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Monday, December 31, 2012

The Lioness' Return with Bells


Greetings, all.  I hope that you and your families are all well this fine festival season.  The Lioness has been back for the holidays for about a week now, and she brought with her the gentleman she’s been seeing.


Actually, he seems a fine fellow.  However, as her adventure in Georgia didn't pan out quite as well as she’d hoped (aside from him), it seems that the Lioness will be staying in Kansas after he goes back, preparing for his eventual move here.

Which, of course, presented the inevitable problem: where the devil do we put these people?


Fortunately, I had a scheme.  Well, actually it started out as the Laughing Mouse’s plan, and then I schemed it.  A little.


Now, you might think this would be a simple matter.  Just have the Lioness move back in to her old room, and bunk with the Wolf Cub who owns it now.  After all, sisters share space all the time, right?  However, if this had even for an instant seemed like a reasonable idea . . .


. . . you plainly don’t know the Wolf Cub in my house.  

So, this plainly called an agonizing reappraisal.


Reconstruction, carefully done.


With great precision. 


Just a small adjustment, really.


And then, viola!  New Lioness room!


At least, that’s the idea.  In the meantime, she and her gent (there is no suitably masculine equivalent in this context for “lady,” have you ever noticed?) are sharing the Transformer Couch.  It’s a work in progress.

Remember: Optimus Prime died for your sins.


























In other news, no, I have not heard anything back about my Financial Aid.  Looking at when the message was sent, and when they went on vacation, mine would have been in the last batch of letters sent out as they turned out the lights and left for the holidays.  They’ll be back five days before all payments are due.  So even if I can get this straightened out in a week: hail and farewell, Spring Semester.


Still, it’s been a good holiday.  Lord of the Rings is just as stellar as it has been every year, everyone seems to like the Lioness’ beau, and the Tigress and the Raven have been enjoying immensely seeing their oldest so very happy.  And, rest assured, so have I.


Sometime again,
--Coyote.

(All Lion King characters are (c) Walt Disney Studios; phone booth photo courtesy of securedgenetworks.com; Wile E. Coyote is (c) WB productions; the growling wolf pic is courtesy of fanpop.com; wrecking ball image courtesy of Wikipedia; Transformers are (c) Hasbro; books flying away photo courtesy of powerupwhatworks.com; final pic courtesy of wallspapercraft.com.  All righte reserved by those who reserve them.)

Monday, December 24, 2012

Season's Speed Bumps.




Firstly, an update on my grades this semester.  Every class was an A, save for Body Parts and Functions, which was a B.  Since this was an online class combining two subjects, with a lab, my heart is not broken.


This is my heart.  Lo, it is unbroken.

But recently, I saw an update on how the rules regarding Financial Aid are being handled, allegedly on a federal level.  I spoke to a few people and it seemed unlikely that it would affect me, but I thought it best to be sure.  So I sent the following missive to a Financial Aid expert on campus:

"Ms. Savagehenry

Greetings.  I hope that you and your family are well.  My name is Coyote Kishpaugh, my student ID is XXXXXXXX.  Now that I am out of finals and the magnificent madness that accompanies, I have a concern.  Looking over the new SP policy, I encountered this: 

3. Maximum Time Frame
The maximum time frame for students to complete their academic program may not exceed 150% of the published length of the program. For example, if the published length of the program is 48 credit hours, the maximum number of attempted credit hours may not exceed 72. After 150% of the published length of the program has been attempted (including Wossamotta U. and all transfer credit hours from accredited institutions), students are no longer eligible for federal financial aid. There is an option to submit a SAP appeal.

So, while this in theory would change nothing about my status, I wanted to check and be sure.  My first foray into college, decades ago, was an attempt to keep insurance while dealing with health issues.  My grades at the time reflect this.  I have already used my one appeal per lifetime keeping this from canceling my financial aid.

Because Wossamotta includes all classes ever taken for this record, this semester puts me over 150% of the Associate's Degree program length.  Therefore, will this new policy affect me?  If so, how, and what are my options?

Thank you for your time and consideration,
--Coyote."

I have not yet received a reply to this letter.  However, I did get the following, sent automatically:

A review of your academic performance for the semester just completed at Wossamotta University indicates that you are no longer eligible to receive federal student aid (grants, loans or work-study).  You did not meet the conditions of your financial aid probation/academic plan.  These conditions were specified in your prior satisfactory academic progress (SAP) appeal approval letter.  You are not eligible to submit another appeal as outlined in the SAP policy.   

Your awarded federal aid has been cancelled.  You will be responsible for making payment on your future student charges or withdrawing from your classes if you are unable to pay your tuition and fees.  Go to (their website link) to view payment information.  Also be prepared to purchase or rent your textbooks.

Eligibility to receive student financial aid may be reinstated at a later date once you have met the minimum satisfactory academic progress standards.  Make an appointment with one of the Financial Aid Coordinators if you think you may be eligible to once again receive financial aid. 

If you have questions, contact our office at (XXX) XXX-XXXX or email us at (their email address)

Sincerely,

WU Financial Aid

Please do not reply to this email.

 

Fascinating.  So far as I could tell, this was a new wrinkle entirely.  It didn’t mention any changes in the SAP.  Rather, the letter acted as though I had failed to keep up my end of the Academic Probation these dinks had put me under last semester.  After careful consideration of the matter, I sent them the following:


“To the fine personnel at Financial Aid,

Greetings.  My name is Coyote Kishpaugh.  My Student ID is XXXXXXXX.  A matter of some import has been brought to my attention, and I am hoping that this is just a simple misunderstanding that can be quickly worked out.

I just received an email and letter indicating that I "did not meet the conditions of your financial aid probation/academic plan," and that "These conditions were specified in your prior satisfactory academic progress (SAP) appeal approval letter."  However, following my so-called "successful appeal" regarding Academic Probation and Financial Suspension, I was under the impression that I was neither on Financial Aid Suspension, nor Financial Aid Probation, any longer. 

Further, I was told after my "successful" appeal that I was remaining on Academic Probation for reasons unrevealed, and so long as I kept my semester grades at least 2.0 I would be fine.

My GPA this semester was 3.61.  I received a letter earlier this week congratulating me for keeping my grades up in accordance with the terms of my Academic Probation.

So in summary, I was only put on either FAS or AP for grades over two decades old, and those only due to health matters at the time.  The one appeal your system allows me resulted in my being taken off FAP but being kept on AP (with all restrictions implied) so long as my semester GPA was at least 2.0.  

Now I am told that my Financial Aid is being taken away.  Since I have consistently been on the Dean's List since my return after a 20-year hiatus, I would very much like to know what on Earth is going on.  

Therefore, I am writing you now.  Please look into this matter, as it seems likely there has been some mistake.  If there has not, please supply a detailed explanation of these events to further my own understanding.

Thank you for your time and consideration regarding this matter,
--Coyote.”


So.  I await their response.  It what looks like two concerns but might for all I know be one, I can only hope that some semblance of sanity will reign.  If not, then I will work my way through, attending classes part time.  While I have no objection to this in spirit – I know friends who have done so, and done it well – this does mean taking a lot more time to do it.  I had so hoped to get my doctorate before I was 65.

Still, my continuing education is obviously a worthwhile endeavor.  There are enough forces aligned against me to prove it so.

Sometime again,
--Coyote.


(Beurocracy picture courtesy of  shamrachronicles.com; clown photo courtesy of frugal-cafe.com.  Original artists unknown, but inclusion here is in no way intended to infringe upon the original artist's copyright.  Spock is created by Gene Roddenberry and Leonard Nemoy, and Mr. Nemoy's image is all his own, so there.  All rights still reserved by the rightful reservists.)

Tuesday, December 18, 2012

Rios





This should be my last late post for a while.  My thanks to all of you for your patience.

In our first book, The Order of the Four Sons, what brings our heroes together in the first place is a search for Fernando Rios.  Rios vanished years ago, but a telephone call reaches the Order as if it were yesterday, warning of a reality-twisting terror that could threaten the entire world.  He must be found, rescued if possible.  And the threat he discovered must be eliminated.

The team follows a trail of clues, some recent, some ancient, until finally they find their way into their enemy's own lair . . .


“Wait,” Cecil said, “I’ve got power.”
They stopped.  Shining his flashlight around, the Colonel asked, “Well?  Got anything?”
“Rebooting,” Cecil said.  This time, just over a minute passed before he spoke again.  “Okay, we’re back up.  No movement ahead.  But this is a high-energy area, so it would take a major spike to register on my equipment right now.”
“You just keep me appraised of any fuckin’ spikes.”
“Roger that.”
The stone walls had been almost completely replaced by brick, and they, too, had closed in, forcing the team to proceed single-file.  It appeared that the walls had once been plaster, but that had long-since crumbled away to reveal, here and there, expanses of stone of a less impressive masonry, with powdery mortar and chicken wire.  In other places there was relatively modern looking cinderblock. 
Their passage was slow, impeded by heaps of moldering furniture: chairs, headboards, tables, a writing desk, a piano bench, stacks of rotting timber.  The floor was also littered with old doors, ‘70’s style wood paneling, and scraps of material so filthy as to defy analysis.  Occasionally there would be a bare window, bricked up somehow from the other side of the glass. 
After they had gone about fifteen feet, they found a gaping hole in the floor, almost the entire width of the hallway. 
JD shined his flashlight down into it.  They couldn’t see anything.  He reached into one of the pockets of his duster and produced a flare.
“Did they teach you that in the marines?” Murphy asked.
“Nope,” the Colonel replied.  “Boy Scouts, Mister Murphy.”  He pulled the tab.  “Be prepared.”  He dropped the flare into the hole.
It tumbled end over end to a bare dirt floor.
“Oubliette,” Doug murmured.
“Whaddaya reckon, forty feet?” the Colonel asked.
“I didn’t expect it to have a bottom,” Kate remarked, looking pale in the flashlight’s glare.
“Deep enough to kill ya, though,” the Colonel said.  “That’s all that matters.  Everybody, watch your step.”
The Colonel led the way around the pit, pressing himself against the wall, gingerly testing the floorboards with his boots for loose areas. 
They could make out the end of the hallway.  There was a very narrow door, perhaps three feet wide, set into a cinderblock wall. 
The Colonel paused, shining a flashlight into the doorway.  It led into a corridor even more narrow than the one they’d just been in, a hairpin turn taking them off to the right. 
They all passed into the corridor. 
“Everybody still with me?” the Colonel called over his shoulder.  “Murphy-Kate-Doc-Cecil?”
There was a chorus of affirmations. 
“Just checkin’,” the Colonel grunted.  “Tighter’n a bull’s ass in fly season in here.  Can’t turn around to look for ya.  Everybody stay right behind me.”
The flashlights revealed wooden walls here—some of that ‘70’s style paneling they’d seen in the scrap heaps behind them.  There were also--
“Colonel, we’ve got doors,” Murphy said.
“Well, shit.”
            “After you, sir.”
            “Cecil?”
            “Looks clear.”
            “All right, then,” the Colonel drew himself up and then opened the first door.  It led to another corridor full of doors.          “Well, shit again,” he muttered.
            “No go?” Murphy asked.
            Shaking his head, JD shut the door.
            “Well, then, Colonel, if I may . . .?” Murphy pulled a small plastic doorstop from one of his jacket pockets. 
            “You’re carrying doorstops?” Kate asked, incredulous.
            “Standard SWAT issue,” he dropped it onto the floor and kicked it firmly under the door. 
            She looked dumbfounded.  “I mean . . . really?”
            “Really.”  He jiggled the door handle to demonstrate.  It wouldn’t budge.  “Simple physics.  Nobody’s coming through that door.”  For the second time, Kate looked impressed.  “Don’t applaud,” he said dryly.  “Just throw money.”  They continued on.
            The ceiling here was wooden beams, just skeletons in some places, with gaps leaving squares of darkness over their heads.
            “Anybody else smell that?” Kate asked, wrinkling up her nose.  “Smells like—” 
            “Burnt hair,” Cecil finished. 
            “And burning flesh,” Doug added.  “You realize what that means.”
            “Eretics,” grunted JD.  “Looks like we’re in the right place.”
            “What the hell is wrong with our lifestyle, that the smell of roasted undead means that we’re in the right placeand, oh look.  Blood,” Murphy shined his flashlight down.
            There were dots of it on the floor—not a lot.  But enough.
            Murphy knelt down and touched one of the dots.  “Still sticky.”
            He shined his flashlight along the floor.  There were more splashes of blood further ahead—larger splashes.
            No one said anything as they continued to creep along the hallway.  They tried two more doors—one led to a room barely bigger than a closet, stacked with a few wooden crates.  The second led to yet another hallway.  Murphy used another doorstop to block it. 
            At last, their flashlights landed on an old black telephone mounted on the wall.
            The whole section of the wall around it was awash in blood.  Beneath it, there was more blood, and drag marks going down the hall away from them.
            “Movement, down the hall,” Cecil said quickly.  He immediately raised his gun, but couldn’t fire because everyone else was in front of him.  Kate, following where his gun was pointed, swung her flashlight from the phone to the end of the corridor.
            “Get that damn thing out of my face,” the Colonel snarled, throwing up his hand to shield his eyes.
            As he spoke, the phone rang abruptly, piercingly.
            Kate shrieked, leaping back against the wall. 
            “Movement!” Cecil shouted.
            “I can’t see shit!”
            “There it goes—” Cecil said.
            “Colonel, down!” Murphy blared, raising his shotgun.
            The Colonel dropped to the floor and Murphy fired.
            The creature at the end of the hallway was too quick.  It disappeared around the corner, and Murphy’s shot tore out a section of wood paneling in the far wall.
            “Fuck,” Murphy pumped the action.  “I guess now we know what happened to Fernando.” 
            “Could he still be alive?” Kate asked.
            Murphy looked at the massive blood stain.  “Maybe.”
            “They’ve dragged him off!” she cried, pointing to the marks on the floor.
            “And we’re goin’ after him, Katie.  Just hold your horses,” the Colonel picked himself up off the floor, blinking away the rest of the after-glare as best he could.  “Nice shootin’, Murphy.”
            “Thank you.  We’re going after him?”
            “We’re sure as shit not leavin’ him behind.  Not when he could still be alive.”
            Murphy hesitated for several seconds.  “Okay.”
            They followed the blood-stained trail.  No one spoke.  It went around the corner—the direction in which the eretic had gone.
            More hallway.  More doors.  More blood.
            “It’s on the ceiling,” Kate marveled.
            “Major arterial damage,” Murphy said evenly.
            The trail led into a doorway on the left.  The door had been torn off. 
            “Cecil, any movement?” the Colonel asked.
            “Neg—” Cecil began.  “Wait.  Yes . . . very slight.  And some heat.”
            Kate looked hopefully from Cecil to the Colonel.
            “Murphy,” JD said simply.  Murphy nodded.  The two of them went into the room and checked it.
            Fernando Rios was lying on the floor on the right wall.  He was on his right side, his back to the wall.  His eyes were open.
            “Socorro,” he whispered.


Sometime again,
--Coyote.



(Canopic Jars image courtesy of http://egyencient.wordpress.com; The Dying Gaul is a Roman replication of a lost Hellenic sculpture, original artist unknown.)


Tuesday, December 11, 2012

Gods of the Curriculae II: Fall of 2012



This has been one hell of a semester.

Greetings, all.  Yes, this post is a day late.  My apologies.  I had been going to post yesterday as is my custom, but when I finally made my way home . . .



Lo, the wages of finals week.

So instead it will be today, Tuesday December 11, that I reveal at long last the secret identities of my various professors, this twisted pantheon at which I have been studying on bended knee, for lo these many months.  And as this identification is so late, I will also give my customary summary of the shrines they haunt as I go.


Jazz Ballet (or: "Keeping up With the Birds")


In retrospect, I should have called this one “Keeping up With the Seelie.”  Gad.  Not that my dance instructor is flighty, exactly.  But I asked her once if there were sites or dancers on YouTube I might examine, to help with my dancing.  Alas, no.

“I make up a lot of this as I go,” she explained.  “You’ll just need to practice.”  And then we would flit on to another move, this one having been covered twice – which should be enough for anyone to master, it seems.  For me, trying to “practice” under these conditions was an exercise in frustration.  Her advice was to take notes, but as aforementioned, I don’t have a background in dance.  

Just the same, I did take her advice once, or at least I tried: I sat out of class and watched, notebook in hand.  What I learned that day was that taking notes on individual moves in an ongoing dance is like watching a Black Ops tournament and trying to jot down weapon serial numbers.

Below is an excerpt from such an attempt:

Mincing about to the right
Something tribal
Lop sau from the hip 8 count or so
Then a miracle happens
On to floor work
Spin somehow
More miracles
Kick like a ballet mule
Groucho Marx with steps

. . . and so on.  Mercifully, two of my class mates saw my distress and were willing to help.  Otherwise, the final performance would have been an even darker comedy than it was.

Happy only when dancing, she has been dancing so long I think she has forgotten what it was like to do anything else.  In class, I was surrounded by Seelie revelers, dancing their dreams made flesh.  And in giving birth to such dreams, she is the fairies' midwife, and she comes in shape no bigger than an agate stone on the forefinger of an alderman, drawn with a team of little atomies over men's noses as they lie asleep.

Her wagon spokes made of long spinners' legs, the cover, of the wings of grasshoppers; her traces, of the smallest spider web; her collars, of the moonshine's wat'ry beams; her whip, of cricket's bone; the lash, of film . . . her chariot is an empty hazelnut, made by the joiner squirrel . . .


Yes, she is Professor Mab, Goddess of the Demi-Fey and the Mistress of Dreams.  And for all that her class was an experience of frustration, so too was it one of learning, and I tip my hat to her in salute.


Karate for Grownups (or: "Conan, What is Best in Life?")


Right after Jazz Ballet was Karate for Grownups.  Fortunately, both were in the same room.  Gad, I am such a genius.  But perhaps I should have noted the room number more closely.  When your classes are held in Room 007, it can be either very good or very bad . . .


Lauren once had a classmate in Composition ask her something along the lines of: “Don’t you love coming back to class?  It’s so hard to write without someone giving you an assignment, isn’t it?” 

And then I imagine Lauren looking at them as though they had just grown a second head, carefully not saying something along the lines of, “No.  Actually, these classes get in the way of the real writing.  I write on my own, constantly, thank you.”  I found myself in the same position regarding the workouts in this class. 

Sensei loves his physical drills.  I mean he loooooooooooves his physical drills.  Pain is good.  Yes, Sensei.  Pain is your friend.  Yes, Sensei.  Very good, I am proud of you.  And now, your reward: more push-ups!  Yes, Sensei.  Thank you, Sensei.  And then, at the end of class, he strikes you with his lightning.


Thank you for your grandmotherly kindness, Sensei. 

We would eventually get to stance and style, at least a little.  But for the most part each class focused on working out.  I am told that Professor Thor customarily uses the workouts to weed the class down to a manageable size, and then focuses on the style itself.

But that didn’t happen this time.  How could it?  Who can afford to drop a class in these times?  Drop a class and you could lose your funding – and then you’re out, with a fat, hungry college debt drooling at the door and no way to pay it.

So on we went, stamina drills and working out taking anywhere from half to four-fifths of the class, until only a few weeks were left.  Then we finally focused on moves.

The staff work was good, and so was the self-defense.  I did learn, never doubt.  He helped me find a hole in my punch, and a few other things, and told me how to fill it.  I am walking away richer for having taken his class.

But while the style of Karate that Professor Thor teaches is a good one, and while he is a fine and honourable fellow, his teaching style is very much the No Pain No Gain approach.  His hammer is mighty and his lightning always strikes true.  But while this is treasured by some martial artists, it is not for me. 


Study Smart Not Hard (or: "How to Take All Your Other Classes")



Study Smart Not Hard is taught by Professor Clockwork, from whom I had taken Dignified Gibberish before.  Everything online, pre-recorded, and at your own pace.  The angels were on hand to give guidance as always, the Prof himself could be reached via email as needed.

I sought out his class on purpose, and I was not disappointed.  I still believe in a clockwork god.

Still, it was a sobering experience.  For one thing, the text books assured me that memory was impossible without writing.  Wow.  Really?  I mean, really really?  What of the bards of old, what of the oral traditions of countless cultures, passed on generation after generation through the ages?  Apparently that never happened. 

Disappointing.  I liked Homer, too.  Oh, well.

Another point: while the class was brilliant for learning short term and test taking strategies, anything I wanted to apply to long term memory I had to figure out on my own.  Apparently, while going through the motions of learning is a carefully treasured art, long-term comprehension is simply not considered important.  This was a familiar realization, but no less chilling for that.

About half way through the class, I attended a seminar Professor Clockwork was holding.  After not twenty minutes, there was a kind of moaning that rose up around me.  Strangely discoloured, my fellow colligates were looking around, blank-eyed, mouths open.  Flesh peeled down, soft, revealing muscle and in some places even bone.

A few had just started reaching towards me in a half-remembered hunger when Prof. Clockwork said, “I know, it’s okay.  Thinking hurts.  We’ll take a break and then come back to it.”  And then they were all nodding and slowly rising from their seats, some clutching their smoking cerebrums, others shambling blindly away for water, brains, or cable TV, just to take the edge off.

The angels were brilliant as always, and Professor Clockwork’s curriculum was excellent as I expected.  But looking about me, zombies of the Illiterati pressing in on all sides, I felt very much a stranger in a very strange land.  This was not the first time I had felt so.  I am sure it will not be the last.


Memory Tactics (or, “It Worked For the Romans.”)



A fitting companion to Prof. Clockwork’s class, Memory Tactics started almost the day that Study Smart Not Hard ended.  Sometimes my brilliance almost astounds even me. 

The class went in depth regarding techniques for memorizing data for tests.  It was small class, four people in all.  But the Professor used the small size of her class to all our advantages, going into depth regarding different things that the mind might seize upon – colours, images, and so forth – and how to use them in our studies.  Note cards, mnemonics, loci, interlocking visuals, all of these and more were covered on an individual level.

It was a short class, and the assignments were, quite simply, to use whatever she was teaching in studying for other classes.

The Professor is a bit ADHD, by her own admission, and she uses this as an asset in her teachings, weaving a loose-seeming tapestry of ideas and then drawing the net in tightly to show how everything truly does fit together, and her high energy was a driving force that was wonderful to see.


She is Professor Luna, for she is the moon.  Ever changing, always in motion, yet she is always herself.  And her light is a guide through the dark and tangled wood.


Body Parts and Functions (or: "Thank the Gods for Dignified Gibberish")



I have spoken of this class before, an online class with lab.  It was this class to which I dedicated some thirty hours a week alone.  And were it not for my Dignified Gibberish class, times would have been much harder yet.

The lectures, though pre-recorded, were of another professor teaching to another class.  The study sheets were rather vague, and though the exams did get easier as we went along, that mostly meant that they got easier once our grade was all but set.

The Professor was always available to answer whatever question his students might have had, but, being a mostly online class, you had to know what question to ask.  He seemed to enjoy throwing us curves, actually, and his exams reflected this. 

In short, my experience with this class was the opposite of my other experiences with online classes.  But the Professor is by no means an evil man, and can be very funny and warm in person.

Still, there was a point in class, while taking an exam, I looked up at an inopportune moment and saw something I think I should not have seen.  I had been working on a question on the relationship between muscle neurons and a certain neurotransmitter.  Deep in thought, I raised my eyes, and beheld a sight I will not soon forget.  

As I watched in horror, the Professor’s face grew longer, more skeletal.  His eyes shrank slightly as his features protruded downward, beak-like.  Hunched over, his frame shrank in on itself as his fine shirt lengthened down over him, transforming into the tattered remains of robed finery.  His hands, dark and skeletal, clutched the hem of his garment as he met my gaze with his own, saying,

“You’re very lucky, slave – only the Emperor gets to drink your essence!”



I let loose a small cry - "Ack!" - but by then his glamour was back in place, and my fellow students were frowning at me for disrupting their concentration.  He went on as though nothing had happened, nothing at all.

But he knew that I knew.

I have come to the realization that medical classes are my own Dark Crystal: flawed, powerful, and corrupted by those who rule.  And, like the mirror in the Alchemist’s chamber, Professor Skeksis’ class reflected their light into me.  It was a soul-sucking experience, and only by calling upon my own gifts did I survive.



Head Shrinking 101 (or: "Jung Was a Dirty Old Genius")



This was by far my favorite class.  The quizzes were online, the textbook was fantastic (a rental, alas.  What boob thought up rental textbooks?), the tests were multiple choice.  All so that time could be properly spent on class discussion.

This is a professor who values the human mind and its inquisitive potential.  She reaches out and encourages her students to speak, question, and learn.  Yes, her tests are multiple choice.  But the questions are structured such that you must have comprehension to answer them, not mere memorization.  I treasure that.

She was very encouraging when I contemplated changing my major to Psych, and happy for me when I did.  The book review – the one paper for her class – revolved around thought and understanding of the material, and a willingness to ask questions.  Also a treasure.


All through the semester her class has been a light to look forward to at the end of the week.  I have watched her time and again seek to kindle the fires of imagination and analytic thought, encouraging her students to share those fires with others.  

She is Professor Prometheus, one of the Bringers of Light.  A true teacher, it is my hope she continues as she has for some time to come.  And if the time comes when she is, for her efforts, chained to a mountainside, I trust she will bear it with dignity.


And so my journey ends for the moment, and next month will be taken up again.  There are new shrines waiting, with new Powers within to guide and instruct.  And, no doubt, it will be an exciting time.  But for now, with my finals all but spent, I look forward to a brief respite in my travels.

Sometime again,
--Coyote.


(Night on Bald Mountain image is (c) Disney Studios; sleeping coyote photo courtesy of robandbee.com; the faerie ballet photo is courtesy of classacttutu.com; Queen Mab illustration is courtesy of romeoandjulietjanzen.wikispaces.com, and is credited to Ms. Amy Brown; Ranma ½ was created by Rumiko Takahashi, and you either get the cursed springs reference or you don’t; Thor in this incarnation is (c) Marvel Comics; the clockwork brain photo is from the Clockwork Man, a character from Dr. Who that is run and owned by BBC; Clockwork God is by a person called Romek and can be viewed at stripgenerator.com; Roman Dinner painting is by Neel Burton, courtesy of outre-monde.com; Luna picture courtesy of dailywicca.com; the Torture Chamber was painted by an unknown artist around 1736 CE; the Skeksis were created by Jim Henson Muppets, say thank ye; Carl Yung created himself, more power to him; Prometheus picture by Heinrich Friedrich Fuger.  All rights reserved by those who rightfully reserve them.  No intent is made or held to infringe upon those rights whatsoever.)

Monday, December 3, 2012

The Catfish Song


One of the wonderful things about writing is that we can connect concepts however we like, simply because we think it would be cool, or beautiful, or fitting.  There are a variety of reasons that our Friday nights writing together is such a high point in my life.  This is a story of one of them.

Lauren and I were at the Nelson Atkins back when we were working on Book II: Carcosa.  We were wandering about, being enraptured and intrigued as one generally is at a museum, and discussing spirit guides and animal spirits.  We had been batting different ideas back and forth like two cats playing with a landed goldfish, since one of the characters has to go on a spirit journey stoked to the gills on hallucinatory fungi. 


Horse?  Powerful, graceful . . . but not quite right.  Frog?  Traditional, but probably not.  Anteater?  Snake?  Mmmm . . . no.  And so on.  We had been working on the problem for a while, in fact.  Something fitting for Kate, though, probably something with water. 

We were meandering conversationally from topic to topic, as we will, when in the Asian Exhibit we saw this beautiful Chinese scroll.

It was long, spread out under glass, obviously a river with banks and trees and occasional calligraphy.  In the artist's elegant simplicity of line and form, waves and sages with their walking sticks were beautifully rendered.  But what stood out most of all were the huge, huge fish that guided them through the foam. 

In any visual medium where the eye travels from event to event, space equals time.  So we had no way of knowing if there was one fish, or many.  Or maybe both.  It didn't matter.  We spent a few minutes, looking at this magnificent fish, with its huge eyes and shining scales, swimming the Immortals across the churning river.  Then we looked at each other across the glass . . .

And so, Kate’s spirit animal became a catfish.  It was a moral imperative.  Frogs could continue singing out for their beloved mud and ooze, and anteaters could go back to dragging away automotive accident survivors.  We had our guide. 

In the story, the catfish swims up to Kate as she stands on the banks of her unconscious, where dream, memory, and magic meet.  She has to cross the river, of course.  And she must face what awaits her alone, because that is how such things are done.  So, being a spirit guide, it helps her get across.  But nothing in magic is free.


She walked until mud suddenly squelched under her feet. 
            Before her was the edge of a broad river.  The current seemed deceptively slow, almost sluggish across that broad expanse, the surface silvered in the failing light of an autumn afternoon.  The opposite shore was distant and hazy.  The water was dark brown and green.  Nearer to the banks, she could see the murky bottom, lined with flat, heavy stones. 
            As she watched, the surface of the water bubbled and rose and finally broke a few yards away from her, revealing a speckled back.  Expressive eyes regarded her from behind long, twitching barbels as the wind blew cold across them both.
            “Welcome back,” the catfish said.  It was not enough that the catfish was speaking.  Its voice was somehow both smooth and rough, dissonant and sonorous.  It was a voice meant for crooning, for grooving, for singing songs about good men going through bad, sad times.
            “Back?” Kate echoed.
            “Don’t you know, girl?  This is The River.”  The catfish moved its tail luxuriously, like a whip in slow motion, as the sound of the water and the wind gave way to a slow guitar, with just a hint of drums to back up the catfish’s talking-blues style. 
           
            “This is where you started
            So why don’t you
            Hooold onto my back
            Put your laigs round my sides
            Don’t you worry
            I’ll bring you to the other side.”

            It swam closer, and Kate waded into the water to meet it.  The current was strong, but she was able to take hold of its fin and pull herself on.  Its body was broad and slippery and almost soft, but she could feel the ripple of muscles beneath its flesh.  She squeezed her legs tight and held on as the channel cat started to swim across.  Cold water crested up to her thighs and goosebumps broke out on her skin. 
            The music rose, and the catfish spoke again, almost as if it were giving her the only warning she’d be receiving:

            “I’m not a holy man
            I’m not a boat-man
            I’m not a reptile
            I’m not an amm-phibian
            ‘Cause I’m mad
            I’m baaaaad
            Like Jesse James.”

            As they neared the farther shore, she saw objects floating in the water.  Books.  Dozens of them.  Some were spread open, floating face-down like drowned birds.  Some were tossed gently on the current, their black-and-white pages waving feebly beneath the surface.  Others simply floated along like tiny, leather-bound rafts.
            When they came to the shallow place near the banks, Kate climbed off.  “Thanks,” she said. 
            “Whoa,” the catfish said.  “We gotta settle up now.”
            “Excuse me?”
            “There’s a price, girl.  There’s always a price.  You know that.”
            Kate looked at the fish, dumbfounded.  “But . . . I haven’t got anything.”
            The round, black eyes regarded her for a moment.  Then, without warning, one of the barbels shot out and stung her across the thigh, just beneath the hem of her shorts.
            Kate leaped back with a cry.  “Ow!”
            The catfish chuckled.  “Now we’re square,” it drawled, and sank back down into the muddy waters.
            Kate stared at the flurry of bubbles that marked where the fish had disappeared, rubbing the wound on her left leg. 
            A book bobbed up against her right leg, then another.  More bumped against her backside—insistent little reminders that there was something waiting for her on the banks. 
            She turned and limped up onto the rocky embankment, littered with more books. 
            The mist had not diminished, and she couldn’t see more than a few feet ahead of her, but she did not have to go far before the ground rose sharply.  Rocks gave way to limp, saturated river grass.  Then a wide set of stone stairs appeared that looked very familiar to her.
            Rising out of the mist, in the side of a green hill, was the public library where she worked, a four-story stone building with pillars in front. 


And, being a catfish talking to a Midwest girl with a love of music, it of course sounds exactly like John Hooker.  Because John Hooker has one of the coolest voices in the universe.  Ever.  And because, well, it’s a catfish.  Dig it.



Book III is continuing to progress, do not despair.  For those of you who have read books I and II, and have waited so patiently (or even impatiently) for Book III’s release, we do say thank you. 

And for those of you who have not yet read the first two, well, it’s never too late to start.  Christmas is coming up, and books always make great presents.  And, if you have kids or just like faery tales, Lauren has written a couple of beautiful ones: The Winter Prince and The Ice Dragon even take place on Christmas. 

To order a paperback copy of The Order of the Four Sons or Carcosa (O4S Book II) from Createspace.com, click on the link below: 


Downloadable versions of all these, including Lauren’s Christmas tales, can also be reached via the links in the upper right margin.  We have copies in my house, and I highly recommend them.

--Coyote.


(The Thinker is by Auguste Rodin, courtesy of nelson-atkins.com; the Catfish painting is by Guan Shanyue.  All rights reserved to those who rightfully reserve them.)

Tuesday, November 27, 2012

Nighttime Photography

We were done taking the pictures we needed when the cops showed up, turning the world into red and blue.



The first officer was reasonably cool, and didn't try to blind us.  "Hey.  What are you guys doing?  Sir," and here he addressed my son, "Would you step over here please, and take your hands out of your pockets?   thank you."

I explained to him that we were working on a school project.  He blinked.

"At one in the morning?"

I assured him that yes, if that was what time it was, then that's when we were working on it.  Honestly, why do people ask these things?  "Are you wearing dark glasses at night?"  "Is that a tattoo?"  "Are you really doing this thing you're doing right now?"

Yes, good people.  This is now.  This is now now.  And I have been with me all day, so I should know.



In any case, the Laughing Mouse had, indeed, had a project he needed to work on.  And naturally it was due the next day (technically, I suppose, due later that day).  He'd had  a particular effect in mind, something urban and gritty.  We'd gone to that particular underpass at night to capture the desired effect. Alas, some well-meaning fascist swine had plastered over all the lovely graffiti that had been there just a week before.

"That's odd," I'd said as we pulled up, "I could have sworn this was just the kind of scene you needed . . ."

Gone were the gang tags, the artistic misspellings, the multi-coloured howls of pent-up minds.  Gone were the spray paint screams, the declarations of war, love, lust and fear.  Gone was the exorcism of nightmare, frozen, preserved on a faux stone canvas.  Now it was all a dreary grey, uniform and dull.  Still, the concrete was peeling a little, and with the proper lighting that would do.  After a few false starts we'd gotten the demon-possessed-computer-system-disguised-as-a-camera to work properly, and I captured his soul onto digital memory in a variety of poses.

Then the cops had shown up.  If I'd been thinking faster, I would have asked to photograph them as well.  But I was distracted by the opportunity to add to the Laughing Mouse's education.  While the first cop ran my citizenship papers, (call it a licence if you like), I went over cop etiquette with him.  Chill, stay calm, be as polite as you can.  Bring the tension level down if you're able - sometimes they forget to.  And always, always, keep your voice down and your hands in plain sight.  Because a police badge is also a target, and nobody wants to deal with a tense cop unless he has to.  Trust me.

By the time we were done there were three cop cars, all because of little old us.  Seems someone called them in, convinced we were tagging or something.  Well, we'd been there for an hour, so next time I want to make graffiti, I guess I'll take less than an hour to do it.  But there was a lot of tension around that area because there had been that Devil Graffiti about, and anything that might threaten the Grey, and therefore all of society, was making people nervous.

"Yeah, they just cleaned this place up last week," one cop said, "covered everything up real good . . ."



Dammit.

By the time we were done, there were three police cars.  But everyone was relaxed, and we laughed a little before going our separate ways.  Then the cops parked around each other to hang out and celebrate a non-eventful encounter, and The Laughing Mouse and I went home and crashed in our nice warm beds like the screaming anarchists we were.



Sometime again,

--Coyote.


(Police lights courtesy of deeranddeerhunting.com; Spaceballs is (c) Mel Brooks; pigbird image courtesy of associatedpress.com; sleeping kitten pic courtesy of piccat.com.  All rights reserved by their rightful holders and all that.)

Monday, November 19, 2012

Chapeau Errors and Musical Fidelity


Thanksgiving Break is here at last.  The traditional feasts don't hold too much interest for me, I admit.  But I’ll have class today and tomorrow, and the rest of the week is my own, to do with as I will.  PiƱa Coladas, road rage, trips to the moon . . . nothing is impossible.  With so much freedom of time slots, so much possibility, what shall I do?  Besides actually see my friends for a little, I mean.  Hmmm.

I think I’ll work on my Psychology project.




Actually, I've been looking forward to this all semester.  I’m doing a book review on a lovely little piece of unusual neurology cases called The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat, by Oliver Sacks.  You've probably heard of it.  Fascinating stuff, actually.  Not a lot of technical terms or dehumanizing poking and prodding about in other peoples’ skulls.  Quite the opposite, in fact.  Oliver Sacks' prose reveals a very caring and philosophical person.  He is a highly educated man with an open mind and a spiritual outlook, and that most prized of all resources, an inquisitive mind.

The first case is also one of the longest, both fascinating and tragic.  It is the tale for which the book was named.  A music professor, a painter, a brilliant mind slowly losing over the years the ability to decode abstract symbols into a meaningful thought pattern.  He thought there was something wrong with his eyes.  But he could see perfectly.  He just had trouble decoding what he saw.

“Ah!”  he might exclaim when you handed him an object.  “A leather pouch, a container.  And with the larger cavity branching off into five smaller ones, it must be very useful.”

“Indeed,” you could say.  “What might it contain?”

“Why, I have no idea.  Money, perhaps, with coins in the smaller cavities, and folded currency in the larger . . .”




The object, of course, was a glove.  

On his way out of the office after their first meeting, the professor looked around for his hat.  Seeing his wife standing there, he gently grasped he head and lifted, seeking to wear her head on his own.  He realized his mistake fairly quickly, and she smiled, accustomed to such errors.  But yes: he mistook his wife for a hat.

His brain had slowly lost its ability to communicate, somehow, with the concrete aspects of his experiences and environment.  Prosopagnosia, it is called.  He was brilliant in music, and had been a superb painter.  But over the years, his painting had been disintegrating along with his ability to identify.  His wife applauded his changing style, seeing her husband expand and fly out of the confines of form and substance in the visual world.




But he wasn't flying.  He was falling.  And there was no way to stop.

Yet even in this tragedy there was inspiration.  In order to eat properly, or dress, he had a kind of song he would sing to himself, that was his adaptation. If his melody was interrupted, he would become completely lost, true.  But he had found a way to use his music to find his way around the ideas, the thought patterns, that he had lost.

Even in the darkest maze of neurological damage, he had found light.  And he had found it not in therapy or drugs or institutionalization, but in his music.




As I understand it, he continued teaching until he died.  And since Dr. Sacks has recently put out a new book, apparently he is as well.  That sits well with me.  I heard part of an interview with him on NPR, and I think he would be a fascinating person to talk to.  But until I get the opportunity to do so – assuming he lives long enough – I will content myself with his books.  And from what I have read thus far, I highly recommend them.

--Coyote.

(Formless Purgation is by OneLifeOneArt and is available for viewing along with other works at deviantart.com; illuminated labrynth photo by Deborah Munro at inthecourtyard.com; Wile E. Coyote is still (c) Warner Broters.  All rights reserved by the rightful owners unless they decide not to.)

Sunday, November 11, 2012

And Now For Something Completely Different


I’ve missed a few posts in recent times, and no doubt you are wondering what could drag me away, kicking and screaming, from my Adventures Underground.  And I am here to tell you, it has been a serious drag . . .




Ah, maybe not that serious.  Perhaps I should start from the beginning.

Months and months ago when I first began my trek though the trackless wilderness known as academia, I was in search of a career.  Something that I could get into relatively quickly, that I would be good at, and ideally would feed my soul as I did it.  Something that would fill a need within me for self-mastery, hopefully but not necessarily in dealing with the martial art, something that would allow me to explore the body-mind link and perhaps even allow me to help others learn how to make themselves stronger and healthier in the process.

So when becoming a Physical Therapy Assistant was suggested, it seemed a perfect choice.




I would learn the ways of the human body, and how to help it heal itself.  I would teach aspects of this understanding to others, train them in how to not only heal themselves, but how to avoid injury in the future.  This would allow me to become a more effective martial artist as well, and when the time came, a more effective martial arts trainer.  I have waxed poetic about how ridiculous I think it is that martial artists and athletes start to feel their bodies breaking down before they’re thirty.  I would use knowledge from PTA to help change that.  I could revolutionize the world.


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I would take advantage of a cooperative program between Wossamotta U and Happy Valley, a fine campus just across the state line, to get my training at a price I could afford.  And so with this in mind, I have taken two semesters now of science-heavy classes and brain-scraping med-oriented curricula.

However comma this was before I was informed that I was categorically ineligible for the cooperative program because of my address.  Specifically, that I must live in a completely different (and more upscale) county than I do.  And I must prove that I have lived there for at least the last six months.

That sound you hear is not the sound of a large automobile screeching its tires and slamming into a brick wall.  That sound is my brain.




Like any campus, Wossamotta reserves the right to change the requirements of any of its programs without notice.  I had copied all the documentation when I was first preparing for the classes, and I double checked them now.  Nothing was mentioned about this then.  Based on the lack of this little detail in the information available Way Back When, and the hurry that the woman running the program was in to dismiss me and get me to stop wasting her time, it seems likely that yes indeed, the rules have changed.  I’m told that there was one, out-of-the way place it was mentioned, but that hardly matters now.  No one in either campus I’d talked to, including three councilors, had expected this.




So I have been busy dismissing thoughts of bell towers and high-powered rifles and focusing on changing gears in my academic career.  I have two semesters of classes and something over twenty thousand dollars in debt.  Not only do I still want a degree and a career option or two, I want to not waste what I’ve already done.

One of the draws for that particular PTA program had been guaranteed job placement upon graduation.  With that out of the way, all other options should be reconsidered.  And so, studying the system carefully, I think I will ultimately go into psychology. 




Now, to some of you that may seem like quite a change in paradigm.  So I'll ask you all to remember your Marcus Aurelius, and please consider the following:

Psychology is a study that has always fascinated me.  I am enough of a geek that I do in fact read papers written by friends taking psych courses, and I read old textbooks for fun.  Ultimately, I hope to get into research on the states of consciousness, find out more about the body-mind connection from the mind angle.  This is not to say that I would never do counseling, but I'm more interested in the experimentation angle.  Psychology by definition is a tool one can use to improve one’s understanding of one’s self, and I would also use it to improve my meditation techniques.  And, of course, better self-knowledge – and therefore self-mastery – can eventually mean being a better sensei.  Because at the end of the day, everything is training.

So, you see?  From physical therapy to psychology research, all as a martial art discipline.  Not that big a step, really.  It's all in how you look at it.




In the short run, I think I can apply some of the medical classes I’ve taken into science requirements, and the rest of them will go into electives.  With so many science courses, and life being as uncertain as it is, I will probably get an Associates’ of General Science Degree, choosing classes that will overlap into an Associates’ of Arts shortly thereafter.  From there I should be able to advance as I like.  It may be slow going, since after a while I’ll be working as well, but I have a new scheme in place and a forward to be going, so I am content.

Life continues to be a grand adventure.  And for all that there continue to be some rough times ahead, I’m still glad through it all to be spared a boring life.

Sometime again,

--Coyote.






(The character may be (c) some vast octopus-like company or other like 20th Century Fox, but Tim Curry will always be Frankie and no one can take that away; Wile E. Coyote and the Road Runner are still (c) Warner Brothers last I heard; Revolutionary Girl Utena was written and created by Chiho Saito; Calvin was created by Bill Watterson; Carl Jung essentially created himself and more power to him.)