. So on we go!

THINGS MAGICAL PEOPLE DO

PLAY. This, more than any other trait, separates the magical from the mundane around us. Magical people are most likely never to have lost the instinct for play that they had in childhood, or have rediscovered that joy as adults. Playing is a way of dancing with life. So: fly kites. Blow bubbles. Play with yo-yos. Learn a few simple magic tricks. Juggle (anything from plucking scarves out of the air to juggling bean bags to full-on contact juggling like Michael Moschen in Labyrinth). And if you have boring errands to run and other adult responsibilities to fulfill, find ways to turn them into a game. There are a myriad ways to make everyday life more like play -- and thus more magical.

Create. Makers are magicians, and ANYONE can harness creativity. More specifically, try some of these:

• Paper magic. Start by folding simple origami models. The great thing about origami is that you can do it practically anywhere -- all you really need is flexible paper, a flat place to fold it on, and a bit of manual dexterity. This is also a nifty way to recycle scrap paper. Once you have mastered a few basic patterns, you can amaze people with your skills. (I make flowers or cranes to give to friends and little kids.) If you have a lot more dexterity with scissors than I do, scherenschnitte is another option. And if you want the completed object to have a little magic of its own, whisper a friendly little spell to it as you make it.
• Play an instrument, particularly a portable one. Small instruments, such as harmonica, mouth harp, tinwhistle or ocarina, are especially magical -- and, with the possible exception of the mouth harp, just about anyone can play a simple tune on the first try.
• Sing dumb songs. Better yet, try neat folk tunes if they don't have too many verses. If you absolutely cannot carry a tune, poetry or storytelling is an excellent alternative. (Don't know how to tell a good story?  Take a storytelling class!)  For a good collection of dumb, novelty, folk and other weird and funny songs and skits, find the Doctor Demento Show archives online or check podcasts for novelty song goodness.

Be curious. Magical people are most likely to be curious about the world around them and the wonders it holds, and are always looking for opportunities to learn or try new things that will fill them with delight, whether it's marbling paper, sampling an unfamiliar food, cosplaying, stargazing, geocaching or bungee jumping. Recognize that the world is full of marvels to be sampled and enjoyed, and be open to trying as many as you can.

Be confident. Start each day with the expectation that something wonderful is going to happen -- because you will make it happen. Enter contests. Smile at strangers. Stand up for what's right. Assume you will be lucky and things are going to go well. Keep a wellspring of optimism inside you. If you're not used to being confident, practice confidence -- ask yourself, "How would I proceed if I were a confident person?" and then do it that way.

Be subtly whimsical and/or a little bit mysterious. Real magic isn't like stage magic; it doesn't draw undue attention to itself, because it doesn't need to. The right people will notice and draw near. Commit everyday acts of whimsy that you find fun, even if others think they're silly -- do the Jedi hand-wave at an automatic door, put your coat on with a theatrical sweep, give the shopping cart a gentle push so it glides forward and you can walk along behind it without touching it, learn how to crack open an egg one-handed, leave a tiny toy in an unexpected place. Also, consider cultivating a little touch of mystery in your interactions with others. People don't need to know everything about you right off. Share a little something magical just in passing that leaves them curious to know more.

Practice story magic with other people. My mother, who would never have described herself as magical, had a superpower. She could sit down next to a stranger, smile, start chatting, ask a few open-ended questions about that person's life, then actively listen. More often than not, she could learn someone's life story in about 20 minutes. Most people like to talk about themselves, and if you give them an open invitation to do so, they usually won't let you down. Active listening, where you pay attention to details and ask follow-up questions, is paramount. If you practice this particular magic, you will quickly discover that EVERYONE has a story, and most are fascinating.

Expand your vocabulary. Don't speak another language?  Time to get curious and try something new. If this particular magic doesn't come easily to you, discover rare or unusual words in your own language. Finding the perfect word to describe a concept is powerful stuff.

Find magical places near you. These can be wonderful little shops, special restaurants or bakeries, unexpected red-brick roads, hidden parks in the middle of big cities, caches full of tiny treasures -- the possibilities are vast. My personal resources for finding such places include Atlas Obscura, Geocaching.com and Waymarking.com, but there are many, many others.

Track down and enjoy magical media. My particular media magic of choice is books, and I have a huge list of books I consider magic -- Under Plum Lake by Lionel Davidson, Dandelion Wine by Ray Bradbury, C. S. Lewis' Narnia books, the People stories by Zenna Henderson, etc. For those with a preference for animated movies, the Studio Ghibli version of Howl's Moving Castle or Tomm Moore's Song of the Sea are likely places to start. And then there's music -- your life's soundtrack. Mozart, Vivaldi, Cosmo Sheldrake, Loreena McKennitt, Sissel Kyrkjebø, Regina Spektor, whatever makes your heart leap when you hear it. I personally recommend going to YouTube and looking up cover versions of the song "Nature Boy" by eden ahbez (the Emmelie de Forest version is a delight).

Notice little magical things and write them down. My theory is that small magical things happen around us all the time, but our mundane minds usually forget them unless we take the time to record them. I carry a small notepad and pen with me, and every time I experience something that seems magical, I write a brief note about it.

Perform random acts of kindness. Pay the bridge toll for the stranger behind you, or randomly spring for someone else's purchase. Offer a heartfelt, unexpected compliment. Write down a favorite quote or song lyric on a notecard and leave it in public for someone else to discover. (Or make a treasure map for someone to find, then actually leave a small treasure at the X!) Make a mixtape for someone (OK, cassettes have gone the way of the dodo, but you can put all kinds of musical mixes onto a thumb drive, so DO EET). Bring a stressed friend a gift of emergency chocolate, a bouquet of seasonal flowers, a favorite book or game, or some other small personal token as a reminder of your friendship. There are many more suggestions for random acts of kindness online if you need some pointers to get started.

THE ART OF THE MAGICAL HOME

Curate a collection of magical household items. Seek out household objects that have a touch of magic to them. Yes, you could just keep your liquid soap in a plastic bottle, or you could put it into a green cut-crystal dispenser. You could make tea in a basic brown teapot, or one painted with a black dragon that turns all sorts of wonderful colors when it's filled with boiling water. (Or both, if you've got the room and the inclination!) These items don't have to be expensive. My elephant-shaped glass container, which I use to hold cotton balls in the bathroom, was purchased in a secondhand store for a pittance, and most of my teacups and saucers were thrifted. The idea is to look for functional items that speak to your soul and create a little splash of unexpected color or beauty in your home. And part of the point is to collect a magical trove that's unique to you, not put together by anyone else. Don't expect to do this in one fell swoop; it takes time.

Clean, not tidy. A magical home is regularly cleaned and well cared for, but also definitely lived in. It's all right to have a little creative chaos in progress, whether it's a partially-finished bit of knitting, a painting being worked on, a potion being brewed, a vision board for a future project, etc. (Just don't be like me and have ALL these projects out at once. There is a difference between creative chaos and COMPLETE chaos.)

Gracious magic. Old-fashioned manners, particularly if they're flexible, are a form of magic -- specifically, a formal way of showing even strangers that you care about their comfort. Handwritten thank-you notes are rare and beautiful these days, and worth the time to create for those who have shown you kindness. (If you enjoy the practice, beautiful handwriting is a bonus.) It's worth the time it takes to learn how to host, serve and eat a meal gracefully and with confidence. And you are free to take up forms of politeness from other cultures if they appeal to you. Someone I know uses the Japanese word "Itadakimasu" before each meal; it essentially means "I humbly receive" and is a formalized way to thank all those entities, human and otherwise, who made the meal possible.

Become a kitchen witch. Cookbooks are grimoires of the most ancient and arcane sort, and food and drink are some of the most potent magic known to mankind. Learn to cook (or bake) at least a few special things. If you find you have a knack for it, branch out and try mastering more. Share your creations with friends, or with persons who will soon become your friends. Start putting your own twist on things -- slip a little coconut extract into your hot cocoa, or a pinch of cayenne, or some powdered cardamom, and see what happens. (Spices are definitely magical.)

Grow things. NOTE: This isn't a magic for which I have much natural talent. However, I know several magical people who are expert gardeners -- and who slip all sorts of esoteric and enchanted plants into their homes, food, baths, gifts, everything as a result. Even if all you have is a fire escape or an apartment balcony, you can grow herbs or flowers in containers. Plus it's quite possible that a properly tended, lush garden invites fairies to move in. I'm just saying.

Have a familiar. It could be a cat, a fish, a frog, a bearded dragon, a wiener dog, a hamster, a ball python, any kind of animal with which you have a special affinity. Keeping an animal companion in your home ties in with the above-mentioned practice of growing things, in that it's a way of practicing empathy toward a different kind of living being than oneself. The world is full of creatures who have just as much a right to live and flourish as we do, and learning to appreciate the quirks and traits of a non-human creature is a kind of magic. (And yes, of course, feel free to use "pet" instead of "familiar" if you're more comfortable with the term.)

Develop household rituals. One magical acquaintance of mine lights candles on the table before every evening meal, and invites teatime guests to pick their own cups from her substantial teacup collection. Another magical friend ties mellow-sounding bells to the trees in his yard, so they ring softly every time the wind stirs the branches. Yet another friend is well-versed in kitchen garden magic and creates household potions and possets from the herbs in her yard. Over time, you'll find rituals that suit you best and blend them seamlessly into your life.

Scent. Is. Magic. Go into a shop that specializes in perfumes, and find a scent that transports you. Candles and incense and other whatsits for scent delivery are pleasant ways to start, but nothing beats straight-up perfume oils for staying power. If you don't have a shop nearby that specializes in scents, Possets and Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab are places to start online (and both offer small samples of their larger-sized scents). If you show a knack or a fondness for it, you may go on to mixing your own scents for your home.
IMPORTANT NOTE: Remember that magic is gracious. Some of your friends may be sensitive to strong scents, and triggering a friend's migraine is in no way magical. In such cases, going fragrance-free is the kindest choice.

MAGICAL SELF-CARE

Discover the art of self-pampering. This looks a bit different for everyone. Some folks love getting manicures. Others enjoy having their brows threaded and shaped to perfection. Still others find bliss in a good back massage. And others prefer a do-it-yourself attitude and put together their own homemade day spas. In any case, personal cleanliness and pampering rituals are a way of being kind to yourself, of honoring the body that holds your particular magic. It's not indulgent, it's supportive! (I feel it's important to spell this out: pampering is not exclusively "girly." Masculine folk, for instance, can and should enjoy bubble baths if they feel like it.)

Drink potions. Any day you feel like it, make or find a potion. This can be anything delightfully drinkable, from rich hot chocolate to ginger beer to herbal tea to some truly exotic homemade concoction, though I do recommend that it not be anything seriously habit-forming. Determine before drinking what this potion will do: give you wisdom, intelligence, wit, humor, beauty, lovability, or any other specific personal trait you're looking to cultivate. Concentrate firmly on this trait as you drink the potion. Watch magic unfold.

Give yourself permission to enjoy occasional treats. For me, the key is to space them out enough that they remain special and still feel like "treats," not just thoughtless habits. My magical treat of choice is quality chocolate, and one of my very favorites is a concoction called a dark Florentine bar, made by a chocolatier called Brugges Chocolates in Redmond, Washington. (It is definitely a magical place.) Even though Brugges is perilously close to my home, I deliberately choose to separate my visits there by one to two months (or longer) so that each visit remains special. Of course, treats don't have to be edible. You can also give yourself permission to buy (or pick) bouquets of flowers, permission to create a fairy door in your house, permission to try a new hobby or craft... it's pretty open-ended. You know what constitutes a treat for you.

So this isn't an exhaustive list by any means, which means you should add to it! Also, I'm curious: are you magical, or do you know any magical people? If so, what traits have you observed that you consider magical? Share in the comments below.

Lost in one's own cosmos

[NOTE: I've been inundated with anonymous comment spam over the last few days -- not that it does the spammers any good, as I delete all the comments without letting them see the light of day. Anyway, I've turned off anonymous comments for a while just to make my job easier. I might turn them back on later, if I can tell the spammers have moved on.]

I'm sure you don't need me to tell you that there's a lot of dross on social media these days. But every now and then it's possible to stumble across a real gem.

Here's one such example, via Twitter. (If you can't see it or otherwise don't do Twitter, it's difficult to sum this up without sounding pat, but it's a wonderful thread on the long curve of life in our cosmos, the merging of two black holes and two neutron stars at times in the almost unfathomably distant past, and how those events rippled throughout spacetime -- and we sussed out a way to measure their gravitational waves here on Earth. It's beautifully written in accessible language and, frankly, worth the time to read.) I loved it for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that it successfully conveys the writer's real passion and enthusiasm over the wonders of the cosmos and astronomical science, but also for this little comment near the end: "That’s what I was thinking about when I looked like I was in my own little world."

I've heard variations of that phrase a lot in my lifetime: "Wake up, Sooz, you're off in your own little world again." Sometimes it's said in a derogatory, hey-join-the-real-world tone, and sometimes it's a well-meant attempt to remind me to engage with others. I know most people mean well, but I do take issue with one aspect of the phrase -- I think it sells the average human imagination far short. Most people I know with a rich interior life don't have just one "little world" in their heads. They've got solar systems, galaxies, even a cosmos or two hidden behind their eyes, and no one else can imagine or even guess at the existence of such private pocket universes unless those people decide to open up and share a bit of those immense interior playgrounds.

So the next time you see a friend or acquaintance walking along with a pleasantly distracted gaze, don't try to engage right away. You're probably witnessing an astronaut exploring her own internal cosmos. (You wouldn't drag Neil Armstrong back to earth prematurely, would you?)

Complete! Yay!

In the interest of full disclosure (and shameless bragging rights), I have finished another scarf. And it is a non-Red-Scarf-Project scarf, even.

Nope. This one is, selfishly, for me.

This is a multidirectional diagonal scarf, knitted in one piece from variegated self-striping yarn, using short row shaping. I've been working on this thing on and off (mostly off) for the last five years without finishing it, mostly because the last triangle to be completed has a fiddly bit of knitting that I was worried about screwing up. (I actually did screw it up on the first try and had to rip it back and give it another shot, whereupon it worked correctly.)

Let the record state that this puppy wraps around my neck TWICE and still has plenty of dangle left over. It is eleven feet long and soft and full of rainbow colors, and it is glorious, my friends. I am SO pleased with it.

AND SEE? I GET STUFF DONE!

woot

The Grammar Pedant: unique

Greetings, pedants!

About five years ago I posted a Grammar Pedant video on YouTube, and almost immediately regretted it -- mostly because I didn't like putting my goofy mug on YouTube. And frankly, even though I'm still putting my mug on YouTube these days (warning: these videos will not be at all interesting unless you're considering duodenal switch surgery), I'm still not comfortable doing it. So, rather than shooting another Grammar Pedant video, we're just going to cover it here. Right? Right.

Today we need to talk about the flagrant abuse of a marvelous word:

UNIQUE.

The Illiterati keep slapping needless modifiers on this adjective, because they don't understand what it means. "Unique" is not, and was never meant to be, a synonym for "unusual." NO, people. Let's look at the etymology:

Unique is a French loan word, derived from the Latin word unicus, from unus or "one." Other words with roots in unicus include unicycle (one wheel), unicorn (one horn), unify (to make one), etc. Notice all those "one" words? I imagine the more perspicacious among us can see where I'm going with this.

When a person, place, thing or concept is unique, there is only one of it in the known world. It is one of a kind. Thus "unique" is a binary adjective; either something is unique, or it is not. There's no "quite unique," no "very unique," no "somewhat unique" or "rather unique" or any other qualifiers to prop up the word. "Unique" prefers to stand on its own. Use it only to describe something that has no peer.

If you're looking for an adjective to describe a rare or unusual item, try "uncommon," "unexpected," "atypical," "different," "creative" or "surprising." All these words yearn to be dusted off and used correctly. SO DO IT!

That's all for now, and remember: the English language is a terrible thing to waste.

Nobody steals my shine

When I was a child, I had a pet dragon. He was a gentle, sweet creature, more Puff than Smaug, with big sleepy eyes, silver-green scales and enormous bat wings. My dragon tended to follow me around various places, invisibly waiting for me at the doctor's office, helping me pump higher and higher on the swings at the playground, joyously soaring through endless summer skies with me clinging to his back, curling his wings around me to help me feel warm and protected at night. I didn't think too much about it back then; I guess I just assumed everyone had a pet dragon.

In those days, I didn’t remember feeling dissatisfied with myself; on the contrary, I was quite happy with who I was -- geeky and curious, a miniature romantic, and thoroughly convinced that the world was full of hidden magic.

And then I started going to school.

I don’t know what the school experience is like in other parts of the world, but in California in the ‘70s, grade school was a step or two removed from The Lord of the Flies. Bullying was nearly omnipresent, and most adults did nothing to stop it, figuring along with Nietzsche that whatever didn’t destroy us would make us stronger. Individuality, far from being encouraged, tended to paint a virtual target on the weird kids’ backs. My pet dragon was one of the first precious things to be crushed after mean kids started mocking me about him; he was summarily banished to a mental cage for his own protection, crammed so deep into my skull that no one would ever find him and break his shimmering wings again. So many negative experiences conspired to beat the shine out of my spirit that, by high school, I half-hated myself. It would take the better part of a decade to restore what public school had taken away from me.

The important takeaway, though, is that I did find my shine again -- largely with the help of Battle Geeks, drama dorks, Astronomy Society members, Random Avengers and other people I met who had never lost their shine, or who somehow managed to get their geeky mojo back once they were safely away from the people who had tried to steal it. With their encouragement, I started to own the topics and hobbies that I'd once loved only in secret. I started to be comfortable with being geeky and curious. My little romantic self began to glow again. Best of all, I began to notice that the world really was full of hidden magic, even inside me. But it took a while for all these changes to happen, and even now the most joyous part of me is still fragile and can be easily shattered. So it has to be protected.

I'm the first person to admit to my many imperfections. Tell me that I'm an obnoxious know-it-all, and I'll nod in agreement. Point out that I'm either completely withdrawn or I never shut up, and I'll readily cop to it. Suggest that I might be the queen of procrastinators, and I'll straighten the invisible crown that comes with that dubious achievement. Claim that I'm super lazy and don't get enough exercise, and I'll just shrug. I need to work on all these issues. But if you try to steal my shine -- if you point out key aspects of my personality like they're flaws, and demand that I change them? Bye, Felicia!

Because it was hard to win back, my inner shine is particularly precious to me now. So when I occasionally come across people who don’t get me, who inexplicably find me off-putting, or who just need to hurt others in order to feel good about themselves, I don't put up with it. I've chosen to refuse entry to thieves -- people who want to take my joy, and who offer nothing in return. I've decided that nobody can stop me from being weird and geeky and joyous and romantic and magical, and if you don't like me that way? That's your loss. This is how I shine, and neither you nor anyone else gets to steal that shine from me ever again.

Plus, if you still insist on bugging me, I reserve the right to sic my pet dragon on you.

Telling myself stories

AVE you ever wondered how a writer's brain works?

Probably not, but I'mma tell you anyway.

So today I was on Twitter and I came across this here Moment. (For those who don't do links: a gang of six guys on four mopeds robbed an Oxford Street high-end watch store in London, in broad daylight, using axes, machetes and hammers to do the dirty deed. Since this all went down on a Saturday morning, lots of people got footage of the robbery on their phones. You can't make stuff like this up.)

As I read more of the story, I thought, "Hmm, that's odd." Because a different branch of the same high-end watch store got robbed by a moped gang several weeks ago -- again, right in the middle of the day, only this time they were armed with sledgehammers and A FRICKIN' SAMURAI SWORD. That is not in any way a normal heist.

So, as often happens when I come across something a little off normal, my brain started spinning up a story. Goes like this:

Imagine you're the owner of a chain of high-end watch stores in and around London. You do business with a number of people of considerable wealth and influence, selling them Rolexes and Cartiers and other expensive, quality timepieces.

But you have a problem. You've just discovered that the deal you cut with a supplier really was too good to be true, and now some of your inventory is made up of fake watches. They're cleverly-made fakes, to be sure, but not clever enough to fool a professional. You can't sell these; sooner or later someone will figure out that you charged them top dollar for a knock-off watch. You can't get your money back without taking the suppliers to court, thereby losing face with your peers and clientele. How do you unload the fake watches without losing your reputation or a buttload of money?

Well, you quietly hire some folks to steal the problematic inventory, in the flashiest way possible. (Anyone can knock over a store with guns in the dead of night. Bring in machetes or a samurai sword, in broad daylight, and you've got yourself some showmanship!) That way, when you file an insurance claim for the stolen articles, you'll have no end of people who "saw the whole thing" and documented it on their cell phones -- providing reams of proof that it happened. And the insurance company will likely compensate you for the cost of actual Rolexes, not the fake ones that your fake thieves stole. You get to keep your reputation, the thieves get to keep their stolen goods and sell fake Rolexes out of the back of a camper van somewhere, and you all get to make some money. Win-win, except for the insurance agency.

I doubt it really happened like this. But most of the time, that's how my brain works. It sees something a little off or unusual, and immediately it shifts into Story Mode, trying to determine what sort of event or events occurred to bring this unusual something into being.

Does your brain tell you stories? Have you written down some of the more entertaining ones?

The nest, or looking for everyday magic

The day started out with rain, switched up to hail, at some point this evening began to sleet, and is now gamely snowing. We can hear people honking and cussing each other on the state highway outside, and the occasional ambulance going by. Captain Midnight will probably telecommute tomorrow. It's just another February evening in the Pacific Northwet.

I almost didn't go to church today. I'd been up later than usual the previous night and I didn't feel up to it, but CM waited patiently for me as I found a clean dress and shoes and ran a brush through my hair. Off we went through the hail to our local meetinghouse, which is about a 10-minute drive from our place.

Ever the gentleman, CM dropped me off next to the south side door so I wouldn't get overly pelted by hail. I waited for him there in the shelter of the doorway as he parked the car, and as I was waiting, I just happened to look up. There are two trees flanking the doorway, and in the one to the left, sheltered in the crook of a branch, was a bird's nest.

We'll have attended church in the same building for eleven years this March. And in all that time, walking through this door every Sunday, I'd never seen it before.

Now it's quite possible that there wasn't a bird's nest in that tree for all or even most of that time. And right now, with all the deciduous trees bare of leaves, objects like birds' nests are a lot easier to see. But even a cursory glance at that nest was enough to reveal that it had been there for some time. I'm sure I've walked beneath it before, sometimes empty as it was today, sometimes filled with new eggs. I just never thought to look up before. And as a writer, it's my job to look up.

It's easy to notice unusual things. I saw a little bird in the supermarket last week, right next to the entrance, perched on a box of Lucky Charms. I've seen birds in airport terminals before. But I rarely see a bird in a nest unless the nest is in an unusual place, like the one tucked under the eaves of my mailbox shelter. A bird's nest is so commonplace that it's nearly invisible. It's not easy to notice precisely because one doesn't ordinarily bother to look for it.

Bird's nest in nettles.

In line with that observation, here's my current theory: I believe that life is full of magic. We often experience magical things, but they're designed to fade from our minds quickly unless we take the time to write them down. So I picked up a little pocket-sized notebook and a fine-lined teal pen from my friendly neighborhood Daiso, and for the last little while I've been scribing down everything I see that strikes me as magical in some way. It's surprised me, even with my teensy-weensy eyestrainovision handwriting, how quickly the notebook is filling up.

How often do you notice everyday magical things? Do you keep track of them?

Silly little valentines

So, some of you may have noticed that you got a goofy grade-school valentine from me in the mail this year -- probably in a repurposed or handmade envelope. Feel free to wonder why this happened, wonder why you got one, wonder about my sanity, etc. And, of course...

< Tevye >You may ask, "How did this tradition get started?" I'll tell you.< /Tevye >

Actually, she may not realize this, but it all started with Miss V. After one particular Valentine's Day, she left a nearly-full box of LEGO Star Wars valentines in the pantry. (Our pantry, for those who have not seen it, is half full of shelf-stable food, a quarter full of china and holiday plates, and a quarter full of craft supplies, 'cause that's how we roll.) I was doing one of my periodic pantry clean-outs (it's past time I did another one, btw) and I came across this little box of grade-school valentines. My first thought, since I was purging the pantry at the time, was to toss it. But the whimsical part of my brain took over, as is its wont, and I thought, "Well, Sooz, Valentine's Day is coming up. You could send these cards out to your family, just for kicks."

Now, I get a lot of these kinds of ideas and then promptly forget all about them. (F'rinstance, I always tell myself I'm going to get out the origami papers and make handmade origami valentines, but it never happens.) This time, however, I got smart and put a reminder on my calendar to look in the pantry around February 1, so my cunning plan actually came to fruition. Since grade-school valentines don't come with their own envelopes any more, I then went through the house looking for singleton envelopes. Between random envelopes I picked up while thrifting, handmade envelopes I folded from old magazine pages, and envelopes I cut out of scrapbook paper, we had a surprising number of these. And so all the LEGO Star Wars valentines (packaged in a whole lot of random envelopes) went out the door.

My family is used to my periodic shenanigans, so they took this project in stride. I'm sure a few of my friends thought I was loony (or at least the more upscale phrase, "eccentric") for doing this. But the way I see it, you're never too old to appreciate a grade-school valentine. Sure it's cheesy, but the cheesier the better, as far as I'm concerned. Besides, it's fun!

And since the rule is "if you repeat it more than twice, it becomes a tradition," I guess sending out cheesy grade-school valentines now counts as a household tradition. At least I'm treating it as such, because a few days after Valentine's Day I went out and bought a couple of boxes of grade-school valentines at a post-holiday deep discount, setting it all up for next year.

Looks like I'll have to make a few more envelopes, though. I'm nearly out.

Oh yeah, and if you think this brand of silliness is right up your alley and you want to be on the mailing list for next Valentine's Day, pop me an email with your mailing address. (My email address can be found here.)

Sinterklaasfeest

It's that time of year again! So, did Sinterklaas bring you something?

Captain Midnight must have been good, because Sinterklaas brought him a whole little box of lebkuchen. Lucky Captain Midnight.

Roxy-cat did not get anything from Sinterklaas because she tried (mostly unsuccessfully) to eat the afghan I've been making. Naughty Roxy-cat.

And Sinterklaas knows I am trying to keep my blood sugar down, so he didn't bring me anything either. Sad Soozcat.

At least none of us got a sack of salt and a broomstick this year. Nor did we get a free trip to Spain courtesy of Zwarte Piet. I guess we can count ourselves lucky!

Don't nobody mess with the Sinterklaas.

Conversations with a small tiger

One of the things about being a Soozcat is I have to get to have conversations like this:

Roxy: Oh hey, are those nachos? Are they for me?!
Me: Think about it, Roxy. This is a human-sized portion. I didn't put it on the floor.
Roxy (stretching up to bat at the plate with her front paws): For me! Chips for me!
Me: Plus, how many times have I reminded you that you're an obligate carnivore?
Roxy: Chips for meeee!
Me: Forget it! You cannot count that high! What is it with you and corn chips, anyway?
Roxy: Chips chips chips for me I NEED CHIPS IN MY LIIIIIIFE
Me: Tch. Fine, you furry little mendicant. Have a chip fragment. (tosses it to her)
Roxy: YAY CHIPS! (sniffs chip thoroughly) Nah, this one smells like feet.

Yeah, people think it would be fun to talk to animals. To that I reply, "Read 'Tobermory' by Saki before you wish keenly for that ability."

Want to see something fun?

The long-neglected Wish I Were Here blog is about to be showered in a veritable cavalcade of postcards!

No, really! A whole lot of college students and their doughty lecturer have gotten into the act and provided the project with a YOOOOGE stack of postcards from imaginary places. I'll be sharing them every day from now until the stack runs out (which should bring us well into the New Year).

Go have a look-see. Do it! Do it now!

Thoughts on ASL

[NOTE: If you're part of Deaf culture, a lot of these ruminations are going to be of the "well, duh" variety. But since I don't currently know anyone who is part of the culture, all this was new to me.]

The other day I was watching a music video performed in ASL (check it out) and a few things I'd never noticed before caught my eye. One of them is that everyone who signs in ASL, whether natively or as a second language, has his/her own way of performing the same sign. It's almost like regional accents in spoken English -- still recognizable as a particular word, but with its own local spin. There are also variations in signed phrases; you can finger-spell things out, use standard signs, or create a slang term to express the same concept.

Another thing I hadn't fully considered was the relationship of ASL to spoken and written English. Years ago, I remember a member of the Deaf community being quoted in a press release about a book being released in ASL format; her comment was something like, "Of course I read English, but there were things about this book I never really understood until I saw it in ASL." I think of verbal English and ASL being tied to written English the same way Mandarin and Cantonese are tied to written Chinese -- users of both languages have a clear understanding of the writing they have in common, but they translate that writing into markedly different languages. We decode the written word into different things: a native English speaker translates the written word into auditory phonemes which form words, phrases and sentences; a native ASL signer likewise translates the written word into visual gestures which form words, phrases and sentences.

All languages of which I'm aware have some form of poetry (even if it's horrible Vogon poetry). Certainly this is true for ASL, where the gestures that form words -- whether earthy and choppy or expressive and delicate -- have a beauty all their own. But how easy is it, for instance, to understand the nature of rhyme if your native language is non-verbal, and you can't hear the similarities in the ways certain words are pronounced? And what constitutes "rhyme" in a non-verbal language? I suppose signed words that have similar-looking gestures form rhyme cognates in ASL and other sign languages. Thus it's entirely possible to compose a poem that has a beautiful rhythm and rhyme scheme in ASL, but not necessarily in written or spoken English.

Man, language is weird. But really fascinating.

What my parallel-universe self is doing today

You know the multiverse theory, right? The idea that we live in just one of a cloud of potential alternate universes or dimensions, each opaque to the others? I've been thinking about that today; specifically I've been wondering what one of my parallel-universe selves might be doing with her Thursday.

One of them, I hope, is in Saint Peter's Basilica today, getting up close and personal with one of the greatest works by one of her artistic heroes: the Pietà sculpture by Michelangelo Buonarroti. I hope that in a more placid universe than this, she's untroubled by the shouts and whispers of political upheaval, the cries of triumph or sobs of defeat or breathing out of threatening words against the Other.

I hope instead she's gazing up at the purity of white Carrara marble, chiseled so finely that in places you can see light through it; I hope she's taking in the sweet, sorrowing face of a miraculously youthful Mary as she cradles the cold, lifeless body of her son in her lap. I hope she's gazing in wonder at the exquisitely draped folds of Mary's robe, so perfectly realized that it's almost impossible to believe those folds are made of stone, not fabric. I hope she's only getting a little bit misty at the thought that, at long last, she is really here -- and here too, at last, is the object of supernal beauty she first developed a longing to see in person at age 17, in an inspired humanities class.

Perhaps tomorrow she'll visit the Sistine Chapel.

Well, I can hope.

The perils of having an invisible friend

O, a slightly whimsical idea for you, inspired by a comment I heard at church today:

If I were completely invisible, would you still be my friend?

No, not inaudible (wouldn't that be nice), nor intangible either -- so I'd still blather on, and if you happened to bump into me you'd make contact. I'd be the same person I am now; I just wouldn't register on the visible spectrum in any way.

Yeah, I know, if you're blind or if you only interact with humanity via the Internet, for all you know your friends might already be invisible. But setting those specific examples aside, consider what it would take to maintain an everyday, face-to-face friendship with someone you can't see. You couldn't make eye contact, you wouldn't be able to read my body language, you'd never feel wholly comfortable talking about me behind my back, you might worry about whether I was spying on you (nope; even the idea of spying on friends is creepy and revolting), you might even start to wonder whether I was reading a book over your shoulder (...um... guilty).

But all these would be minor problems compared to the biggest issue of all: having strangers and passersby think you're a complete nutcase, as you appear to talk to the wall, laugh at nobody and put your arm around empty space as you walk down the street. Would it still be worth it to have me as a friend, if you had to pay the social price of having everyone else assume you were crazy?

And what if your close friends were skeptical of my existence? As they say, seeing is believing. If they could hear but not see me, well, that could be a trick. It's possible to wire up a sound system in such a way as to create a convincing auditory illusion of an invisible person, so that's not proof. And as far as being able to feel me, I'll bet that too could be faked. (Of course, that also makes me wonder -- how many people do you actually socially touch over the course of a day? As an American, I'm most comfortable touching family members and a few very close friends, but I know scores of people -- friends, even -- whom I've never touched. For all the experiential proof I have, lots of other people could be intangible.)

You might be tempted to say that you don't care what other people think (if so, let me introduce you to a fun little book by a curious character), but for most people this isn't as true as they imagine. Human beings are social creatures by nature, and we usually do worry even what strangers might think of us. (Have you ever walked by two people having a conversation in a language you didn't understand, or been seated near a few people whispering to each other, and wondered even for a fleeting instant whether they were talking about you?) At some point in your life (likely middle school), you probably ended a friendship or were dropped by a friend -- not because you didn't like each other, but because one of you wasn't popular at the time. A friendship, even a very warm and close one, which causes strangers to give you a wide berth or shoot you the stinkeye is going to put some serious social strain on you in a very short time.

So I put it to you again: if I were invisible, would you still be my friend?

Just something to think about.

A crackpot Back to the Future theory

So we're watching Back to the Future tonight (because OF COURSE we are!), and I had a rather crackpot "Great Scott" moment which I shall now share with you all (because OF COURSE I shall!).

Those of you who still haven't seen the Back to the Future film series: a) what is wrong with you? and b) best avert yer eyes, mateys, thar be spoilers ahead.

Remember this scene?

Yes, the one where Marty McFly pranks his once-and-future-dad, George, in 1955 by showing up in his bedroom in the middle of the night and introducing himself as Darth Vader, an extraterrestrial from the planet Vulcan.

You may also recall that Marty eventually returns to 1985 to find every other member of his family much improved -- and just in time to witness the unveiling of his father's "first novel," A Match Made in Space:

Now, the McFlys of this timeline have clearly moved from lower middle class to upper middle class (or higher, if they live well below their means), so what was George McFly busy doing all that time between the Enchantment Under the Sea dance and the first novel?

Well, I'll tell you.

After high school, George married Lorraine and started writing short stories and submitting them to science fiction magazines (using a pseudonym, of course; that was pretty common for sci-fi writers during that era). The quality of his writing impressed a new television screenwriter, Gene Roddenberry, and the two briefly became friends, bouncing new ideas for stories and TV pilots off each other. (Roddenberry really latched onto the idea of Planet Vulcan, but felt "Darth Vader" was too farfetched to be a believable alien name.) The two parted ways less than amicably when Roddenberry shamelessly stole some of George's ideas for a new sci-fi series he was shopping around.

After seeing Roddenberry's Star Trek franchise take off, George realized he had more to offer the world than just short stories. He wanted to go bigger. Way bigger than television. So with Lorraine's approval and assistance, he applied to film school and began creating experimental movies, many of them with a science-fiction bent. Eventually he began writing the sci-fi screenplay that would make him famous. But after years of writing under a pseudonym he still wasn't sure "George McFly" would make it in Hollywood, so he picked out a different surname. "Lucas" had a nice ring to it...

This theory also neatly explains all the insane retconning of creatures, characters, etc. into the Star Wars Special Edition; George hasn't fully internalized the dangers of retroactively changing the past.

Yes, tongue is firmly in cheek.

[Please do not write to tell me The Real George Lucas was only 11 years old in 1955. The Real George Lucas lives in a whole different timeline from the Back to the Futureverse, as you can easily verify by searching for the city of Hill Valley, California on Google Maps. Repeat to yourself, "It's just a show, I should really just relax."]

Planet Earworm

UST had a random funny thought. You know all those science fiction stories where a planet is beautiful, seemingly inhabitable by humans, but has some level of sentience and is actively hostile to invaders? ("Here There Be Tygers" by Ray Bradbury is one example.)

I was just thinking of something similar -- a planet that's quite beautiful and capable of supporting human life, but which resists human colonization through more subtle means. Practically no one stays on this planet for more than a week, because something about the planet activates the stickiest, most annoying earworm in your brain and plays it over and over and over again until you want to run shrieking. The only people who can successfully colonize this world are the tiny contingent of spacefaring humans who were born deaf.

So you might well say that, under the circumstances, it's a small, small world.

Yeah, I'm evil.

AVAAAAAAST YE SCURVY SCUM!

Shiver me timbers, mateys, it be Talk Like a Pirate Day!

Oh, and it also be Deface Yer Avatarrr Day. Ha ha har!

This day we be hoistin' the Jolly Roger and slittin' throats. Or, ye know, maybe jest eatin' salmagundi. mmmm salmagundi.

It's high time I shamelessly shilled my mail art project again.

And just in case you've forgotten what that is:

Wish I Were Here: Postcards From Imaginary Places

Imagine you could go on vacation to an imaginary place. What place would you choose? A location from a book, a movie, a TV series, a song, a poem, maybe a world you made up for an RPG? And what would you do while you were there?

Send me a postcard, either commercial or handmade, from this imaginary place. On the other side, write and tell me about the things you've been doing on your imaginary excursion. You can be as silly or as serious as you want. I'll put it up on the blog for the world to see.

(Try it! It's fun!)