tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53920872973994886182024-03-12T16:39:04.837-07:00Idiots & Earthquakes - A Writer's Blog<br><center>Rants Reviews Revelations and other.Tiny.Snippets/.</center>DasNukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06513945470399592454noreply@blogger.comBlogger252125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392087297399488618.post-24923956569383736792022-03-09T23:46:00.000-08:002022-03-09T23:46:08.360-08:00Poetic Excursion: Trees and me<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjBsxxNWOFd6KvMbQCeOaJAXcPZ-44YsFuZ6UHjipd4nfyy_mrPytvoyfizQdw2RlHgwaWVJzaRz8U_dt2M7Om_ZX3UwyJW-UDjoIW9Ch4bWwiuUFS7290vqq3v7EXwl4UzMY_tS6UJ7UaKXAszSL-Me2PYZ5lbuJGu7JT9ryzNp3hQaDPcu9O1NJSveQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="2560" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjBsxxNWOFd6KvMbQCeOaJAXcPZ-44YsFuZ6UHjipd4nfyy_mrPytvoyfizQdw2RlHgwaWVJzaRz8U_dt2M7Om_ZX3UwyJW-UDjoIW9Ch4bWwiuUFS7290vqq3v7EXwl4UzMY_tS6UJ7UaKXAszSL-Me2PYZ5lbuJGu7JT9ryzNp3hQaDPcu9O1NJSveQ=w640-h360" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p>DasNukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06513945470399592454noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392087297399488618.post-91812062248091705032022-01-03T23:45:00.002-08:002022-01-03T23:47:59.495-08:00Note to a Friend<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">I'd like to think that the death of someone you deeply cared about shouldn't go unnoticed by the rest of the universe. I could never understand how life could just go on, cruelly, relentlessly, after a beloved person's death. How can it be, that something, that causes you the most excruciating sense of pain and loss, is simply brushed over by the universe, mother of all things. It seems as though the universe marches on and on, not taking any note of its participants. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">I'd hope to think there's something different after a person's death, a detail, something only we, as grieving humans miss, because we're so caught up in our suffering, we're not paying any attention. We're not looking towards that one star that is flickering in the evening sky. Or the one tree, that stands leafless and bald between its overgrown brothers, because it shed all its leaves in summer. So I'd like to believe it is there. A shift, a reminiscence, a difference. Something odd, a glitch, something that stands out. It has to be there. We're just not looking.</span></p>DasNukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06513945470399592454noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392087297399488618.post-63513465495689234572020-08-15T01:41:00.001-07:002020-09-07T09:45:35.030-07:00Modern Skepticism, Attempt At Reconciliation<p><span style="font-size: large;">Skepticism. No word has gained a worse reputation in a short amount of time. The expression started a long time ago, with good prospects, high hopes. Greece, I think. Yet there it is now, sinking like a stone...</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">What it truly means to feel skeptical as "in doubt" of people or ideas I think every person alive knows. It is an intrinsic part of being human to have the feeling, that something is wrong, "off", a certain fact, an idea, maybe even a generally considered truth. Similar to a sense of foreboding - when you think something bad is about to happen - it can be quite overwhelming. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">That's why I'd like to define skepticism as a state of feeling, not being, because unlike the philosophical movement, it is not a product of thorough thought or opinion formation - no, feeling skeptical is typically what happens <i>before</i> that process starts, maybe even the foundation for it. Theoretically, you could remain in skepticism mode for a longer time period, but people usually don't. Same as with feelings of premonition, it is a state of mind that passes once the occasion, the trigger for it is gone.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">A world pandemic is a substantial occasion for skepticism, because not only does the virus target our lives, the safety measures to contain it challenge our ways of living. And the truly agonizing part is, that we can't escape the situation, and the complete control it exerts on all of us.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Some say these feelings of lacking control are justified, others say, they are excessive, and a small price to pay for all our physical health. Whatever your position on it may be, the fact is, that at the moment, many people feel confined, trapped, and that feeling is real and needs to be taken seriously. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Confinement usually starts when someone's personal freedom is in some way limited, controlled, watched over, even a public topic of discussion. "How to sneeze" is a new etiquette, same as not showing one's nose and mouth in confined spaces. "Not be too many" is a hard rule to follow, maybe the hardest. I think, this may be the one linked to skepticism the most.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I have a suspicion, that at its core, skepticism is a direct result of feeling confined. Societal normalcies like being close to each other, hugging or talking to someone while seeing their face are tumbling right now. People are afraid to stand too close, thus, we as a people, feel separated from our own tribe. But the tribe is our history, our existence, our everything. It has always been the solution, not the problem. It has been the most basic human need ever since we stepped out of the mud and decided to live on dry land. So, feeling skeptical, when our world is turned upside down, is a completely understandable reaction.</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2xd1KSFYNpU/XzlLH_ZlXEI/AAAAAAAADBY/B61dPHhpzTsZgiyKqylfEGtfRtkyqAMxACLcBGAsYHQ/s1297/IMG_6226.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Too symbolic? Oh, well..." border="0" data-original-height="1297" data-original-width="865" height="313" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2xd1KSFYNpU/XzlLH_ZlXEI/AAAAAAAADBY/B61dPHhpzTsZgiyKqylfEGtfRtkyqAMxACLcBGAsYHQ/w210-h313/IMG_6226.jpg" width="210" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Too symbolic? Oh, well.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">It may take crazy turns once we decide to "side" with Covidtruthers, ProCovidmeasurists or anyone, who, motivated by a feeling of skepticism, is loud and opinionated. These are not tribes we can rely on, but a mere "signaled" affiliation to some people we feel close to in our shared anxiety. And we feel the need to attach to someone, something, during this crisis. So what can we do?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I don't know. We need to try and get through it, somehow, and let the feeling run its course. Usually, what happens after skepticism is opinion formation. Let it be based on facts not fear. Don't let fear overrun your thoughts. This may sound simplistic, but you just tell your fears to shut up for a minute. "Shut up fears, while I check these facts." These fears will be much quieter, once you've collected your information.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Let me just say this: we belong to one tribe, all of us, even the loud obnoxious ones, who seem to be on the opposite side of what you feel is right. Don't let anyone or anything drive a wedge between you and someone else. We all share the same anxieties, we are all afraid. We all want to survive this, and there are no two sides to beating this virus. Let's just agree that separation is not the answer, neither to the virus, nor to the feelings we have concerning this matter.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And speaking of an enemy image: this virus is more than enough, so we really don't need any fights amongst ourselves. Let's just try and kick its ass instead. </span></p>DasNukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06513945470399592454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392087297399488618.post-6179612285424949112020-03-15T10:53:00.000-07:002020-03-16T05:56:38.319-07:00Love in the Time of Corona <span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">It has been way too long since I did this. Way waaay too long. With the constant stream of everyday life, I haven't been listening to my muse..but now...corona! Doesn't it sound like a pretty royal excuse to not leave the house and do something all by our lonesome?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">All joking aside, the fears and dangers of corona have been largely discussed and mused about these past few weeks and I don't plan on doing a special on healthcare here, on this blog. What I'm more interested in is how to spend this newfound time we have on our hands - due to being housebound. To stay put can be a scary command for those of us who are used to busying themselves socially, in large groups of people.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I imagine, it can be quite awkward silently reading a book. Or staring at a wall, thinking, if you're not used to doing something like that. Philosophers supposedly do that all day, but these are a rare breed of people with really special needs. You may not see the immediate appeal, but I think being quarantined can be an awesome experience; it all depends on your expectations. And as a couch potato queen, procrastinative genius, lazy-boned blob myself, I promise you, if you just let it happen, you will have a blast.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">There are no rules for procrastination in times of corona, except maybe to not let panic mode destroy your precious time of being in the moment. So I would not recommend on doing corona-related research on the internet. Mortality rates, nah. Stay up to date, yes, but pandemic crises reports? Only when directed by <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roland_Emmerich" target="_blank">Roland Emmerich</a>!</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I have several ideas on how to spend the next few weeks. Gardening is high on my list, it would have been anyway, because it is the type of outdoors solitude I enjoy with the advantage of not having to sneeze into my crooks. I plan on reading even more, but that of course means I have to park my two kids, currently home bound with me, somewhere, where they, in turn can procrastinate all by themselves.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Shut up, you, I'm raising a new generation here!</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I want to finally immerse myself in <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Witcher_3:_Wild_Hunt" target="_blank">The Witcher 3</a>, I want to watch the new season of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Better_Call_Saul" target="_blank">Better Call Saul</a>, I want to do some more illustrations, do nothing at all, paint a cabinet, declutter my kitchen. This time I will have, it's not all me running wild. I imagine it is much like life in a monastery. Solitude, a nice herbal gardening project, and lots of walking around in my robe, turning inwards for reflections and stuff.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Well, the reality will be, that I'll probably have to do a lot more kids stuff than I planned on, and I have a sneaking suspicion that solitude, when prescribed, will throw me into a reactant spiral of "You can't tell me what to do!" unrest. So maybe I'll start a rave or something, just to be a bit subversive. Other than that: greener pastures, my friends.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">What are all of you going to do? Will you befriend yourself all anew? Will you practice being alone with your thoughts? That doesn't mean being asocial, you know. It just means that you, for a certain time in your life, are enough and content being around you. It's good. You're close family. Being you is one of the best things you have in your life. So, take care. Have a ball, you.</span>DasNukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06513945470399592454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392087297399488618.post-75939042929419711612018-12-29T12:02:00.000-08:002020-03-15T10:54:18.118-07:00Home Is Where...<span style="font-size: large;">I'm in the business of arriving.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">We bought a house and moved into our new place of residency two weeks ago. My boxes arrived before me, they came in a large truck while I drove up to the house with my kids and a couple of suitcases. It's good that we're all here now, finally. I know I'm supposed to be dancing. But in terms of being here, finding myself at this new place, I'm still on my way. It's a funny thing, when you leave behind an area that's trusted, well-known roads and short cuts and a house that is so familiar, you know every noise you're about to hear when someone from your family moves through adjacent rooms. 10 years is a long time. New house, new town, and it doesn't sound or smell familiar. It will someday, but it takes a lot of time. I think I need spring, yes, maybe that would be a great time to arrive, to meet everyone and shake a couple of hands. Right now I feel like I'm at the airport, waiting for my luggage to arrive. Everything's in boxes and I don't know where anything is. And my kids keep saying they want to go home. I can't argue with that. Home is a state of mind I haven't gotten around to just yet. I tell them and myself, that this is our home now. The other house is empty, another family will move in there shortly. We are here. They then nod, as though they'd understand, but I know that they don't. How can this be, their glances ask. The large truck came, it took all our belongings and it brought them here, I tell them. How can this be, I ask myself. And it's hurting a little to think that someone else will be living where we lived, invading our space. Yes, we moved. Yes, I am still moving.</span><br />
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<br />DasNukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06513945470399592454noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392087297399488618.post-39587009120968348702018-07-15T11:57:00.000-07:002020-03-15T10:54:59.993-07:00Hoist The Freak Flag!<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">This thing that I'm about to tell you may sound extremely odd. OK, here goes. Lately, I have been worried about my freak flag. Let me explain what that means. A freak flag is a symbol for a person's level of weirdness. Everyone is a bit weird and, usually, a person's freakishness is visible to others by their flag. Brave people let them fly high up in the air. Like colorful birds, they tell the world that they are flamboyant, unique beings. The higher it goes, the farther you will see it. Hah, space even!</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">OK, so, in regards to my own freak flag: I think it has been in hiding ever since I had my first kid. Especially having a special needs child, I felt it was time to tuck it in. The thing is, I was afraid that people would link my boy's condition to me, and somehow look for an easy answer to why he is the way he is. I'd rather let them judge and diagnose him by an objective standard. Don't get me wrong, I think it's quite normal trying to figure out why a person is tuned a certain way, and looking at the parents for clues is one of the first things we do. Personalities vary though. My boy is odd. He's very unique. I am too. But while I'm quite shy and introverted, he's the opposite of that. Unlike him, never in a million years would you see me throwing a tantrum in public.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">He's suspected of being on the verge of the autism spectrum, but, as things are progressing right now, it could still be a delay in his general development. There currently is no diagnosis that exactly fits his condition. Since most of his problems are centered around speech and social abilities, that area is where his oddity is most visible to others.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">So in trying not to be at the center of blame, I made an effort to be less suspicious. I even got accustomed to talking to people. Yes, people. This may not sound like a big deal to the major part of the population, but it is to me. I'm not much of a conversationalist. Small talk makes my palms sweaty. Remembering names and faces and details to me is like playing Sudoku. Once I get it, and I know someone, I'm OK, but it's hard getting used to it. So, when my first kid was born, like all parents, I knew I had to let the world in a little. Talking to other parents, moms, professionals, doctors. And while I got a little bit of practice in doing so on a regular basis, I still feel uncomfortable at times. I think in trying to hide the freak flag, it has become even more elbowing. Because nothing is more odd to people than talking to someone who tries to hide a freak flag. It's like trying to hide a speech impairment by not talking. It's super freaking weird. And that's what I think has happened.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I should have known that overcompensating for my inner freak would not create "normal" behavior. Sometimes over-compensation works that way, with minor flaws it certainly does, but not with a whole personality. So in my quest to appear normal and together to the outside world, I forgot about my own well-being. I got a lot of stomach trouble. Now I want to go back to the old me, at least meet her halfway between crazy town and where I live now. That old me was a super creative, sensitive person who would look at her world through matted glass. I want to be her again. I am her. Freak flag, get out from under there. You're all sad and crinkled. Get up there. Fly.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">To be continued!</span></div>
DasNukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06513945470399592454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392087297399488618.post-67049305420962946202017-12-02T12:47:00.000-08:002017-12-02T12:47:23.531-08:00Weekend Writing Warriors: Southampton Quarrels<h4 style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: 21.3pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Hi there and welcome back to my blog, <a href="http://www.wewriwa.com/" target="_blank">warriors</a>! Today I'm looking forward to making the rounds and sharing another part of my recently published fantasy novel Anoethau. Critique and comments are always welcome, and I hope you enjoy today's snippet. :-)</span></h4>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">After fleeing his parole, Artie, the protagonist, finds himself at a place called Southampton, England. Most commonly known for the Titanic commencing its first and final voyage from the Port of Southampton, it is also a place of pubs and heavy drinking. This is what happens, when Artie finds himself in the midst of it...</span></h4>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The next thing he knew; there was a large object
flying right by his face. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It landed behind him on the road and from the sound
of shattering glass, he recognized it as a beer bottle. People yelled at each
other in front of another bar only a few feet ahead and there were three or four
men in a drunken fight out in the street. The loudest of them wasn’t involved
in the actual fighting, but shouted from the sidelines to the ones pummeling on
one another with their fists.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Get on with it you sissy,” the agitator yelled,
laughing.</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“If I lose the money, I’ll start beating on you too,”
he shouted, slouching at the corner to the open bar door.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Artie didn’t want to get involved in their
quarrelling, but he knew, if he passed the group, they would <i>make him</i> get involved. From his
experience with fights in prison, he figured that his best bet was the
offensive mode, but he was a little too drunk to spin the plot all too clearly.</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Hey Dickhead,” he slurred at the agitator from a
distance, “how much money did they bet on your stupid face?” </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>Dumb, I am dumb</i>, he thought, but it was
too late.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">A play on the famous Arthurian legend, Anoethau tells the story of Artie Kendrick, an ex-convict, who has spent the better half of his life in prison, and now prefers the solitude of his house to being in the company of people. Backyard gardening is a newfound and most welcome hobby of his, until, after days of heavy rainfall, he discovers a strange artifact in the puddles of his vegetable patch - a sword. It's not just any sword, since it was given to him by a mysterious woman named Viviana, who introduces herself as a deity of another world. The gift comes at a tremendous price: with it, Viviana wants him to kill her arch enemy and save her world from destruction.</span></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Anoethau-Dana-Renelt-ebook/dp/B0773VY7JR/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1512116185&sr=8-1&keywords=anoethau" target="_blank">Anoethau on Amazon</a> </span></div>
DasNukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06513945470399592454noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392087297399488618.post-22470639874443800972017-11-05T07:02:00.000-08:002017-11-05T07:02:36.204-08:00Anoethau eBook Release - Partying like it's 1995<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Zzzzzing, I'm so happy, flying, or at least floating a foot above the ground. I just published my first fantasy novel on <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Anoethau-Dana-Renelt-ebook/dp/B0773VY7JR/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1509868485&sr=8-1&keywords=anoethau" target="_blank">Amazon</a>. I'm glad I did it, I'm glad it's finally "out there in the universe". I have been coming back to this story since NaNoWriMo 2012, when I wrote the first draft. </span><br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">A play on the famous Arthurian legend, Anoethau tells the story of Artie Kendrick, an ex-convict, who has spent the better half of his life in prison, and now prefers the solitude of his house to being in the company of people. Backyard gardening is a newfound and most welcome hobby of his, until, after days of heavy rainfall, he discovers a strange artifact in the puddles of his vegetable patch - a sword. It's not just any sword, since it was given to him by a mysterious woman named Viviana, who introduces herself as a deity of another world. The gift comes at a tremendous price: with it, Viviana wants him to kill her arch enemy and save her world from destruction.</span></span></blockquote>
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<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Since some of you asked: The book title Anoethau is mentioned in the longest surviving Welsh prose tale "Culhwch ac Olwen", and refers to impossible task or "difficult things of wonder". It is allegedly the first time, Arthur and his huntsmen are mentioned in a manuscript that old (about 11th century).</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="color: #333333;"><span style="color: #1d2129; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; white-space: normal;">Once more unto the breach, my friends. I'm diving head on into the second book in the series. The story evolves around an important character in Anoethau, Eloise Walsh. I feel as though she didn't get enough "screen time" in the first book - and clearly, she's the reason Artie gets to have such a well-trained companion in Cabby, the French Bulldog.</span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="color: #1d2129; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #333333; white-space: normal;">I wrote the first draft of Aned in 2013 and it is a prequel to Anoethau. This will be fun! Wish me luck with book number 2.</span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Anoethau-Dana-Renelt-ebook/dp/B0773VY7JR/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1509868485&sr=8-1&keywords=anoethau" target="_blank">Anoethau on Amazon.com</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://www.amazon.de/Anoethau-Dana-Renelt-ebook/dp/B0773VY7JR/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1509868485&sr=8-1&keywords=anoethau" target="_blank">Anoethau on Amazon.de</a></span></div>
DasNukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06513945470399592454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392087297399488618.post-40301263867387302682017-09-28T10:11:00.000-07:002017-09-28T10:11:34.106-07:00First Page Review - Anoethau<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I can't remember how often I rewrote that passage to introduce Arthur, the main character of my soon-to-be-published fantasy novel Anoethau. I can see him clearly in front of my mind's eye - a Gene Hackman type person, but a bit younger than the actor is now, severely disconnected from the world by his past and through his own volition, unsociable, selfish. But as Mr. Cohen once sung, those cracks are how the light gets in. So in addition to all that, he's quite resourceful and pensive to the point of insecurity with a concealed sense of comradery. As the story unfolds, things will happen to challenge those qualities. Dear <a href="http://firstpagereview.blogspot.de/" target="_blank">First Page Review</a> reader, after reading the first ~ 900 words - would you continue reading this story? Is this character interesting? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Thanks so much for taking the time to read and review. :-)</span><br />
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<br />DasNukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06513945470399592454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392087297399488618.post-11066917162274134232017-07-23T14:23:00.000-07:002017-08-09T02:07:22.309-07:00My Kid's in ColorMy kid is really strange. He's odd with words and people, and sometimes with his hands and feet. Watching him among others is watching him being in his own world. Most of the time, he doesn't even take note of the world around him. Nor does he seem to care. He doesn't participate in other children's play, and he doesn't get the rules they set up amongst themselves. To his own world, their rules have no meaning.<br />
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He walks across the blanket two girls spread out to have a picnic. He does that over and over. I think he likes the color, red and white, and the fact that there's squares on the fabric. And he likes the feeling of walking on it, because it's soft and he has no shoes on. That is all. In the meantime, the girls get furious. "Don't walk across that blanket anymore. How hard is it to understand, stupid?"<br />
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I can tell you now: it is <i>very</i> hard. Yes, my kid is stupid. He's not really noticing that he's upsetting the girls. But they, in turn, are also stupid. Because they're not getting how great it is, to just be walking barefoot across a blanket without thinking of anything but your feet. Without thinking of the rules of girls, the rules of having picnics in public, or properly socializing with people. I mean, seriously, how cool is it, to not care about anything besides what it feels like to walk across a blanket?<br />
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And how awesome is it, to just run around without a destination until your cheeks are all red, and you get so exhausted, you're barely able to breathe? How awesome is it, to be that weird? I can tell you, it is super crazy awesome! Because normal is boring, and normal is redundant, and throughout history, normal has been done to death. And while normal probably would be easier for me to handle and easier to explain to the outside world, I wouldn't want to have it any other way.<br />
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You see, I gave this boy some of my traits. I may be partially more aware of what's going on around me, but that doesn't mean I always agree with the demands of <i>world</i>. In fact, many a times, I do have some problems getting along with <i>world</i>.<br />
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I can feel your vibe, little boy. I see what you're all about. And if I were just a little bit braver, I'd be doing what you're doing. I'd be walking without my shoes, just walking and feeling the soft fabrics of my world.<br />
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<br />DasNukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06513945470399592454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392087297399488618.post-10001495484840643422017-07-04T08:31:00.001-07:002017-07-04T08:31:54.801-07:00For The MomentI was talking to our pediatrician the other day, about how parents will do anything for the health and safety of their kids. They will drive thousands of hours to see the best doctors and do whatever it takes, and give their limbs and organs, if necessary. This conversation sparked a little stream of consciousness on the drive home. I was thinking about those moments, when kids are small babies, when, for the moment, all their needs are fulfilled and they just happily lie there in your arms and doze off, while you, as a parent, can't help but think about all the things yet to come.<br />
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<br />DasNukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06513945470399592454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392087297399488618.post-73562665033803158052016-12-17T02:03:00.000-08:002016-12-17T05:22:12.099-08:00Autism And Other Minor ConcernsAs human beings we worry a lot. We don't seem to ever stop. We worry about our health, our safety, money, sometimes even stupider stuff, like which car to drive in our thirties, which meals to eat on a Sunday. If a burglar may kill us in our sleep, or if cancer will do the job during the light of day.<br />
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As parents, we worry about our kids, if they get enough sleep, if they eat enough of everything, if their poop's consistency is to our liking, if they experience enough of anything. These are somewhat understandable parental worries.<br />
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So, I, newly a mother of two, have been asking myself: am I doing a good job mother-wise. It's highly questionable, I will ever get an answer other than the one I can provide myself. Something scary has been going on, and it has been going on for quite a while. We have been concerned about our son's speech development for a few months. It hasn't progressed normally, even along the normal parameters for boys (expected to being slower than girls), he is far behind. At two years, kids should be able to produce 50 to 200 words, they should be able to understand up to 400 words. Plus they should be able to do such things as look a person in the eye, and, not resort to screaming when having to perform certain tasks asked to do by other persons than the immediate family.<br />
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Well, you, what can I say. Our boy didn't do well in any of said tasks. Until recently, he didn't say a single word, he didn't interact socially with people outside the family, and he didn't perform to the pediatrician's satisfaction. The result of this was an under-average performance in the developmental test, and the pediatrician telling me that judging by his behavior, my son may be in the autism spectrum. All I could say was, yes, well, OK. I didn't add the classic retort "That is yoooour opinion!" and "I'll get another opinion, you!" <leaves dramatically="" room="" the="">. No, I didn't. My reflexes were a bit off that day.</leaves><br />
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I tried to find flaws in their test, the whole setup. I couldn't. It is a standardized test, with the same conditions for everyone, so the results are representative for his age group. I then alleged a conspiracy. Doctors being greedy money makers who want to sell you stuff and services. Maybe they are. Still, they couldn't sell you anything if there wasn't a kid in need of those services.<br />
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I was next in line. It's me. Too much iPad, too little parenting. We jokingly call the iPad parental unit c in this house, just to give you a little grasp of its importance. So, it had to be me. Either something I did wrong or something my crummy genes did wrong to cause that in my boy. As it turns out, my genes are rather likely to cause that kind of disorder. Not gluten or the iPad. At least I think they don't. As it turns out we know so little about autism, or the brain in general, that there's plenty of room for all kinds of crazy theories.<br />
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"If he has it, it's all my fault, OK?" hubby said to me, while we were driving in the car. Hubby's so sweet. "I mean look at me, the way I am." Awww, my sweet little Asperger! I replied that we're both a couple of odd people with some variance of social strangeness. So in my mind, it has to be a rather explosive coming together of crummy genes. Romantic, if you think about it. We combined our flawed gene pools and what came out was an even bigger water, a big muddy sea of crummyness. Awwww!<br />
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And that changed my perspective. Yes, we're both old and horrible but we created something genuinely unique. Not saying that special always means good or easy. But no matter how this turns out, if it really is autism, some other disease or nothing at all, our boy is extraordinary, the way his brain is clocked, the way he sees and assesses objects, people, concepts. I like to watch him watch the world and it's fascinating and endearing. And that is something to be happy about rather than sad or worried. He'll be an interesting human being no matter how this plays out. It won't always be easy for him to find his place in the world. But in this world, there should be a place for interesting, off-beat, difficult and lovable.DasNukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06513945470399592454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392087297399488618.post-72937533613585971502016-09-10T14:07:00.000-07:002016-09-10T14:55:34.557-07:00I'm off!I guess the time has come to admit it, so I'll finally admit to it: I'm off. I'm blank. I'm vacant. Being creative, making time for other things besides maintenance of life (hah, gotta love the specifics): it's all gone. Off the map. Me, the person who wrote each and every day and blogged half-regularly: was it just a fluke? Or a placeholder? Am I being overly dramatic? Well, I guess it's a little bit of all of the above.<br />
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I'd like to cling to the hopes of having a tiny little residue of energy left to go on - creatively speaking. Some day. I haven't given up the idea of a writerly career. But to get there, I have to write. Every day. Stay in shape. Honestly, it wouldn't be hard to make time if I really wanted to do it now, but the truth is, these days I'm burning on a low flame. And I prefer sleep over writing.<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-A_Zvj8a5CFc/V9RzljXftGI/AAAAAAAACpY/wX9nsaxSTAMhgjb8HX2WGrM6brqe__h9wCLcB/s1600/dirtypaper2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-A_Zvj8a5CFc/V9RzljXftGI/AAAAAAAACpY/wX9nsaxSTAMhgjb8HX2WGrM6brqe__h9wCLcB/s320/dirtypaper2.jpg" width="244" /></a>With a second kid, I somehow feel ridiculous talking about the importance of art and leisure. It has little meaning to me. I'm not saying that I found it elsewhere, because there's no infinite wisdom buried beneath baby poop and vomit, but these are the pressing issues in my life right now. Life upkeep. Hey, by the way, here's the test to find out if you are a real writer: If you have the choice between writing a story and cleaning up a spilled drink that drips down to the floor, what would you do first? If you choose writing over cleaning up, congrats, you are a writer! If you are like me, and you can't do anything else, knowing that something is dripping, you are not. Or maybe you have OCD.<br />
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There are a couple of other options, for those of us who want to combine the everyday life with writing. I thought about it. Writing about the everyday life. Unfortunately I can't mash up these things. I'm not a baby blogger. I just don't have it in me. And I rarely find other baby blogs to be insightful or original, least of all entertaining - except for the <a href="http://www.the-baby-bible.com/" target="_blank">Baby Bible</a>, which I've come to enjoy quite a lot.<br />
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Me, I don't want to talk regularly about the ups and downs of being a nurse, janitor, baby feeder. Unless those babies have magical powers hidden beneath their diapers that is, then I could write about it and call it a fantasy story. And in regards to writing about being a parent, there's not much to go on either. My quintessential parental insight basically comes down to one rule, namely "try not to kill kids". Well, there could be a funny angle to this, but it's more like a pun: "Today: tried not to kill kids, and barely succeeded." But that's about it.<br />
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Why didn't I jump in while I had more time? It's easy. I'm afraid. I'm afraid no one will care about the story I labored over, and worse, that it's an utter failure, and no one will care, which is basically worse than having a million bad reviews. Having a sucky story and no reviews. Annoyed people still are an audience. If no one is annoyed, is it like the proverbial tree in the forest? Does my writing even exist? Seems like at the moment, I can't answer these questions.<br />
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Right, I do care a little too much for someone who doesn't put any effort in having their story published, don't I! Hah, maybe there is a grain of hope. A little one.DasNukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06513945470399592454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392087297399488618.post-74970532361018490192016-03-27T13:28:00.000-07:002016-04-07T03:06:15.662-07:00Are We Judgmental Bitches?I read a post on Facebook a little while ago, about a young woman who had made the conscious decision not to have any children. I think she used the word <i>never</i> with some exclamation points. She wrote that afterwards she got a lot of headwind for openly refusing a life with children, and a backlash was sparked amongst mothers who allegedly have a big problem with that. She continued to appeal to the rules of a civilized and equal society, to let her do what she wants and just leave her be.<br />
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A reasonable request. I found myself wondering however to what extent the societal pressure she was talking about is an issue, if though a perceived reality it may be. Is it really other people, who make her feel badly about this decision, and by extension, is it even possible for other people to make us feel anything along the lines of doubt and insecurity?<br />
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First of all it seems to be pretty demure to <i>not</i> want something as a life choice. It's the opposite of <i>needing</i> stuff to exist. Some people think they need a Porsche to survive. In case of anything materialistic, usually people go for it or they don't, depending on the effort they are willing to put in. Either way in my experience, people generally don't really care about <i>other people's</i> harbored ambitions or even openly voiced desires.<br />
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We may take notice when you have something that we don't have, be jealous, or decide we want it too, but that's a different story. Most of the time, other people's aspirations don't even register - we're all much too concerned with what <i>we</i> want anyway.<br />
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Yes, sometimes mothers, parents, will appear judgmental, mostly in comparing their own parental style which they claim to find flawless, to other, allegedly inferior styles of parenting. This is what I think it's really about: being defensive about our own shit. Attacking not to be attacked.<br />
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I don't believe there's a single mother on planet Earth who thinks she's perfect. You may have days, moments, when you think, man, I'm great, I got this whole thing figured out, but the next minute you find your kid sitting in the corner, suckling on a beat-up cat toy and you think to yourself: damn, I'm raising a monkey. <i>Stop licking the wall, Bingo</i>.<br />
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Anyways, so what I think it comes down to is that parents are not in the business of judging anyone for refusing the whole child experience. We may think you're missing out on something big. Because we think it's pretty big. Parents don't know what they're missing out on by having children. Adventure, travel, the great escape? Just a wild guess. Childless people don't know what they're missing out on by <i>not</i> having them. There is no grounds for either of us to judge here.<br />
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Be that as it may, the declaration to adhere to a certain lifestyle, any lifestyle, for the rest of your life just isn't very reasonable. How often have you thought, OK, this is it, I'm settled, this is me. Life usually doesn't work on our terms. In case something completely surprising happens, and chances are that it will, our cores may be shaken, personalities will be disheveled and everything we thought we knew will be turned upside down.<br />
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So when it comes to life, there may be no other way than to stay flexible. It seems like a bad idea to close your mind to anything, even ideas that may seem bad or plain wrong at the time. They may appear more convenient a minute from now, or when things happen and you have to deal with the altered reality in front of you. Most of the time stuff happens despite our grand proclamations. And in a moment of crisis and change, we will find out we can deal with pretty much anything, and tackle things that are very different from our current agenda, our own prejudice, and yes, even those pesky children may add something to your life you never even imagined you'd love so much. Same goes for everything else of course. New doors open. It's out of our control when they do. And that's the terrifying and fantastic thing about life.DasNukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06513945470399592454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392087297399488618.post-37732509653691339382016-02-10T12:13:00.001-08:002016-02-10T13:10:37.835-08:00Activism Part IVI now find it ridiculous, stupid, useless, even dangerous. Activism that is, --activism as in promote, impede, direct. As you may remember, I was quarreling with the whole concept of Activism through Parts -><a href="http://idiotsearthquakes.blogspot.de/2012/06/activism-part-i.html" target="_blank">I</a> to -><a href="http://idiotsearthquakes.blogspot.de/2013/10/activism-part-iii.html" target="_blank">III</a>, trying to find the right angle to it, and dealing with people bustling around me. Now I don't anymore. This parental unit is proudly sitting on the couch, two cheeks fast asleep. Lazy. Still useful to some extent, but not in a world-changing manner, more in a "I'm watching you" kind of way. I'm eating while I write this. That's how useful I am. Sitting. Eating. Writing. Wow, that is some world-class multitasking, my friends!<br />
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Sometimes I think about what would happen if I weren't able to pay my bills - I imagine scenarios that result in me being in the gutter, and what I would do, that kind of thing. I consider that the everyday worries of human beings. DNA-wise, there's not much difference between a homeless person and Taylor Swift, besides varying degrees of busybodyness. I wouldn't call thinking about social decline as being stricken with sorrow, since those are concerns that move around aimlessly in (I'm guessing) everyone's head.<br />
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But now there's the extravagant stuff. Stuff, humans care about and put it in big letters on the magnet board next to the fridge, because those things presumably define them as a person, most of all a social media person of interest. Hah, and aren't those some wonderfully abstract things to worry about: climate change, pollution, <i>sustainability</i>, which by the way has quickly turned into my number one rage word. Things, world, possibly all that exists needs to endure. Because <i>we</i> want it to. Why does it always have to be so exotic?<br />
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I find that people are on a mission of self-denial. They're thinking big and I find that disturbing. Why can't you start small, damnit? It is quite arrogant to want to save a whole planet. What kind of a narcissistic ass starts with the big one? Don't you work your way up towards the big dreams anymore? Go clean up your room, do your taxes, whatever, and if you're still thinking big, why not try <i>not</i> to die of cancer next? That's pretty big, too. That should be a main concern on your way to saving everything. If the whole Lemmy-Bowie-Rickman incident has taught us anything, it is that our number one concern should be our immediate survival. Not on a large scale, but on a very small, singular scale. Don't die, you! Everyone's ass is on the line here, so please make yourself sustainable. The world may not need you, but you need you. What else is there to worry about?<br />
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<br />DasNukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06513945470399592454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392087297399488618.post-90376297401121376542015-10-02T02:14:00.001-07:002015-10-02T03:33:07.749-07:00Story news about AnoethauThis year, a lot of stuff is about to happen: I'm adding the final touches to my 2012 NaNoWriMo story for it to be published in the last quarter of this year. I'm excited about this story. Interestingly enough, re-reading it, I didn't find it completely horrible. Yes, certain parts were longwinded descriptions, and reflected thoughts. The main character is alone for a certain time of the story and with no dialogue options and no interactions, strange things happen in storytelling. Plus the NaNo requirement of having a story with at least 50000 words demanded a certain creative "redundancy" on my part. I'm excited though, I feel like I can move on from here.<br />
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Reading Guy Gavriel Kay's <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Fionavar_Tapestry" target="_blank">Fionavar Tapestry</a> trilogy reassured me, that re-imaginings of known narratives can be an asset. For his story, he revived some of the Camelot cast, just like I did, but unlike him, I did it in a contemporary setting. Read The Fionavar Tapestry if you get a chance. Guy Gavriel Kay was Tolkien's editor for the Silmarillion, so that should tell you everything you need to know.<br />
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I hope you're not turned off of me saying <i>hang in there</i> once again. We're almost there. I still need a website, but hubby promised to help me with that. And amongst other things, hubby is a website wizard, and a tech-fex if anything else. OK, enough pampering, back to work.<br />
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<br />DasNukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06513945470399592454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392087297399488618.post-75233460045259645802015-08-14T23:55:00.001-07:002015-08-14T23:55:41.790-07:00Among Mad PeopleHumans are a mad species. Mad in the sense that they are crazy, like mad scientists, Mad Max and MAD magazine. Every one of those <i>mads</i> describes one aspect of being human. Insane, post-apocalyptically distraught and nuts. But in terms of "being angry" we are even madder than mad. We always did have the capacity to get really really furious at stuff. Broken TV - damn you!! - slow driving people holding up the lane - you idiot! Our "mad" is a blow out, a detonation, like a thunderstorm, quick and painless.<br />
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These days, everyone is able to witness everyone else's madity (don't be mad it's not a word) on social networks, and our angriness has become an everyday condition. The madder - the better. The madder - the more we care. Like mad magicians we're in the business of abstractly spreading unfocused anger bolts at the world. And if you're not sharing those sentiments and hop the anger train, you're accused of either being a placidly naive lamb, on <i>their</i> side or you just don't give a damn. So, it's easiest to follow the invitation to be outraged. There's something going on every day. Nestlé, Homophobia, Amnesty, Hunting, Religion, Health, TV shows, Summer. And that was just in one week.<br />
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The good thing: we're not bearing grudges it seems. Maybe we have evolved to be a more forgiving species. No more feuds? Giggles, no. More likely that with this large a variety of annoyances to pick from, we forget what we were mad about yesterday.<br />
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Why I care? The abundance of red flags everywhere made me lose the will to rant. And that makes me really really mad. But seriously, in all this time being spent angrily, the ability to be critical, to go look for information beyond the bias we seem to lack. We think we're more enlightened than we actually are. There is so much information. We just don't take the time to get it. All of it. Too busy being mad.DasNukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06513945470399592454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392087297399488618.post-49597318851203490172015-07-24T07:09:00.000-07:002015-07-24T07:09:42.488-07:00Go play with your kind, Kitty!<br />
In life, most things we do are pretty much self-explanatory. We are born, we go to school, we work. Eventually we get married, have kids, and some time after that we die. Somewhat anticlimactic, I agree. Yes, but there are certain challenges to encounter and our bookstore's self-help section to deal with things that are slightly out of our reach. How to get that job (that we're not qualified for) or how to get a partner (we don't deserve). And those books contain more or less fishy techniques to justify our desire for social climbing. As primates, we always want the biggest piece of cake, and as humans we're convinced outwitting instinct must be the way to go. But all in all we'd probably be appalled if we knew how much of our decision-making in life is driven by pure instinct rather than calm consideration. I can hardly tell why I do certain things, and why I don't do certain others, but I get the distinct feeling the reason must be found somewhere on the opposite end of "free will". Is it "right" though to live like that? I don't know. It certainly feels right, but that doesn't have to mean anything in the grand scheme of things.<br />
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Well, I don't have any point of reference here, since I know no other way of existing than my very own. But I imagine, since we're all human those must be similar, with survival being the most elbowing instinct of them all. The fear for survival can take many different forms and sizes, mostly ugly ones. Actively killing our kin for food, luckily not so much a commonplace in the Western world anymore. But since we all own a lot of shit and feel like we've accomplished something, passively fearing for one's place in society is much more prevalent these days. Racism being the operative word to name that fear. Yet we always seem to be surprised by news of racism, riots, police brutality or the sad German trend to burn down refugee hostels. Well we shouldn't be. We shouldn't be surprised. It's the oldest fear there is. It may even predate spiders and heights. The fear of losing cultural identity, belongings or jobs is a natural part of existing within a community of diverse beings. Just because it's there doesn't mean we can't do anything to counteract that fear. We should and we do. The fear itself has to do with a lack of information (or wrong sources of information) rather than stupidity. Just so you know you're not immune, all you smartie pants! Information is a good way to work against that, most of all some form of political education, so we may understand the source and reality of such fears. How are those foreigners stealing our jobs again? Oh righto, they don't. Of course, the media are an untrustworthy companion in this endeavor, being deeply afraid for their own survival, they play into the hands of our fears like a horror movie plays into the pants of small children. But there's other ways of enlightenment.<br />
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We are afraid, and that's a fact. No point in complaining about it. And the country that came up with Nazis should know better than to ignore those tendencies or feel like we have means to control them. Fears can't be controlled by an intellectual elite. And what a horrifying concept that would be..<br />
That being said, now what do we do about these fears?<br />
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For his first birthday, someone gave my son a book about a cat looking for playmates. The cat asks dogs, ducks, pigs to play with her, and they all refuse due to the cat's lack of dog-like, duck-like and pig-like qualities. So in the end the cat finds other cats to play with. D'oh! The moral of this story? Happiness found with your own kind? I'd say the moral is being aware that the concept of racism is omnipresent, validated like that, through allegedly harmless story patterns.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Go play with your kind."</td></tr>
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<br />DasNukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06513945470399592454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392087297399488618.post-2695561095748608672015-05-10T15:01:00.000-07:002015-05-10T15:07:26.918-07:00There's Spiders on the Interwebs<br />
I had a blog on the interwebs at the foot of the Ngong Hills...well, duh. I still have a blog, though deserted at daytime, I'm always close by at night, never far from putting down thoughts in writing. And I seriously realize I need to do some spring blog cleaning before spring turns into summer, and summer makes me want to do everything but clean, even on and between those dusty interwebs.<br />
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So, how have you been doing lately - she asks - casually. Are you OK? Have you been shaken by the various crises of this earth or did you just stop caring? I mean, seriously. Horrific news, every day. We are being sold, our private lives being spied upon, our data being inflationary goods for intelligence worker drones and the nations that employ them. They doodle on our love letters, and draw funny faces on our porn collection. The guy with the mustache got an even bigger mustache. Funny stuff. They rated our naked holiday pictures from 1 to 10. If there has ever been a moment to uprise, that moment is here, staring us in the face. Unfortunately, we let it pass. We just shake our heads in disagreement if we're not too busy having insignificant thoughts about nothing. We're all fresh out of disappointmental energy. And anger is that much harder to come by. We feel as though we're the smallest link in the celestial alignment of our existence. We're just too damn unimportant. I have to ask this of me, of everyone: are we? Are we the insignificant ant in this equation? Let's see: human - check. All limbs and brains intact - check. Human Rights being beaten with a stick - ding ding ding, jackpot! Hey there, you with the sad eyes, we do have some power. Confidence, please. We have all the power. It's not us and them. It's only us, and we control what we do. This idea of big nobs separate from us, it is an illusion.<br />
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You could hold the view that we had it coming. We got lazy, we let things run into the ground. But I'd like to think there is a slight ticking noise going on in the background, and it gets a little louder every day. At some point, there'll be an explosion. It's what happens when people are undermined, cornered. People and wolves. It's what needs to happen, so we can be free for a while. Until the next election, take-over takes place, coup, whatever you want to call it. Because wolves will remain wolves, and the balance between freedom and security will always be fragile and fleeting. And nature will catch up with itself eventually.DasNukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06513945470399592454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392087297399488618.post-10867047765733834852015-02-25T06:16:00.001-08:002015-02-25T06:16:16.951-08:00Milk, Dead, SnoreThis new being, this tired old sack filled with chocolate, caffeine and milk..what is it doing, how does it survive? I'm sure you've heard of zombies. Not only are they seen on the Walking Dead, they roam amongst us, covered in spit-up, hiding their rotten flesh underneath bad hair, dandruff and splintered nail polish. What do they do, how do they survive? Let me tell you a little secret. They feed on the smiles of little humans! Disgusting, right! Let me tell you, how annoyed I am with myself for a moment here. Is this baby thing the only thing I can talk about anymore? Are there no other things in my life? Games, movies, books? Meh, pfeh! Apparently not. I am now officially one of <i>those</i> people. I am having a blast so long as I can keep my eyes open. Until comatose sleep grabs my ankles and pulls me into the dark. Oh that boy! That precious little bag of soul candy! He ate my brain after all - little zombie that he is!<br />
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DasNukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06513945470399592454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392087297399488618.post-33308515056775375782015-01-20T11:40:00.000-08:002015-01-20T11:40:43.212-08:00What To Expect When You're Not Expecting<br />
I can't say that I ever officially decided to have children - I as in my conscious
decision-making self making a choice. I was quite unsure until my thirties if it would be a good idea for me at all. I presume what happened after the glorious age of 30 was that my primate brain did something to me. The cliché of the loud ticking noise, I suddenly began to hear it. First unobtrusively, then, all the time. The tinnitus I got from this must have smashed the insubordinate parts of my brain, the ones that used
to yawn whenever I got the feeling I had to do something or to be a part of something, to fit some kind of stereotype. I never
exactly knew how to behave around children. I was not relaxed being around
them, still am not, at times. Yet it happened one day, when I saw a
mother lovingly with her child in her arms, that I noticeably gasped for air. It felt liked suffocation. I
wouldn't define the feeling as <i>wanting</i> something. I realized I didn't as much want one, as I<i> needed</i>
a child. For my sanity. For my primate brain. This post is not a guide. This
is about how I tried to remain sane during the long years of not having one, but needing a child, and badly so. In hindsight, I merely partially succeeded.<br />
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Let me think. No. Let's say you've already found out you want a child and you're working hard towards that goal. You've tried for a while and it didn't work out. Or maybe it worked, but then it didn't. What do you do to pass the time until it does? I've had three strikes in five years. Unfortunately none of them made it through the first trimester. Starting fresh after a miscarriage was hard each time. You're losing confidence in your body. You're getting super obsessive about every little circumstance that may or may not be responsible for you not getting pregnant. First of all, you have to accept, that certain things are simply out of your hands. Think positive if you can muster up the strength, but if you can't, don't feel bad for being angry. It is frustrating. It makes you crazy. Babies is probably all you can think about. If all you can think about is what you can't have, that is one very sad mental spiral to be in. It may seem as far out of reach to you as sitting on a rusty bike and dreaming about a Porsche. And then again, it may just be around the corner. Your body is torturous. Biology is a bitch. You know.<br />
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<< <b>Don't put your life on hold</b></center>
This is important. You can't stop everything else, because you want a child. If you live as though you were pregnant to become pregnant, you're not doing yourself any favors. Eating raw fish, cheese, or drinking coffee or a glass of wine, lifting stuff, it's all allowed. Yes, you may blame yourself if it doesn't work out at the end of a cycle. You will do that no matter what you do, what you eat, if you did or didn't do sports, if you ate or didn't eat certain foods. I wrecked my brain each time I miscarried or didn't conceive for what I might have done wrong. The list is incredibly long when you're looking for something that can't be found. It's not that third cup of coffee. The most likely thing is that it didn't work out for a myriad of reasons. None of them are in your control. Nothing you do will guarantee the right circumstances. What did I do right when it finally happened? Nothing. Everything. I ate whatever I craved for, chocolate, mainly. I drank lots of coffee. I was too lazy to work out, and around conception time, I read a really boring fantasy book. Find the answer anywhere in there? If there is one, it says, try to mentally detach yourself from the biology behind getting pregnant. You can't finetune the incubator. Trust it, for it knows best. <br />
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<< <b>Create your own voodoo</b></center>
You feel like you need to do something. Yes. Doing something seems to put people in an exceptionally positive mood. Treat your body like a temple. Imagine you're a fertile riverbed or whatever. Be aware that voodoo is voodoo. There is no medicinal value in dancing around a totem pole except the one you create in your head - placebo the hell out of it! Your state of mind is important. Placebo is your friend. Go massage your stomach with your left hand. Bath in mud. Stick needles in your chi, feng shui your bedroom. It's all good and healthy as long as it makes you feel good and there is no real chemistry involved. Stay away from strong substances. Let the doctors handle strong substances. You go to your happy place and relax.<br />
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<< <b>Be aware of hormones</b></center>
There's one tiny little piece of chemistry you need to be aware of: progesterone. Especially if you have passed the presumably best childbearing age of 20. Progesterone can have influence on the actual occurrence and continuation of a pregnancy. If you're having trouble conceiving or sustaining a pregnancy over a period of time, go see a doctor. Let them monitor progesterone and hormone levels throughout your trial runs. It will help you figure out a possible deficiency and help you fix it. I took progesterone during my last (successful) trial. It may have helped. I took it some time earlier that year and it didn't. No guarantees, but chances are, it will more likely help than hurt your efforts.<br />
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<< <b>Don't be mean to your partner</b></center>
(unless he or she is responsible - then, go ahead and nag him or her endlessly about it) Kidding, of course! It's so hard to stay rational. I've tried to explain this to men several times. Being theoretically able to father children until they drop, they don't seem to fully grasp the pressure-filled window we're in. It can put a serious strain on relationships when fertility is an issue. Fertility. Even the word sounds discriminatory. Whatever you do, try to hold on to the big picture. Testicles are not baby juice jars. A man is not just a donor, a woman is not an oven. Don't reduce people to their baby-making qualities. I know it sounds like a <i>d'oh</i> sort of thing to say, but it can be hard when you're on emotional edge. What you should think and talk about are possible consequences. Talk much. You need to be able to talk about your options. How much do you want children? More than you want to be with your partner? Think about it, and without being resentful or fearful, just play it through in your mind. Can you imagine alternative scenarios? Then think about it some more. The important and excruciating part is to not guilt your partner into staying the childless course if the problem is on your end. It's scary to think that way, but you need to do it for the sake of your relationship. <br />
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<center>
<< <b>Cuddle your inner child</b></center>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Be kind to yourself. You're of worth, you are or were at some point someone's child. What you do and how you feel is important. Find an outlet for your frustration. Do things you want to do, things you know you couldn't do with a child. Travel the world, take that crazy job offer in Helsinki. We're all just finding ways to pass the time. Having a child means passing over time to someone else entirely. You will stay the center of your own life if you don't have a child. There's an upside to that way of existing. People say that having children is the most important thing in life. I know it has changed a whole lot for me, and opened my eyes to another perspective entirely. I have never felt such love for anyone or anything in the world. It's unbearable at times. But in a larger sense, it's not that important for the world if I do or do not have children, at least not as much as it is for myself. I find that caring for someone, for a partner or a pet can do that also. My cats were my babies long before I knew my son. It doesn't matter that they never needed me as much as he does at the moment. Cats are self-sufficient beings. My son will be self-sufficient as well at some point. The transition will be painful, but I care for them either way. Cleaning the cat toilet or cleaning a diaper. One's a little less messy than the other, but in the end, it's all coming out of the same area. Poop, everywhere! Doesn't matter whose. It's all love. Good old sappy love.</div>
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DasNukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06513945470399592454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392087297399488618.post-67929506419319815572015-01-02T13:35:00.000-08:002015-01-02T13:47:30.976-08:00Time Traveling (To The Present)<br />
It's an oddity, this growing-old thing. When I was younger, the possibility of some day being old rarely ever crossed my mind. Old and dead were interchangeable expressions. Then, as I was steering towards half-old (or middle-aged), having outgrown the cub stage, I felt somewhat lucky to be able to look down upon the children running around me. I had hated the time, not long ago, being one of them myself. I couldn't wait to be middle-aged. Hah. And now, as I have been in the oven for a little longer than "al dente", I wonder where the off button is. I'm not as much growing older, as I'm rotting away. Brain cells lose their sizzle, memories begin to blur. Things that used to tickle my insides only touch me so-so. No energy for discourse, no time to be well-informed about pretty much anything that goes on in the world around me. And us oldies supposedly are the ones in charge, the generation laying the ground work for the next one to come. Shouldn't we better abdicate and relinquish the throne to childless people? I mean, apparently we have no time to be in charge of anything but ourselves. And it's a beautiful sentiment, and a magical time in my life: the time when my brain is on vacation. The time to be content, and mild and happy is clearly not the time to start an intellectual career! <br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-A4A9iyxKrRs/VKHVSsfEtcI/AAAAAAAACTM/SBIfjhBXNSE/s1600/keep-calm-and-let-them-handle-it-2.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-A4A9iyxKrRs/VKHVSsfEtcI/AAAAAAAACTM/SBIfjhBXNSE/s1600/keep-calm-and-let-them-handle-it-2.png" height="200" width="171" /></a><br />
Sad to say, "no time for other things but diapers" simply means we just <i>can't</i> care. It's a thing parents use to say while they're looking down their nose upon the striplings dancing around them with their underwear wrapped around their heads. What they mean to say is they simply have no brain parts to spare at the moment. Imagine two glass jars, one of them is on the floor, broken, with the content spilled all over the floor, while the other one is standing dangerously close to the edge of the table. The one standing at the edge represents politics, external interest, the outside world. The kid is a spilled jar. And if we don't do something immediately, the spill gets worse. It's mere damage control. There is nothing we can do about these priorities, except accept the task for the time being. Is my kid's health more important than equality, religion or whatever topic the world mulls over these days? Probably not. But it's the one that keeps me up at night. And tires me all day. So it's the one closest to my own life and in need of all of my attention.<br />
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Until some night, you know, someone in a strange uniform knocks at my door, informing me that there's a change in leadership, law, state religion or whatever. Then I'm <i>really</i> gonna look like an idiot. Because besides clean diapers and something to eat, what our kids really need is a place to live and thrive, a friendly environment. And that is what we all need above anything else.<br />
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<br />DasNukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06513945470399592454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392087297399488618.post-39677070113560070252014-11-16T12:40:00.000-08:002014-11-16T12:50:39.878-08:00Newer Poetry - Pimped OutThere will be more in time. More of everything. :)<br />
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DasNukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06513945470399592454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392087297399488618.post-45546893828034179032014-11-04T12:45:00.000-08:002014-11-04T14:47:43.223-08:00Sexism Rant *Explicitly Offensive Content*<br />
(I have been wandering around this post for days. I almost didn't publish it. I almost called for male protection aka asking hubby to publish it on his blog. And my chicken-ness infinitely disgusted me, so I had to do it. I think it speaks volumes about how dicey this actually is. Here are my two cents - I may be wrong.)<br />
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I'm sure every woman has experienced being hit on in certain situations at least once in her life. What the people who do this usually want is quite obvious. OK, I'll just say <i>men</i>, because they mostly are the ones to do it, fully aware that it's utterly sexist to call the bull by its name. But since women initiating flirtation with men doesn't seem to be that big an issue I feel like I'm allowed to say it. Anyways, every woman instinctively knows how to react; what to do if someone shows interest in them. If the feeling's not mutual, she usually doesn't respond or she responds negatively by saying "No, thank you" to the guy. 99,9 % of all men accept that and don't automatically cross over to raping mode. I bet most of them didn't bank on shouting "hubba-hubba" as the woman walks by would get them anywhere closer to their pants.<br />
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There's degrees of subtlety when it comes to flirtation, some approaches are more socially accepted than others. Some men say stuff like "I think I know you from somewhere" and offer to buy drinks. Usually not a problem, because it involves a polite line and freebies. Others don't beat around the bush and tell women more directly what they want. And there are those minimalists who simply grab a butt in passing. These are basically all varying degrees of the same thing, except at least one of them qualifies as harassment. Sexual advances against one's will are, of course, at all times completely illicit. No discussion necessary. But since harassment is not only a legal term but also a matter of personal interpretation, the boundaries can be quite blurry.<br />
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Call me oldfashioned - but when did the mere act of making contact become a cause for alarm? I'm talking about that infamous video with the woman walking through Manhattan. Why is it considered sexist to tell anyone that you're sexually interested in them? To my understanding it's not discriminatory to declare your interest, except if there's a disadvantage for the other person in case she does not reciprocate the feelings, like in a situation of subordination eg. But is it disadvantageous to be any random person's object of desire? Even if this person just thinks about you in a certain way, no real world consequences? I say, flirtation itself is not discriminatory, well, except, of course, to those trolls men have a preference over by choosing <i>you</i>. But since they're not the target, they will never file a complaint.<br />
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The way I see it is that legally we're either heading towards a unified gender - because pointing out the differences between them is considered an act of sexism - or that we're approaching an age where every remark, every lecherous glance, even every perceived un-materialized intent will be cause for legal action. I clearly woke up in the wrong century.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://storiadigitale.zanichellipro.it/media/images/20153.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img alt="http://storiadigitale.zanichellipro.it/media/images/20153.jpg" border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7w9J1WeRb_I/VFk2pUE3kHI/AAAAAAAACQk/50bQrjG-FDY/s1600/20153.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a>And these so-called modern feminists do nothing to further the cause for gender equality. And I mean true equality, not tiptoeing-around-alleged-offense equality or - yes I have to say it - professional victimhood. Equality means that certain things are either allowed or not allowed - regardless of gender. Like me, walking down the street, randomly wolf-whistling men. Allowed, and so far, none of my victims ever screamed rape. Or could it be this newfound need for awareness in truth is all about the prejudice in regards to a woman's lack of physical and or mental strength compared to the alleged male "dominance"? I have this nagging feeling some women may think that. And if that's the case, it's at the core of the deepest and darkest sexism there is, women seeing themselves as helpless victims of the much-cited patriarchy. Ladies, you seem unaware that we as a species have evolved. We have acquired laws. In fact, why do you feel the need to diminish our foremothers achievements by pretending we still live in the stone age? Thanks to legislature it is not common practice to hit women with clubs and drag them away to some remote cave. I fear that since you ordered that Victorian, we'll all be going to pay for it at some point. No freebies. Holy shitballs!<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
A list of all sexisms listed in this rant according to modern feminist standards</div>
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Naively calling the abuse of women "hitting on". </div>
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Degrading canine behavior to the level of male humans through the use of "hubba-hubba".</div>
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"Getting into pants" as an expression of sexual advances when clearly every woman is allowed to wear a skirt.</div>
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Calling women cheap, because they like freebies.</div>
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Using the vulgar expression "beating around the bush".</div>
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Discriminating against unattractive people by calling them trolls. </div>
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Using the term Victorian as a cocktail. A Victorian is not a drink, but a dark age of oppression which no one should ever be allowed to make fun of. </div>
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"Holy shitballs" - Accusing men of being such pigs, fecally soiling their babymakers is a natural occurrence. Blasphemy also. My guess is most women wouldn't have a problem with either of that.</div>
DasNukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06513945470399592454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5392087297399488618.post-74325150341990601732014-10-15T11:48:00.000-07:002014-10-15T12:01:59.734-07:00First Page Review: Spellbloom<br />
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<b><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Hey everyone, and hello to <a href="http://firstpagereview.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">first page review</a>! Always exciting to get a little bit of feedback on the first few words of a story. This is taken from the first story I ever thought out and wrote down, titled Spellbloom, a contemporary fantasy tale. It is the one story closest to my heart, but it is yet to be finished on paper. I'm so hestitant when it comes to writing this story. In the hopes of getting more experienced at storytelling, I never want to touch it to not spoil it with mediocre writing, if that makes any sense. :) I started writing it two years ago, and I'm not even halfway finished, but I edited bits and pieces of it. The picture you see is a home-brewed graphic experiment that may or may not be the real cover for the book one day. </span></b><br />
<br />
<b><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Looking forward to reading your comments and suggestions and I can't wait to visit your blogs and to read your stories. :) </span></b><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">1. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Pador
stared at the portrait in silence. The face in the picture frame stared back at him. He knew that the years had given him a few hard
lines around the mouth, and the painter hadn’t wasted any time
sugar-coating the truth. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The people of Indova called Pador rigorous, a man purported to rule with a strict
vision of things that needed to be done. He had never seen himself that
way. <i>The things to be done most rarely are what everyone agrees with</i>, his
father used to say. Unlike Pador, he had been the leader of a family of 4, not millions. Pador sighed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">At least in the picture he looked the
part of the leader, Pador thought, carrying the bearings of Indova on his chest, the blue cloak
hovering over the black cliffs of the Seam, the traditional symbol for the first Mage
Rebellion nearly 300 years ago. His ancestors had fought in that battle, and many
of them had lost their lives.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">He had
always worn his blue cloak with pride, ever since the day he got elected. He had
made a name for himself in the Academy, and he was a reasonable choice for the
Council. The fact that he didn't want the job was of little importance and just went to show how the laws of Indova bestowed all power upon the election committee. The committee had seen <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">aptitude and farsightedness</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">in equal measure</i> in him, and none of the other candidates. Sometimes Pador still thought they'd made a terrible mistake choosing him,
but his advisor had told him that his doubts proved him to be the right choice all the
more. </span><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-T_-ZIfmKvHc/VD49xql_ymI/AAAAAAAACPU/RPoGUEUJbW0/s1600/lightsout.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-T_-ZIfmKvHc/VD49xql_ymI/AAAAAAAACPU/RPoGUEUJbW0/s1600/lightsout.png" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Pador knew
his duties, and well enough to realize that anyone would have a hard time ruling a
country, at least if he tried to do it well. Sometimes however
he caught himself thinking that there might be someone out there who would <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">enjoy</i> it more than he did. He sighed
again, a heavy and deep sigh – resonating back at him from the walls
of the hallway. He turned around to go back to his office. He longed for this
day to be over, but it wasn’t even close to noon. He had several
ministers to meet still, representatives to greet with a smile on his face and their pleas
to suffer through. He would be able to visit Janey thereafter – if
it wasn’t too late in the day. He had been looking forward to seeing her all week, yet he hated visitation days because they would only sound in another 6 long days
of waiting. He missed the times when he saw her each day, the times when they were
freshmen in the Academy and their assignments would bring them to different
places all across Fallwyne. He was a better man with her by his side, always,
and a happier one, but unfortunately, there were other things to consider, more
important things such as her health. Janey was his wife and he loved her
dearly, but he couldn’t risk exposing herself to him more than once a week. He
was poison to her, and she needed all the time she could get to recover from his visits. It
was the only way they could be together at all. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Pador
opened the large wooden door to his office and saw Aeron sitting in one of the
high visitor’s chairs. He got up to greet him as he saw him enter, “Ah, there you are”. His
black cloak swirled as he rose. Pador always thought that there was no one who wore
the Guardian’s cloak as well as Aeron, although there certainly were Guardians
who took their responsibilities more seriously than he did. They had been friends for
over a decade, and now wasn’t the time to question his work ethic. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Do you
have a minute or two?” Pador knew, that, with Aeron, it would never only take a
minute or two, but he nodded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> </span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“What’s
going on?” he closed the door behind him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Aeron sat down again, this time on the corner of Pador’s large writing
desk, in between red document folders and a pile of mail.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Wintershedge
has sent word of their arrival.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“And?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Apparently
the girl has already fallen ill with the bloom.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“What!? Oh
no!” Pador was dismayed at these news. He started pacing up and down the
room.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“How bad is
it?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Aeron
hesitated. “She’s…functional, but very weak. The journey was exhausting for
her.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Is she
bedridden?” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Unfortunately
yes.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Good
gods.. how did this happen so quickly?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Pador
massaged the few stubbles on his chin. “That’s bad…<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I shouldn’t have sent them away together..”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Don’t be
too hard on yourself, we don’t know the details. There is still a possibility
that she’s just sick with some other illness. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Please,”
Pador said, “you know as well as I that there is no one better suited to judge
the onsets of second bloom than their people.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Aeron
didn’t respond. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“We should offer to help them, bring them back to the city
after…. they are done..” He sat down. The regent's chair was heavy and cumbersome.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">"I had no right..." </span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">He felt Aeron’s hand on his
shoulder moments later. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“You did it
for Janey.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
DasNukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06513945470399592454noreply@blogger.com0