Round 3 - Naps and Emergency Rooms and Where's My Bubble.

I haven't been around much since the holidays. To be fair, I haven't been around much in real life, either. But since people are starting to ask, I thought I'd give an update (because honestly, I'm fucking tired and I don't respond to most calls or texts or messages with anything but "ok" right now). This post is not edited for grossness: feel free to stop here with the assurance that after round 4 I should be feeling more like a human AND be less dangerously immuno-compromised.

So I've been sick with some ridiculously stupid virus since December 12th. Normal people get a cold, maybe if they're like me they get a little bronchitis afterward that hangs on an extra week or two, and move on. That is not what happened with me.

The current drug cocktail of chemo is the harsh sort: it attacks fast growing cells in the body. Let's define fast growing cells: hair. Nails. White blood cells (the little army of infection and virus killers that float along with your blood). So...the super fun poisoning I'm voluntarily doing to my body is effectively killing off my immune system each round, and each round is progressively worse. What does that mean?

Normal people have a white blood cell count of about 11,000. My white blood cell count yesterday was 800. For reference, I have to have a count of 5400 or higher to have treatment. To be fair, this wouldn't be something I'd notice other than being really fucking tired if they didn't take my blood every time I go to an appointment at Oncology. They're nice vampires, at least. Ultimately, this means 1) I can't see anyone who has even been EXPOSED to any illness. All you folk with adorable little germ spreaders at home are off limits until I'm done with round 4. 2) A fever or chills sends me immediately to the emergency room, do not pass go, do not (as I discovered a couple of weeks ago when the UC nurse said OH NO, we aren't handling that here, go to the ER right now) head to urgent care. 3) I'm tired. Like, nap after I take a shower because it takes too much energy tired, all the time. 

By the weekend after chemo my body is at it's lowest point immunity-wise. By the weekend before the next treatment (that'd be this coming Saturday/Sunday, for those of you keeping count) it's back up to acceptable levels again, thanks to the Neulasta shot I get right along with chemo. Neulasta makes my bones go into PRODUCE ALL THE WHITE BLOOD CELLS RIGHT NOW overdrive, which makes my legs/hips/chest ache, but hey, bone marrow is a good thing. The weekend after chemo is the worst: I'm sick, exhausted, have no appetite, and generally just trying to get through the day. And my feet are sore, like standing on concrete for 15 hours each day sore, for ABSOLUTELY NO REASON AT ALL. It's utterly ridiculous, and terribly annoying.

On top of all of this, MY cold turned into lying in bed for three days unable to move other than to the bathroom to be sick, followed by a super fun round of bronchitis which also makes me sick, followed most recently by a nasty sinus infection which ALSO makes me sick. Feel free to read sick as vomiting until I'd rather just die, thanks. Unfortunately, it's not chemo-related and anti-nausea meds don't work. A couple of weeks ago I went to the ER because I got so violently ill I scraped up my esophagus and was throwing up blood. FUN. Interestingly, walking into the ER and saying "I'm on chemo and I'm throwing up blood" gets you a room pretty much immediately. I don't recommend. I've lost 30 pounds since December 16th when chemo started. I got a very soft-spoken reprimand from the nutritionist at Oncology today for not having enough calories and I'm told I'm not spoda lose any more weight, please, until treatment is over (1 more round of this, 12 weeks of the next drug...so May). I take more pills in the morning than Grandma right now, and thank all the gods for antibiotics that kill sinus infections.

Honestly, I've been LUCKY with all of this. I don't have many of the most common awful side effects, and if I hadn't had the death-cold that lasted all the way through I likely would've been mostly ok. But there you go: lost my hair (kept my eyebrows so far: WOOT!), spent the last month on the couch or in bed or throwing up and yell/crying FUCK YOU in the bathroom a lot, watched too much TV, hid from everyone (including my niece and nephews) because I'm now a bubble-girl germaphobe who does NOT want to end up in the hospital.

But I'm almost done: next Monday is round 4 of 4 for the AC, and then I have a three week break to get my shit together before I start the 12 weeklies. Rumor has it the Taxil is easier on the body overall than the AC I'm on now. I'm hoping I can go back to work in March when that treatment starts, because the side effects are WAY less harsh and I should be more energetic. Taxil also doesn't kill off my immunity, which means I won't be banned from public places or groups anymore...which means I'll likely be more interested in visitors.

Cancer sucks. Intentionally poisoning my body now that the cancer's gone in hopes it doesn't come back also sucks. I'm supported where I need it, and if I don't answer you directly please don't take it personally. I'm probably napping again.

A Booby Prize

Wednesday was a day of doctors. I suppose I should be getting used to that, but so far I haven't. My surgical follow up was exactly as planned, except for getting a LOOK and a very snarky "and now you're sore, AREN'T YOU" comment from the surgeon for shoveling that morning. Yeah yeah. Lesson learned. Sadly, even though I'm healing fine and all my franken-ness is now stitch-free, the inside isn't fully healed (hence the chastisement for shoveling, because heavy lifting/labor could tear scar tissue and cause issues). Therefore, he said wait until after the new year to go back to kickboxing. This was Wednesday morning, before that last test came back and before I met my Oncologist. We'll get back to that in a minute.

Related: a friend of mine apparently objects to "Frankenboob" not because it's rude, nor because it's inaccurate (after all, Frankenstein was the doctor, not the monster), but because it does't "roll off the tongue in a poetic way". I have the best mental image of him testing, out loud, each different technical and slang term for every part of a breast to find the right combo(he assures me that's exactly what happened while stuck in traffic the other day). "Frankenboob" will now be "Frankenknocker". FK for short, which works for me on multiple levels. 

It DOES sounds more lyrical. I have no argument.

Wednesday afternoon I met my team at MN Oncology. It's ridiculous that FK has a team.

My Oncologist is also very kind and direct, a quality I appreciate since she had less than stellar news. The two tumors I had removed were sent to a lab in California for something called an Oncotype test. Essentially it's a genetic test done on the tumor itself, which is then plugged into a statistical database that's been built over however many decades of cancer research of my particular type to spit out a percentage of likelihood my cancer would come back anywhere in the body. The tumor originally found on my mammogram isn't a big deal: it's grade 1 (slow growing, not aggressive). That littler one though, that's the mean one. Grade 3 is more aggressive: my risk factor is too high.

So. I will have a port put into my chest sometime next week and get an electrocardiogram on my heart sometime in the next two weeks (did you know one of the awesome side effects for chemo can be heart damage? I didn't either.) and on the 16th I'll start five months of chemo (assuming, of course, that everything goes according to plan, which honestly hasn't happened since I went in for a routine mammogram). Radiation will start after chemo. There isn't currently any detectable cancer in my body, just to be clear: the intent of this round of treatment is to kill anything that's too small to detect so it doesn't come back anywhere else (that's what metastatic means - breast cancer with a wandering streak).

There's a door prize for getting told you're starting chemo in a couple of weeks. A nurse's assistant came in to give me a large 3 ring binder full of information, a nice clear list of which drugs are administered when, the side effects, and when I should call the office if side effects are bad. Along with the binder she awkwardly handed me a thermometer, like she KNEW it's ridiculous. But since three different kinds of fun poison will be dribbled in the port (each session will be a couple hours) and the drugs will kill off good cells and bad ones, my immune system will be sad and slow. Monitoring for fever will be a thing, and apparently adults don't usually have a thermometer at home, so they give everyone one when treatment starts.

Aren't I just a barrel of fun these days? Yeah, I think so too.

Kickboxing is off until next fall at the earliest (I've sadly already texted the head instructor in Burnsville to ask if we can put my membership on hold or if I should just start over, because it's too expensive to just let it sit and bill every month for that long). Honestly I'm pretty pissed about that.

I won't be able to shovel my own driveway this winter after all (looking into snow removal services now). I'm pissed about that too, for the expense and the inconvenience. However, I may not be so pissed about it when I don't have to bundle up and slide down my driveway. We'll see.

The rest I don't know about yet. Not everyone has the same side effects, but I plan for the worst and hope for better. Christmas/Yule stuff will depend entirely on how I react to treatment, which is every other week starting the 16th for two months, then weekly for three more months.

The big question here is will I rock the Telly Savalas look, or will I wig out...I don't know that yet either.

I suppose I could cancel the appointment I have for a haircut in December, though.

Tiny Indignities: Brought to You by Frankenboob

First, thank you. To everyone who has been so damn supportive and kind (and patient!) please know I appreciate it all.

Second, I'm ok. My awesome surgeon (who was VERY excited and happy in the pre-op room...something that I considered weird until I realized I WANT a surgeon who's passionate about his job) got it all. Both Francis and his sidekick have clear margins, which means the cancer hasn't spread outside the bits he cut out. My lymph node was also clear, which is a huge deal. Early detection, people. I'm a lucky girl.

Things are healing, I'm down to very occasional ice packs and ibuprofen, and I still can't do a hell of a lot (which makes me look at my kickboxing/MMA uniform bag AND, oddly enough, the remaining leaves in the back yard, with great sadness). I still don't know for certain about chemo. I don't see anyone for radiation until next Tuesday, so I don't exactly know when that'll start, but I suspect not until all my stitches are dissolved.

Tomorrow is my 2 week surgical follow up, although technically yesterday was the actual 2 week mark. Tomorrow is also my Oncology consult, because one of the door prizes for cancer is getting your very own specialty doc for pretty much forever.

I'm going through the intake paperwork for the Oncologist and am struck by the frank end-of-life preference questions.  Is it important to me to be able to feed myself. Is it important to me that my doctor tell me when I'll die. Is it important for me to not be a burden on my family/loved ones. Yeah. Morbid, I know, but here's the deal: Cancer is a disease that just progressively strips a person's dignity away, little bites at a time. I have a few (since the MRI boob-box debacle):

1. For a few hours on surgery day I was a radioactive superhero. Or at least Frankenboob was. Maybe not a superhero...could be the Hulk.Anyway.  I'm not as well read on gamma rays vs radioactive isotopes or whatever the hell was in those two little alien tracking devices the inserted into my breast that morning. All I know is after each one the nurse had to run a Geiger counter or something over me,which screamed (not me, the instrument) in the appropriate places. So I'm lying on a hospital bed in a darkened room with one boob just hanging out in the air for the doctor, nurse, and ultrasound tech (after he's stuck a needle in there twice...yep, I watched on the ultrasound machine) and the nurse had to wave a screaming wand over it. I mean, what better way to start my day?
2. After pre-op excitement (including yet another nurse who can't find my veins, resulting in multiple sticks and a delay in letting my peeps into the pre-op room to hang until I went to the OR), a 10 year old anesthesiologist stopped by. Doogie Howser is alive and administering Propofol and Fentanyl, you guys, and clearly I'm old. But hey, I got to walk in my breezy backless surgery gown and hot purple socks to the OR! 
3. Sorry kids, I didn't do or say anything weird in recovery that I know of. And the nurse isn't telling. She did say I have pretty eyes. I think. I was busy being proud I didn't have any pee-my-pants accidents in surgery (yes I'm certain: I had underwear on through surgery and they were still there when I got out). 
4. It took me three days (probably until the Propofol was mostly worn off) to realize SOMEONE had to hold me up in and wrap the mile long ace bandage around my boobs. I'm sure that was SUPER fun. I wonder if they dropped me...my feet hung off the table in the operating room, and that table isn't very wide.
5. I can't wear deodorant until the stitches in my armpit have fully dissolved and the steri strips fall off and the doctor says it's ok. 
1. Related: I have discovered that I am not a hippie. I would like my razor and deodorant back immediately, please. (Good Goddess, please for the sake of all our noses...give me back my deodorant.)
6. Hydrocodone prescriptions (that's Vicodin, if you aren't up on your opioid addiction literature) come with a stool softener. I'm suddenly 8,000 years old. 
7. Hydrocodone prescriptions apparently also come with a warning letter from the pharmacy. It arrived, detailing the "dangers of opioids" TWO WEEKS after I was done with the prescription. Helpful. 
8. Side effects of future treatments will be...well, they should be less awful than chemo, but less fun than getting a cavity drilled. 

We'll see after tomorrow...because maybe the biggest indignity is not knowing. Everything happens in increments, so there's an overall grieving process of what life was going to be like BC (before cancer) vs what it will be like AC (after cancer), PLUS a series of small stabs of worry every time a new test is run "just to confirm". My recent history with "just to confirm nothing's wrong" tests hasn't been great. 

I've filled out the Oncology form. I'm ready for tomorrow's appointments...dear MN: please go for the 1" snowfall tonight, not the 78" option, ok? I don't want to leave at 6am for my 9:30am appointment...and I need my surgeon to say I can deodorize again. 

Also, since I included boobs AND drugs in this post, HI NSA! 

Bye Francis (This post is not safe for work or pretty much any other respectable sensibility.)

I've started and deleted this post approximately 700 bazillion times in the past few weeks, as doctors have poked and prodded (oops, sorry about that second stick, the one that went into the muscle!) and set new appointments and "just check to be sure everything is ok" tests have been scheduled and endured. Even now, I've cut 90% of this post, because it's not useful or too angry or too sad, and because it will inevitably be taken to heart by the wrong people, and because I'm tired of the casual solutioners trying to solution shit that doesn't actually help at all. It's amazing how careful I've learned to be in a few weeks about saying the right thing to avoid being inconvenient or making anyone else uncomfortable. 

Example: the Deadpool clip in this post is extremely violent. There. You are warned. 

I'm so goddamned tired of feeling.

I'm angry as fuck that the rest of my life will have a specter of "what if it's back" every time I go to what used to be a normal checkup. I'm angry I will pretty certainly have to go on a hormone blocker for the next 5-10 years.  A demon of a pill with pretty awful side effects that may or may not get me, but will almost assuredly cause early menopause and removes yet more choices I still had about my body and my life. I'm angry and sad that until I know my staging and statistical likelihood of recurrence AFTER I know my treatment plan, I have to recognize that I may not see my niece and nephews graduate. 

I'm anxious and terrified about tomorrow, even though I know every step of what's going to happen. What if they don't get it all? What if the results are worst possible and I have to have chemo or my staging is more immediately bad? What if I pee my pants during surgery? What if I react adversely to the anesthesia? What if I'm one of those creepy people who wake up in the middle of the procedure, paralyzed and feeling EVERYTHING? What if I don't recover fast enough? What if I die on the table? 

Why not put it out of my head and focus on the positive? I suppose in the scheme of things I'm incredibly lucky. I have the same cancer 80% of breast-cancer-havers have. Francis was discovered ridiculously early and his evil, more aggressive sidekick was discovered because I decided the indignities of an MRI aren't as bad as not knowing. My ultrasound tech is an amazing woman who made certain she found the sidekick so we could biopsy it and get that little bastard included in the lumpectomy tomorrow, even though it's 0.6cm. I don't have stage IV double mastectomy 6 months to live cancer: that part my medical team seems quite sure of, and that's unbelievably lucky. 

Yeah. That didn't do shit. Maybe tomorrow night it'll help, or maybe the anesthesia will leave me loopy and tired enough that I don't care. Tonight, when I'm getting ready to take the first of two special-surgery-soap showers and my dog is somewhere else and I'm supposed to sleep (yeah right), positive is worthless. 

I actually want to learn the trick to putting worst case scenarios out of my mind without the benefit of meditation (which I can and DO regularly do). Because that's not how my mind works. 

In order to even set foot in the building, and give up all that control and just let some stranger knock me out and cut me open, I HAVE to decide when I'm capable of deciding and communicating where my boys will go if things went bad. I HAVE to have a letter written and in my desk giving instructions to the few people with keys to my house. Just in case. Is that morbid? Maybe, but my outlook on life has been "prepare for the worst and see what happens" for as long as I can remember.

It makes me feel slightly better to know I won't leave them to shelters or have any arguing over what happens in my house, because I have so little control over what's going on. I hate it with every breath in this body that betrayed me. 

It's only been, what, 6 weeks? I'm already so fucking tired. 

Angry will get me through, if I can be angry enough to blow terrified and sad aside for a while. 

Carrie Fisher said: stay afraid, but do it anyway. 

So fuck you, Francis. I don't want to be a hero: I just want you both gone. 

Review: Wild Country

Wild Country by Anne Bishop
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Anne Bishop is a master when it comes to creating a universe a reader can disappear into for days. I'm a long time fan, so I know how to ride this rodeo: even though I got my copy of Wild Country the day it released (Tuesday 3/5/19) I set it aside until the weekend. I can report that the resulting anticipation did not make my week move any faster.

Cynics could say it's a dangerous game, building the sheer want to read a book you've been waiting for since the last installment (a year before) by looking at it every day on the table and not touching. I had zero worries about over-anticipation for this one, judging by the previous Others books, and rightly so. I started Wild Country on Saturday at noon and finished it before bed, because I couldn't put it down. Yet again, Anne Bishop got me completely lost in Thaisia and the often uncomfortable, sometimes funny, sometimes downright terrifying interactions between humans and Others.

Wild Country occurs during the same time frame as Etched in Bone, the last Courtyard book. As there is a detailed backstory prior to this book, I highly recommend reading the whole series. There are communications between the communities that will make sense to readers of the series, but Wild Country is its own story with its own array of personalities and could be read as a stand-alone, although to be fair the reader would miss out on many references.

The varied plot threads come together seamlessly over the course of the book as characters grow, sometimes toward their new fragile community, sometimes away, and the rest of the world (and other books' timelines) changes around them. I adore the sub-plot around the frontier saloon and its proprietor, because Tess is my favorite character in the Courtyard and I'm happy Bennett has their own lonely predator interested in learning how to interact safely with town residents of all species.

The threat of violence and savagery is skillfully written: Bishop is an adept line-skater who strays close to horror on occasion but never crosses out of dark fantasy. She's also not afraid to take out a character when a dose of real life (in her universe) kicks in, so Wild Country engages the reader on every emotional level at some point or another.

The worst part about this book is waiting until next March for another story in this universe, because every time I jump into this series it's hard to come back out. If you like dangerous, dark fantasy set in a world five steps to the left of reality (absolutely recognizable yet totally different than the modern world) you need to get into these books. Wild Country is everything I wanted in a story of the Others: I recommend setting aside a chunk of time and snacks, because you're going to be in there a while.

View all my reviews

Book Review: Circe by Madeline Miller

I have some educational background in mythology, so I'll usually give anything Illiad or Odyssey themed a chance. I'm a fan of Greek myths because they're so varied: Greek deities of all levels are a tapestry of virtues and flaws that more accurately reflect the capriciousness of an immortal being's attention to humans. I also (right or wrong) tend toward being a terrible book snob, and I know it. My reading list is long, and I'm picky, so I don't waste time anymore on books that don't meet high expectations right away. If I'm not hooked by the end of the second chapter, I will have zero remorse about setting a book aside and moving on. Circe hooked me on page one.

If you don't recall the backstory, Circe is the sorceress on an island in the Aegean who turns Odysseus' men to pigs and has a year-long affair with the Greek hero before sending him back to Ithaca. Retellings the Odysseus myth vary in the treatment of Circe: sometimes she's a benevolent  being who treats his men unfairly and is convinced to be nice by falling in love with the hero. Sometimes she's a wicked and powerful witch, terrifying in her malicious treatment of men after gaining a reputation of turning them into pigs, until Odysseus "tames" her. 

Miller's retelling is the biography of a minor goddess, daughter of Helios (the Titan who is literally the sun in the sky) and one of Oceanus's (Titan of...you guessed it, the Ocean) daughters, a nymph. In this version, Circe is the unremarkable and emotionally abused sibling of her sister and two brothers, all of whom go on to do relatively famous deeds. Circe is portrayed as being too naive and too trusting of her family, and is abused for having zero power. Even her voice is considered horrid; she's often told to be quiet because of the tonal quality. Her voice sounds more human than immortal, and it's grating to immortal ears. In every way, Circe's "childhood", or perhaps more accurately her first few hundred years, is an exercise in making her as invisible as possible.

It is in her loneliness that she turns to the friendship of a mortal sailor. She falls in love and wants to find a way to stay together, and turns to forbidden secret herbs rumored to be magic. The resulting mess reveals her for what she is: a witch. A woman without specific magical powers who can gain non-divine power through knowledge, learning, and herbs provided by Gaia herself. Being neither Titan nor Olympian in her power, Circe is considered an unknown, and therefore a threat, by Zeus. When she publicly admits her witchcraft and abilities, she becomes the witch scapegoat: banished forever to her island while her siblings, who posses the same powers, become famous in their own ways.

Madeline Miller does an excellent job of creating a general attitude of casual dismissal of humanity by the the Olympians, Titans, and other immortals. They are as capricious, selfish, and callous as one might think a being who becomes bored over millennia could be. Circe, then, is set up from the beginning as an outsider simply by carrying something the rest of her family don't have at all: an air of humanity. I love this character. I love that over the course of the book she experiences every human emotion a woman can feel and learns to exert her independence and power for herself as she grows. Circe is not a fully formed "perfect" being like the rest of the immortals: she learns, suffers, and grows over time. She is not content to just be the mousy outcast her family of origin paint her to be. 

Circe's circumstances aren't those of the mythic hero, out of touch with the reader's experience: she yearns for companionship, love, family, and friendship. Yet because she's immortal, she also touches other myths both surrounding the fall of Troy, Daedalus and Icarus, Scylla and Charybdis, the Golden Fleece, the Minotaur, and many others. Even in her isolation, Circe's world has a vastness beyond her little island and helps the reader with some sense of time. News of the world is cleverly brought to Circe via an ongoing casual affair with Hermes, the Messenger God who stops in occasionally for a gossip-and-sex visit.

Miller's writing is utterly enjoyable. She's lyrical in a way that ties Circe to the feel of other Greek myths. In relating the death of Daedalus, Circe says:  "I had no right to claim him, I knew it. But in a solitary life, there are rare moments when another soul dips near yours, as stars once a year brush the earth. Such a constellation was he to me." (Circe, Hachette Books, 2018) Every time I read that line, I get goosebumps. That's a rare thing for me, and I love Madeline Miller for it.

The Odysseus tale occurs about midway through the book, which is fitting considering her year with him is only a blip in an eternity for Circe. That year has lasting consequences, however, and some interesting twists as time passes. Miller's portrayal of the sailors, Odysseus, and their relationship is so much more human than the myth. It's wonderful, and it sets the stage for the final third of the story with multiple threads that tie together later.

You'd think covering so long a life would become tedious, but Circe's journey from the outcast nymph to powerful sorceress to...well, without spoilers I can say the satisfying resolution of her tale... is absolutely captivating. I was engrossed. I'll re-read this often.

Thor, Chewy, Beelzebub

There are no puppies in my house anymore. Thor is now 11, which is in his early 80's in German Shepherd years. Chewy is nearly 10, which is mid-80's in Great Pyrenees years.


You'd think in their dotage they'd be less prone to random acts of asshattery, right?


Oh no, definitely not. And so, things I've yelled at the dogs this week:

• What the actual fuck, get your head out of the toilet. You look hungover. Chewy. SLEEPING in the bathroom with his head propped on the open toilet. He drooled on the seat. Not amused.
• DO NOT EAT CHARCOAL!
• Get back here! You're too old to chase bunnies, dumbass.
• Ok, who crapped a fucking brontosaurus? Yes, I mean a REAL toy brontosaurus, which I found next to a fresh pile in my yard while cleaning up after the boys. I'm 80% certain one of the neighborhood kids left it there. I'm not positive though.
• STOP HUMPING YOUR BROTHER! So, Chewy's back legs don't work so well anymore. Have you ever seen a 150 pound dog try to hump when his legs give out and he's essentially a really large, furry seal?
• I don't WANT to throw the ball again - sigh - ok. It's really hard to say no to an old dog who just wants to trot after a toy down the hallway.
• Please stop trying to eat the children. No, they weren't REALLY eating babies. I have newish neighbors with 5 and 7 year old girls who've decided they LOVE my dogs. I sort of adore that - Chewy is totally willing to lie in the grass and be a Barbiemobile. But, the drool gets excessive.
• STOP EATING POOP. WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU, JACKASS? At some point I bumped my watch and activated Siri, who only captured "ass" out of that entire yelled sentence. She responded "Did you accidentally summon me?"

And that's the story of how I inadvertently summoned a demon this week. 

The Return and Demise of Samael

Two years ago, the Starbucks nearest to my house hosted a demon on their drive-through shelf.

As most bad pennies do, he turned up again on Wednesday last week after a snowstorm. I mean, sheesh...evil soul-swallowing snow monsters and their regeneration, right? How exhausting.

The Desolate One, Thwarted

Sadly, Samael (The Desolate One) was no match for the mighty powers of uneven melting and physics. Thus he's likely joined his first incarnation's demise. Until next year...

The poor Barista (is a male barista a baristo?) tried three times to stand the little dude back up on his melty not-feet, but alas Samael was just too tired. 

Nope, there really is no point to this post. 

Huffington Post: Reminding Me There's ALWAYS Something Worse

In today's science section:

Octopus Valentine's Day Sex Session Scrapped Over Cannibalism Fears

So this was my first Valentine's Day as a not-married person in a loooong time. And I'll admit, while I consider Vday to be mostly an indicator that chocolate is about to go on sale I did have a moment or five of sad. I mean, our first date was over Vday all those years ago, and who doesn't enjoy a little extra attention here and there, right? I have some baggage about romance anyway, so I indulged in a couple minutes of nostalgia and sad. 

Yeah. I didn't have to worry about cannibalism...pretty sure it's all good in my world. 

"Duran Duran DOES NOT Sing The Song Of My People" (This post is Not Safe For Anyone*)

I seriously considered leaving this entire post blank**, because in this case the title really does say it all. Honestly, I laughed so hard at that one (which was dropped during what I thought was a totally normal conversation) I wheezed and cried a little.

Also? Since I generally anonymize my friends/family on this blog unless they say otherwise, you, sir, MIGHT need to be Duran Duran (DD?) here until I come up with something worse. If there is anything worse.

Then I remembered other ridiculous things said/heard lately, and realized it's been a while since I put into the interwebverse the oddities I get myself into.***

1) A friend (not DD...I'll need a code for him) sent me a picture of a statue of Jesus with the following caption: "Medusa 1, Jesus 0" I approve.

2) An ongoing discussion with DD about whether Aliens might've turned out differently had Newt been a teenage boy with a BDSM fetish. The logistics alone of breaking an alien to a collar is astounding, really, particularly since the only defense (as per the AVP movies) against corrosive alien blood is alien skin.

Yeah. THINK ABOUT THAT for a while. Facehugger condoms. A scarred up young man meeting the Marines and Ripley with a couple aliens on leashes.

Recently in one of my news feeds about writing I found a couple of magazines looking for horror/monster porn...seems apropos. (No, I'm not writing it. The discussion is enough).

And finally, 3)  While in a discussion with fellow degenerates (no codes yet: I'm working on it) about dietary choices that quickly devolved into something far worse, the question came up whether vegans are allowed to swallow during oral sex, or if that's a violation of the code.

Stop chortling, asshole, it's a real question!

I am extremely lucky to have a lovely lady in Oly (guess what YOUR new code name is?) who did NOT call me an asshole for asking and to my eternal gratitude and delight answered, "No, it's totally ok since people are consenting adults. But I bet some use that as an excuse not to."

I relayed the message, and immediately we three degenerates wondered about the sort of people who WOULD use veganism as an excuse to cop out of oral sex. And we came up with an alternative for those people to use instead: SPOY.

Vegan Soy Untextured Gluten Free Ejaculate Substitute

Comes in a tube...

*I am not sorry for anything in this post. Except maybe facehugger condoms.

**Yes, the labels I assigned are totally on purpose. Maybe I should be a little sorry for the people who search anything like alien porn and get this post.

Nope.

***No, I don't know what's wrong with me or my friends, but no one can say I don't have interesting conversations with people, and that's something.

PS: Google's spellcheck doesn't recognize the word "veganism" as real. For once, I can't help but agree. Also dear Google, I suppose THIS post lives up to your assumption that I am way too rude for you.

Book Review: Harmony Black by Craig Schaefer

Amazon Prime recommended this one to me (how Amazon manages to recommend anything to me given the weird and random things I buy is really beyond my algorithmic abilities), and for once the interwebs read me correctly.

Harmony Black by Craig Schaefer was completely worth the time. I loved this book enough to read it in a night, losing sleep to find out what happened. 

If you know anything about me at all, that's just about the highest praise I can give a story: I am excessively protective of my sleep. The premise alone was enough to hook my interest: FBI agent recruited somewhat against her will into a secret black project government branch that investigates and eliminates paranormal threats, because she's a Witch.

I like paranormal fiction. I like well written, fast paced, fleshed-out paranormal fiction that has a surprise or two...and oh, the characterization of Harmony's personal demons, along with the rest of her team's quirks, kept me entertained for the whole story. Since this is the beginning of a new spinoff series by Schaefer, the story surrounds the initial case bringing Harmony's new Scooby team together. The timeline skips from her recruitment, in which she specifies she works alone, thanks, to her long-needed vacation after bagging some major case monster in Vegas. But we've all watched enough cop shows to know vacation is NEVER uninterrupted, and she's ordered to break her "lone-wolf" rule by joining some elite super-secret monster hunting squad: to catch and kill the Boogeyman. 

I appreciate that this book is truly a monster-hunting story. The ethical conflicts between expediency of removing a (literally) monstrous threat to the public versus following procedure seems boring when written in a sentence, but as a conflict for the main characters it's what brings a measure of reality into a universe where demonic bounty hunters from Hell are competing with the FBI to catch a creature stealing babies. 

Yup, I just wrote that sentence. 

And, because I not only wrote that sentence but thoroughly enjoyed the book that drove me to write it, I'll be reading the sequel(s) as they come out. 

Mythic Monday: Scylla and Charybdis Part 2

"You will find the other rock lies lower, but they are so close together that there is not more than a bow-shot between them. A large fig tree in full leaf grows upon it, and under it lies the sucking whirlpool of Charybdis. Three times in the day does she vomit forth her waters, and three times she sucks them down again. See that you be not there when she is sucking, for if you are, Poseidon himself could not save you; you must hug the Scylla side and drive your ship by as fast as you can, for you ad better lose six men than your whole crew." Circe to Odysseus, The Odyssey, Book 12.

Scylla, the "savage, extreme, rude, cruel and invincible" monster who eats crews six at a time is still the better option than her sister monster, Charybdis.

Scylla and Charybdis are the worst of the feminine dangers Odysseus faces on his trip home: they are the final trial after leaving Circe's palace and passing the Sirens' isle. If Circe's island and the Sirens represent temptations of the flesh leading to death if not resisted and controlled (gluttony, drunkenness, and sex), Scylla and Charybdis are the inescapable power of Nature, often represented in Greek myth as an impersonal feminine rage. Neither Scylla nor Charybdis were out to personally murder Odysseus: both simply are what they are. It's up to Odysseus to take care around them, for neither care in the least about him and will continue to act accordingly to their natures regardless of his presence. It's a good lesson for Odysseus in humility: there is NO way to conquer either creature. He can only hope to survive. And survive he does: against all odds, he does it twice (although the second time Odysseus's raft is swallowed by the whirlpool and he finds himself clinging to the fig tree above her, watching as his little vessel is destroyed and belched up in bits).

The Odyssey doesn't specify any physical attributes of Charybdis other than her tidal powers of dragging ships to the bottom of the sea thrice daily. I suppose for a sailing culture her destructive powers are terrifying enough without necessarily discussing the actual creature causing the whirlpool, since by design no mortal would've ever actually seen her.

It's possible Charybdis was once considered a goddess of the tides. Aristotle refers to her as such in his work Meteorologica, and a her name is linguistically similar to "Keto Trienos" (Sea Monster, Three Times). Later, in Virgil's The Aeneid. she's described as the daughter of Gaea and Poseidon. That'd be the Great Mother Goddess (Earth) and the God of the Sea. Ah, incest in Greek Myth (Gaea was technically Poseidon's grandmother, after all).

As most monsters prove to be, Charybdis is one of the faces of the destructive power of the Goddess. She is described unrelenting, voracious, and unapologetic in her hunger. She stole oxen from Heracles and was banished to the bottom of the sea by Zeus's thunderbolt as punishment. In some versions of this later myth, Charybdis is a lovely girl and loyal servant of her parents who, in her punishment by Zeus, is turned into a giant "bladder of a monster" with flippers and a voracious thirst which could only be relieved by swallowing the sea three times daily.

It's worth noting that Charybdis appears in all three major hero quests in Greco-Roman literature: The Odyssey, The Aeneid, and Jason and the Argonauts. ONLY Jason and the Argonauts are able to pass the straits safely, because they carried Thetis with them as a guide. Yes: that's the same sea nymph Thetis who birthed Achilles and was the daughter of a sea god, but her tale is another post.

Charybdis still haunts the Straits of Messina as the natural whirlpool on the northern end of the strait. I'm sure the sailors today haven't seen the creature herself who resides at the bottom of the sea there, but some of the art out there depicting Charybdis is fantastic and worth looking up. The watery sarlacc pit with teeth is my personal favorite. Since the tides still whirl in that spot three times a day, I imagine she's still there, waiting for ships to sail too close to the edge.

http://kaiju.wikidot.com/wiki:charybdis
Charybdis depicted in Percy Jackson: Sea of Monsters

Mythic Monday: Scylla & Charybdis Part 1

At some point in life, most people are forced to choose between two options knowing that regardless which is chosen, they'll lose. In current linguistic idiom, there are a few phrases that properly convey an impossible choice: the lesser of two evils, a rock and a hard place, the devil and the deep blue sea (ok, maybe that's not a currently used phrase, but it's out there nonetheless), etc.

In ancient Greece, a person was stuck between Scylla and Charybdis: two sea monsters known for eating sailors and destroying ships. Two monsters Odysseus had to outwit in The Odyssey in order to make it home. 

Location-wise, for reference, the theory is that Scylla and Charybdis menaced the slim passage between Sicily and Italy, now called The Strait of Messina. For you cartogrophiles out there, that'd be the point on the map where it looks like the toe of Italy's boot is kicking Sicily into the sea.

The Strait of Messina
Photo copyright Mapquest via Navteq

Also for reference, I've heard "Scylla" pronounced "silla" by many, but in general "c" is a "k" sound in Greek, so most mythological texts indicate it's pronounced "SKIL-uh" or "SKUL-uh" but if you speak Greek and want to correct me I'd welcome it. "Charybdis" would then be pronounced "khah-rib-dis" because "ch" is pronounced as a "k" sound. 

So, as these two harridans of the sea have enough to discuss between them to qualify for a chapter instead of a post, I'm splitting them up. We'll begin with Scylla this week. 

As many females in Greek mythology, Scylla becomes her dangerous self through no fault of her own. In all the versions I have found, Scylla is loved by the wrong god and a jealous rival poisons her. It's the details of her parentage, lover, and destroyer that differ. 

Scylla is the daughter of supernatural creatures: in one common version she's a naiad (a water nymph, sometimes the daughter of a river god) who unfortunately catches the eye of Poseidon, God of the Sea (and brother to Zeus, which makes this relationship the equivalent of the CEO falling in love with a mail intern in terms of power). Scylla didn't really have a chance at all in this version. One of Poseidon's other lovers dumped a poison potion into Scylla's favorite bathing pool, cursing her to a horrendously monstrous form for all eternity. However, it's worth noting that the written version of the Poseidon-lover myth dates later than Homer's version in The Odyssey (8thC BCE). 

In another common version, Scylla is cursed by none other than Circe (the powerful sorceress partner/mentor to Odysseus in The Odyssey) for being loved by Glaucus, Circe's love interest at the time. Again, worth noting that the love triangle aspect involving Circe is not mentioned in Homer's text. this doesn't mean the myths regarding Scylla didn't include both parentage and love interest: more likely it means Homer took Scylla's tragic background to be common knowledge and didn't feel compelled to include her history in his tale. After all, Scylla was merely one of the two feminine horrors Odysseus had to conquer to make it home. 

And of course, we have Ovid's version. Recall how Ovid is rather unkind in his opinion of females in general (see Medusa's tale). In Ovid's retelling, Glaucus is rejected by Scylla and goes to Circe for a love potion to force Scylla to come to him. Circe, however, is a jealous woman already in love with Glaucus and removes her rival with poison instead of a love potion.  

Ultimately, regardless of the origin of her fated bath's contamination, all the tales agree that the poison inflicted upon Scylla changes her into a horrible creature with six heads, each with three rows of teeth (great white teeth, perhaps? One of the associations of Skylla is "skylax", or "dog-shark"), tentacles, a fish tail, and a belt of DOGS. Yeah. Live snapping angry dogs.In some descriptions of her physical transformation, she's human female from the waist up, dogs at the waist, and fish or tentacles for a tail. 

No, I can't determine the logistic feasibility of wearing a belt of vicious dogs, but fishermen do tell the best sea-monster tales.

Scylla becomes a horrid cannibal "terrified even of herself", living in a sea cave across from Charybdis and attacking ships as they pass, plucking men from the deck and eating them alive.  

What I find terribly interesting AND telling in both versions of the myth is that Scylla herself is NOT said to love either Poseidon or Glaucus: she's merely a cardboard cutout who becomes a voracious eater of men through no fault of her own. Interestingly, it's worth nothing that the Circe's sorcery isn't considered "evil" until until Ovid's tale is taken up by 19th century authors. In fact, Ovid's tone is rather condemning of Scylla for being too shallow to accept Glaucus as he was, and wrote as if she deserved her punishment because of course, who cares if she loved him: he loved her and therefore she has no right to refuse. Honestly, I have suspicions regarding Ovid's luck with romantic encounters in his personal life. 

THIS IS A SPOILER, PEOPLE:

  

Odysseus doesn't kill Scylla. In fact, Scylla appears later in the Aeneid and in tales of the Argonauts as one of a sailor's most terrifying perils on the seas. It seems fairly clear Odysseus counted himself lucky to ESCAPE Scylla, and destroying her was never in the plan at all. That honor is attributed most often to Heracles (Hercules, for you Roman mythology folk). 

"As when a fisherman on a promontory takes a long rod to snare little fishes with his bait and casts his ox-hair line down in to the sea below, then seizes the creatures one by one and throws them ashore still writhing; so Skylla swung my writhing companions up to the rocks, and there at the entrance began devouring them as they shrieked and held out heir hands to me in their extreme of agony. Many pitiful things have met my eyes in my toilings and searchings through the sea-paths, but this was most pitiful of all."

Homer, The Odyssey,  Book 12

And so, Scylla goes down in history as the second most terrifying of two evils. Even Pliny the Elder mentions her as a known peril of the sea in his Natural Histories (Book 3), written in the 1st century CE. (I suppose it'd be dated prior to 79CE, since Vesuvius sort of ate the Elder Pliny. Pliny the Elder mostly likely died of asphyxiation from poisonous gasses while attempting to escape Vesuvius' eruption, the same eruption that buried Pompeii and Herculaneum). 

Ultimately, Scylla is the LESSER of the two evils associated with the Strait of Messina. Circe, the same sorceress who may have turned Scylla into a monster, advised Odysseus to sail closer to HER and avoid her counterpart at all costs, even at the cost of the crew members Scylla devoured. 

Circe knew that while Scylla would decimate Odysseus's crew, Charybdis could swallow his ship in one gulp and belch nothing but seawater. No sailor took on Charybdis...not even Odysseus.  

But she's waiting for next week. 

If Those Who Forget History are Doomed to Repeat It, What Happens to Those Who Destroy It?

This is not a funny post.  I'm so goddamned angry* and sad, and so helpless to do anything it becomes a terrible, self-sustaining circle if I'm not careful. I recognize there is truly nothing I can do about this, and so I'm venting here because...well, because it's a place I can vent I suppose.

CNN is reporting today that ISIS has entered the Syrian city Tadmur; the modern overlay of the ancient city Palmyra. I got teary eyed reading it. Palmyra is one of my favorite historical sites. Yeah yeah, I know, most people have no idea what that means.On the heels of bulldozing Nimrud into dust (which also made me tear up), ISIS is continuing their apparent goal of wiping all historically significant evidence of life before their own disgustingly evil culture off of the world. 

I had goals, once upon a time, to visit those places "someday when I'm less likely to die there." I wanted to see the great Assyrian ruins, to be surrounded by some of the oldest walls made by humans. As of this post, Archaeology magazine has confirmed that Palmyra has fallen. I imagine it won't be long before bulldozers come out. I  know, it's a standard of war to destroy monuments. The Parthanon was used as target practice in WWII, after all. It just makes me terribly sad to watch the fall of some of my favorite historical sites from a world away.

I did a paper or two in college on Palmyra. I desperately wanted to visit the seat of the Palmyrene empire, the empire Queen Zenobia ruthlessly expanded into Roman territory in the late 200's, conquering modern day Syria, Turkey, Palestine, Libya, and eventually ruling Egypt. In 271 she was defeated and taken captive by Roman Emperor Aurelian. She was a cool lady. A badass. 

I think I've been fairly clear on this blog that I often root for the underdog, and I'm feminist in general...I'm a huge fan of Boudicca and the Iceni revolt against Nero in 69AD. She's one of my favorite tragic historical figures. I'm a fan of Cleopatra, although for different reasons (I recognize her talent for working within the Roman political system, using all assets available to her to gain and maintain her power for as long as she had it). I think Queen Zenobia is greater than both Boudicca and Cleopatra in her resistance against (and conquest of) Rome barring one detail: she allowed herself to be captured and was paraded through the streets of Rome in chains (albeit golden chains, if legend is to be believed) in front of the populace.

The Queen of an empire encroaching upon Rome was publicly defeated and cowed. Some legends say she was so beautiful and proud the Emperor secretly moved her to a private villa away from the city where she eventually married a Senator and lived out her days as a wealthy Roman matron with successful descendants. It's possible. It's equally as possible that she rotted in a cell and was quietly forgotten so she couldn't become a martyr to her people, the way Boudicca, Cleopatra, and Vercingetorix (people, you should be concerned that I can spell that correctly from memory) had become after their deaths. 

Obscurity, after all, is the ultimate punishment, and in Zenobia's case it worked to a large extent: if you ask someone on the street who Cleopatra was they'll likely have heard the name, at least. 

I wanted to see Palmyra someday. I still want to walk the canyon in Petra. I want to visit Jerusalem, and Babylon, see the pyramids, visit the Colosseum and Forum in Rome... all the ancient seats of civilization. I want to LEARN from our past as human beings.

I suppose I want a Zenobia or Vercingetorix to successfully rise against this force intent upon destroying everything in their path as "unholy" including women, knowledge, education, and history.
Because once they're finished enslaving Syria people and blowing up history, ISIS will move on into Israel, or Egypt. 

What happens when they try to bulldoze one of the Pyramids at Giza? 

*I'm focused on historical destruction here, because ISIS's systematic destruction and repression of women is something about which I cannot coherently blog, yet.

I Killed Shelob. Sort of.

I get pretty bored with the regular target-targets at the range. Apparently I'm not the only person who feels that way (and watches too many SyFy monster movies), because at Gander Mountain I found THESE: 

Yes, I DID make it extra-large so you can see ALL THE HORROR. Is that her BRAIN bubbling out of  the back??

I'm seriously disturbed by the disclaimer at the bottom, you guys. 

"Real Beings"?? Does this mean Shelob is REAL? The Chupacabra? Zombie Rats? 

WHAT THE FUCK could this resemble either living or dead? Why would this disclaimer apply to the Zombie Buck (who looked a bit like the deer head in Evil Dead cabin...without the "I'll swallow your soul!" threats), or the Chupacabra, or the dragon?

Where the hell are these designers getting their drugs? Or do they have a super secret portal into Middle Earth and other alternate dimensions (in which case, please email me...I want a trip!).

In any case, splatter targets are way fun, and creepy brain-butt Shelob is deaddeaddead.

I'd like to take credit for all of these, but Husband shot as well, and to be honest he hit the body more often than me.
But my first shot for each target was eye and neck...so apparently I can kill SyFy mutant spiders if necessary.

Mythic Monday: Huldra

I haven't Mythic Monday'd in a while...but post-Samhain we move into the traditional storytelling season. It seems appropriate to begin with tonight's Scandinavian myth, since the Norse were serious about their stories during the long, dark winter nights (not unlike the great-grandmas who can't see you tonight because their STORIES are on T.V.).

Disclaimer: you stopped here because you're searching for the gun manufacturer, sorry to disappoint but BOY have you landed in the wrong space. You've probably already figured out I'm not discussing the virtues and drawbacks of a gas-piston rifle and wandered off to HuldraArms.com. If you're still here, feel free to hang out and discover your gun is named for a hot female...who occasionally becomes a (literal) man-eating monster. 

Image: Wikipedia

Also, while researching today's creature I found this: Huldra And Victim creation app. It's horrifyingly wonderful.

It's possible I wasted some time playing with online doll versions of pretty woodland people-ish entities...who eat their victims (presumably after the sex part, like a Norse Preying Mantis without the extra limbs). I sort of wish I could get a couple made for the family members who have a doll-phobia, but that's another story.

The Huldra (or Hulder: I'll use them interchangeably here because the terms aren't linguistically different in meaning) is a fascinating figure in Scandinavian mythology whose story and attributes changed as Christianity spread throughout the area. She is both beautiful and monstrous, naked and clothed, helpful and vengeful, compliant and deadly: all depending on how she's treated.

In the Pagan era myths, she is consistently described as a beautiful wild woman of the forest, who has an animal tail. In Norway the tail is always a cow's: in southern Sweden it could be a cow's or fox's. The further north you are, the more likely she has either a hollow back or a back covered in tree bark. Regardless, there is always something just a bit animal or forest about her.

In the earliest myths, the Hulder was often a seductive woodland fairy nymph, and was usually recognizable as something other than a human woman only because of the tail. Dealing with the Hulder is somewhat similar to the Irish Celtic ideals of dealing with Fairies: politeness is paramount, satisfaction is rewarded. It's also interesting to point out the Hulder myths don't have a lot of mortal women involved (in general, the Hulder appear to be a temptation to men alone, much like a Succubus, only without the demonic aspects).

There is a male version, the Huldercarl, who acts in a similar manner as the Hulder only toward women: the gender specificity implies both the Hulder and Huldercarl are examples of man and woman dealing with the dangers and bounty of the wild.

Legend has it, a man (or woman) who is kind, polite, and sexually satisfying is rewarded by the Hulder/Huldercarl. However, every power comes with a price. The old myths of Hulder include her ability and willingness to kill, and even eat, those who didn't satisfy her. The implication in the tales is definitely sexual satisfaction, but it's important to note that rude or inhospitable behavior could just as easily offend. The Huldercarls' myths don't include the sexual implications of satisfy-or-I-kill-you, which perhaps reflects ancient Norse views on sex to a certain extent: it's possible to infer a supposition that females are harder to please, and therefore only those skilled enough could win her favor. At the same time, it's possible the Huldercarls' satisfaction was assumed simply out of an idea that males are less difficult to please, and also possibly that women weren't expected to "work" as hard at sex. MANY fairy myths involving sex imply that it takes great skill to satisfy a woman: this could also just be another area of prowess for the Hero cycle of a story.

In the earlier myths it appears the reward was protection by a superhuman entity. Imagine what Scandinavia was like before roads and effective land-clearing techniques: the forests were so thick and inhospitable they literally made isolated "islands" of arable land and could cut off huge swaths of area between towns. The Vikings weren't seafaring folk just out of convenience, but out of shipping and communication necessity. Dark things lived in those forests, from trolls to bandits to bears, and a Hulder whose favor you've gained could potentially protect you and your family from ALL of them. That's nothing to scoff at, and was actually so highly regarded even as Christiantiy took over the area the luck of befriending a Hulder was incorporated as acceptable practice.

Christianity spread over the Norse slower than the rest of Europe (indeed, partly due to the isolation of the land), but eventually it did effect the details of the Hulder/Huldercarl. One Christianized tale says the Hulder were once mortal children who weren't washed by their mother: the "unclean" children became Hulder. This isn't terribly different from the Christian myth of the Fae, who were God's angels who didn't take sides in the war in Heaven, and so fell but only to Earth, not to Hell with Lucifer and his band.

As time went on, the Huldra became pretty milkmaids who looked completely human and innocent except for the tail, but if a farmer could win her heart and convert her to the faith the tail would fall away (as she loses her fairy immortality and becomes mortal and "saved"). Hulder and Huldercarl lost their danger AND their protective abilities, and were relegated to rather benign figures in pastoral life: simple cattle herders who brought luck and prosperity if you were able to convert and marry one, but the threat had been nullified. Domesticated.

Of course, who knows if they were ever truly domesticated...

Norway, by the way, produces some wonderful movies about Norse mythology, including one about the Huldra. I saw it recently on Netflix, and recommend it if you're interested: Thale.

It IS A SNAKE DEN GODDAMMIT! (Also, Mythic Monday - The Headless Horseman)

Listen up people. A couple weeks ago I specifically asked if THIS is a snake den:



.I HAVE A SNAKIPEDER IN MY GODDAMNED GARDEN!

Tonight I discovered it INDEED IS...when I brought boxes out the front door and SAW the bastard's head sticking out of the hole. Do you KNOW how many holes there are in my front garden along the walkway? Lots. Enough that he clearly has a while fricken network under there...and he was LOOKING AT ME. If I can get an actual picture (without getting eaten) tomorrow, I will. And no, I couldn't see enough of his head to tell if it was one of the three that can kill me here.

I am not impressed. Husband and family are amused. I hate everyone. That is all.

Moving on.

I missed two Mythic Mondays because I had a cold from hell. Therefore, I'm returning some hellishness in tonight's MM, in honor of my favorite season AND the season two premier of Sleepy Hollow, which I adore. Tom Mison's Ichabod Crane is NOT the weasely, big nosed, wimpy dude in Washington Irving's tale: his interpretations of the silliness of modern culture (compared to 1776) is fantastic. In addition, being the mythology freak I am I LOVE where the writers took the Headless Horseman tale...but that's all I'll say since spoilers are just rude.

So. Washington Irving wrote a short story in the 1820 called The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. If you haven't read it, go forth and get it for Halloween: it's wonderful. It's not the original: it's just the first American version of the tale of a headless horseman.

Irving's Horseman was a Hessian (Germanic) mercenary fighting for the British in the American Revolution whose head was removed by a cannonball. Cursed, he rides the roads around Sleepy Hollow, searching for his head and generally causing havoc...including taking heads. It's entirely possible the Galloping Hessian started during the war as terror propaganda, after all, and Irving only wrote the story down forty years later: no reason he wouldn't have heard some handed down scary tale from an old war veteran when he was a child. What better way to demonize the losing side than by making a monster out of their soldiers?

But Sleepy Hollow wasn't the first town to get a Headless Horseman. The Grimm boys found a Headless horseman tale in their wanderings around Germany. Yes indeedy: the same Germany which produced the Hessian mercenaries...it's possible our legend came over to America with them, or with the Dutch settlers in New York. Interestingly, The Grimms reportedly SAW the Horseman...twice. Quite impressive, really: HH in every version was pretty darn violent and heads were generally taken.

In Ireland the HH was Dullahan: a SERIOUSLY TERRIFYING headless man in black who chases down people on Halloween and throws buckets of blood. If the blood hits you, or if he calls out your name, you're going to die the next day. This is not a children's story villain who throws scary carved gourds at people and runs away. Much like the Banshee, only more aggressive (no wailing for this guy), Dullahan and Banshees are sometimes seen together, chasing people down in a chariot pulled by six black horses and using a human SPINE as a whip.

Yeah. Pleasant. Obviously Dullahan owned the original Mortal Kombat fatality bonus move.

In any case, the Galloping Hessian of Sleepy Hollow may be the first Headless Horseman legend in the Americas, but he's definitely not the last. Many states have a version of the creature in some Halloween tale. In Texas there's a legend of a beheaded horsethief who wanders the countryside on a grey horse. (Maybe he'll come take care of my snake problem). Even Disney got in on the HH act, not only with an Ichabod Crane cartoon but with the Horseman showing up places like Fantasia and Mickey's House of Mouse. 

I personally suspect the HH is a throwback to legends of The Wild Hunt. Truly, The Hunt deserves its own blog post which is in the works for October, as there are variations of the Gods and/or the Fae (depending on your area) tearing across the countryside (and woe to they who get in the way, or even SEE). But I do see some connections between a Headless Horseman who haunts and chases down night travelers in vengeance for his violent death and the Fae riding down the unwary, who are never seen again.

Bottom line? If you hear thundering hooves on Halloween night, run like hell and don't look back. It could be the Horseman, come to collect your head.

Update: Screaming Worms.

Turns out it's "web worms" (a couple people called them silkworms, but I didn't see any silk...just gross maggoty things that moved in time with the beat of Chewy's feet as he walked by).

Husband thinks Chewy is purposefully amassing an army of worms to create air-support (as they do eventually turn into moths, after eating all the leaves off my maple).

I think it'd take a LOT more than two nests of about thirty worms each to turn into enough moths to pick that dog's monstrous fluffy form off the ground.

Anyway, like any good interneter I found various solutions to my webby worm issues (other than calling an exterminator, which would be really stupid for two baseball-sized nests in low branches I can cut out myself):

1) open the webs to let wasps/birds get to the worms to eat them.

How about FUCK NO I'm not putting my fingers anywhere near that webbing. Nope no nopedy nope.

2) Open the web (what part of NOPE did the list miss??) and spray roach/bug killer into the nest.

Apparently the opaquely see-through web nest hive of writhing maggots is impervious to bird beaks, chemicals, and wasp stingers. WTF.

3) burn it.

YES.

Yesterday afternoon I quite happily directed wayward worms attempting to escape the flaming goodness of their nest burning in the fire pit back into their little hell. No, I'm not sorry.

Chewy's not speaking to me, though.

What the HELL is in my tree??

In true Texas fashion I've discovered a new horror in my backyard. 

What the fuck IS THIS???? 

I plan on spraying wasp killer on it tonight, in hopes it kills the dancing worm things inside (which move in unison, by the way, because that's not creepy as fuck AT ALL). 

This state is going to kill me. 

Mythic Monday (Sort of): Yggdrasill - If You Can Pronounce It, You May Be A Viking

First, I'm late. I know it. There was death and sadness that I found really odd since I didn't know the man at all except for the characters he played but I felt sad anyway. And then there were assholes making snarky superior comments about how Robin Williams is going to hell for committing suicide, and then there was angry me changing the theme of Mythic Monday this week six times because I was SO LIVID at the bitch at work who made said comments I had a whole post planned on hubris and arrogance...

And then someone found my blog by searching lilith spurned adam ,marries satan (typed exactly as found) and I chuckled and remembered MY anger over her judgmental bitch behavior won't do a stitch of good. And...I spelled "stitch" incorrectly the first time around. Proofreading: it's not just for English Majors anymore.

And so I'm back on my original post topic...potentially with fewer fragments and more actual sentences. (My apologies, Mr. Benson.)

Crap. The period goes INSIDE the parentheses in this case, right? Sigh. Honestly it doesn't matter one bit: spellchecker is going to explode with this post anyway.

Moving on.

Norse Cosmology (not creation and the gods, just the worlds)...because I plan on doing a post on other excellent stories (like Thor fishing for Jormungand in the sea around Midgard) but in order to do so a prequel must be presented for those who aren't Astaru or Heathen or just mythology freaks like me. (If I'm incorrect on anything here, those of you who ARE Astaru or Heathen or just better vested into Norse myth than I am, please comment).

Also: Norse mythologies use spellings from Old Norse, Modern Norwegian, Icelandic (which is VERY close to Old Norse but not exactly the same), Modern Swedish, Modern Danish, and of course the English translations.

What I'm saying here is that there are MULTIPLE spelling nuances for most of these names. Please try not to rip my head off because I spelled something different from your usual use (particularly if you use it in your spiritual beliefs)...I just picked one relatively consistent spelling and went with it across the board.

The Norse universe is set up in sets of three. Yes, three IS the number and the number shall be three. I am not going into Gods here, just the cosmos for now.

The universe itself is made up of three...hmm...plates, or levels. Envision one of those china caddy things that hold plates horizontal yet separated from each other, so they're stacked but not touching. This is the universe: three "plates" set up with space above and below each. And just as you'd imagine, the top level is the one with the most light while the bottom has the most shadow.

The top level houses Asgard, Vanaheim, and Alfheim. The Aesir gods dwell here in their halls, and Valhalla (which is seriously a full post on it's own merits, which I have planned), the hall of the warrior dead. Also located in Asgard is the site of Ragnarok (the battle at the end of time between all gods, men, and monsters): Vigrid, a battle plain so vast it's a sea of land. I envision something like the Great Plains, or the Steppes of Russia and Mongolia, but ultimately Asgard was, as you'd expect, enormous.

Asgard - land of the Aesir, the warrior gods
Vanaheim - land of the Vanir, the fertility gods (until they united with the Aesir, anyway)
Alfheim - land of the light elves.

Below Asgard, in the second level, is Midgard, the world of man.

Midgard is the level surrounded by a never-ending ocean, and Jormungand, the serpent dwelling at the bottom of the sea who's so long he bites his own tail.

Midgard - land of man.
Nidavellir - Dark Home, land of dwarves, in the Northern caves and potholes (I wonder occasionally if they wear hardhats and reflective vests while they're fixing potholes?)
Svartalfheim - land of dark elves, in the Northern underground.
Jotunheim - land of giants, in the Eastern Mountains along the coast.

The way between Asgard and Midgard is the Bifrost, the rainbow bridge. Those of you who've seen the Thor movies know exactly what I'm talking about: they truly did a fantastic job.

The third level, the darkest, is Niflheim, the world of the dead. The citadel of Niflheim is Hel, a world of it's own. However, in some of the creation myths Niflheim and Hel are combined into one and the ninth world is Muspellheim, land of fire. Interestingly, and in typical Norse circular fashion...the "big bang" in the universe which CREATED the levels and nine worlds occurred when Niflheim, land of ice, collided with Muspellheim, land of fire. Yes, it's confusing. Now, even more confusing is the idea that Niflheim contains the PLACE "Hel" and has since creation. Dwelling in Hel is the monster/creature, Hel, who is the daughter of Loki (who hasn't happened yet, if creation just banged when the two worlds collided to form the underworld). The dead must pass THROUGH Hel the creature to reach Hel the citadel and finally to get to Niflheim.

The center of all three levels, at the center of the UNIVERSE, is the ash tree, Yggdrasill, the World or Guardian Tree. Yggdrasill's branches reach above out over all the worlds and over heaven, and its three roots are planted in Asgard at the Well of Urd (Fate); in Jotunheim at the Spring of Mimir (Knowledge); and in Niflheim at the Spring of Hvergelmir (the source of eleven rivers).

Yggdrasill truly is presented as a sort of all encompassing Tree of Knowledge, Ark, and central pillar of sustenance to the universe. Yggdrasill is where Odin sacrificed his eye to drink from the Spring o Mimir to gain his vast knowledge. Near the Spring of Hvergelmir dwells the great dragon Nidhogg, who gnaws at the root of the world tree. Deer, goats, eagles, squirrels all live on the tree and eat from it. Ratatosk the squirrel carries insults from Nidhogg at the root of the tree up to the eagle who lives in the uppermost branches. The Well of Urd, or Fate, is where the Norns reside, the goddesses of destiny who carefully tend their root to keep the tree healthy with all the creatures damaging it for their survival.

Yggdrasill is so powerful, it survives Ragnarok, the final battle at the end of the world. It truly is the central, stable being of Norse myth.

For those of you who want pronunciations...honestly there's no way I can phonetically spell the neat Norse "ou" sound, which isn't the same as "hound" or "wound." It's a Minnesota (minnesooota) accent thing, I suppose, so I can pronounce it but I can't WRITE it properly.

In general, Y sounds like a short 'i' (dig). J is usually a "y" (yes). LLs have a bit of a roll to them.

The other part of Norse language that's difficult to convey in writing is the rocking rhythm of the words themselves. Poetry, after all, was the primary source of entertainment and storytelling for a reason for a people with a rocking-horse style of speaking Ragnarok would be RAg-na-ROK.

Now, go forth and practice Hvergelmir (VER gel meer, g is hard) and Jotunheim  (Yout un hime) to your heart's content.