Pages

Thursday, May 30, 2013

Missing Monday

My apologies for the lack of posting this week.  It seems I caught a bug going around.  I was feeling good Monday, actually, and then I came home and crashed, and just kept crashing . . .



Comics geek.  Old school.  I apologize for nothing.

But the crux of the matter is that I neglected my weblog.  Alas.  I am meek and penitent . . .



Well, all things in moderation.  My next post should be appearing on these sanctified pages of pixels Monday at some time or other as is usual.  In the meantime this is Coyote heading back to bed.

Thank you all,
--Coyote.

(Bug of the Micronauts as presented here is (c) Marvel Comics.  Based on the toy line by Takara before they were absorbed by TOMY and had their souls sucked out like the marrow in their cracked and broken bones by those monsters.  Poor guys.  Anyway, all rights reserved.  Oh, and Tigger was created by A. A. Milne who was a bloody genius but this image is technically (c) Disney, a far larger Devourer of Souls than TOMY could ever home to become.  In fact, Disney was looking at buying out Hasbro which wanted to buy out TOMY, and since the Diz already owns Marvel . . . ah, chuck it.  These people are evil anyway.  Back to bed.)

Monday, May 20, 2013

Gods of the Curriculae, Spring 2013

The After-Finals Party














And so, it is done with at last.  The fanfare has died down, the audience has begun to file out, ignoring the mix of soda and popcorn grease that stick to their soles.  The clowns are taking off their make up, and the musicians are putting away their instruments and bidding farewell to the orchestral pit with well-earned tears in their eyes.

And, ladies and gentlemen, I slept.

Summer has crept up on us all, here in these red lands.  Spring was a delicious tease, but summer is nailing us to the bloody wall.  Summer, with its heat, rain, wind storms, and lack of classes.  And having had time to pour my dripping psyche back into my skull, I would now like to present to you my Gods of the Curriculae for 2013.

(((SHRUBBERY)))

This was a tricky time.  None of my professors were easily named, seeming so mercurial across the semester.  It was fascinating getting to know each one, as much as one can in so short a time.  Even the one I knew from a class before I had to give careful consideration before dedicating my shrine to her properly.  And so, without much further ado, I reveal to you the secret identities of these ancient and hoary gods to whom I have been bending knee, within their dark domains . . .

Self-Reprogramming For Fun and Profit (or,"You're Doing It Wrong.")


"Okay, that's all the Freud books, right?"

Mondays were rife with good times and provocation in Self-Reprogramming For Fun and Profit.  I'd gotten the impression for the class description that this would be a class examining cultural phenomena and advertising, as well as current events, to see how they affected and reflected the human mind and society.  Introspection would also be used to better understand how mass media and culture affected us as individuals, and how we as a society affected culture and media.

Instead, it was a class on human development and psychic healing with an emphasis on self-reprogramming, a self-help class with a mouth full of fangs and an unhinged jaw.   Modern humanistic psychology holds dearly to the notion that one should be accepting of one's patient, and in fact there is one theory that says the psychologist should be completely accepting and supportive of the client (if not of what they do), no matter what . . . or else the client won't be at ease enough to completely confide.

My honoured professor missed that memo, I think.

She made it abundantly clear that she cared about her students, of course.  And none of us doubted that her main goal in being there was to help us grow and make ourselves better.  She also made it abundantly clear from the first class that she was right, she was always going to be right, because she was a doctor with many years of knowledge behind her.  And she was very, very comfortable with confrontation.  With being right, no room for argument, and with detractors being wrong.

This makes it sound as if I didn't enjoy her class.  Actually, I did.  She also encouraged others to speak their own minds, and was incredibly encouraging and supportive towards everyone and their goals.  In addition, I have the experience to fall back on for the future, should I council others.  Just as I think any judge should spend time in prison before sending anyone there, so too should a counselor or any stripe spend time being counseled.  We spent the semester studying each other, I think, and ultimately we both walked away richer for the experience.  There were times, after all, where she was right.  She truly is in the business to help people grow, and learn how to heal themselves.  While there were times that my hackles distinctly went up and my tail got all poofy, she understood the value of play and encouraged it, and she did teach very well.

Millennia ago, there was a TV series called MASH, and one of the characters was an army shrink named Sydney Floyd.  Every now and then he would pop by, sometimes to help someone re-thread their heads, sometimes to take five and re-thread his own.  His patients sometimes learned to hate him by the time he was done, but they were always on good terms by the time they parted ways, and his presence was pivotal to several events in the series, most famously a cathartic, bon-type fire.



Thus, she is Sidney Floyd.  Always studying our habits as we studied hers, she showed humor, questions, some confrontation, and bonfires.  Lots and lots of bonfires.

Final Grade: A.


Other People's Writings (or, "Everything is Literature Somehow and I Can Prove It.")


"We hear you, Flaming Spear!"























Tuesdays were Other People's Writings class.  The syllabus was a living document, and the rest of the  class was pretty free-form, including grading.  When a class is set up as an amorphous improvisation, often it's going to be either insanely cool . . .



Or mostly useless . . .



In this case, it was insanely cool.

Guided by his own enthusiasm and love of literature, we started out chronologically with ancient Greece, and ended with A Raisin in the Sun and Sonny's Blues.  The class revolved around comprehension, discussion, and thought-out examination.  He was always encouraging the class to explore the meanings of literature, and to challenge his notions with our own, well-thought out arguments.  We discussed and made journal entries on not only books and poetry but music as literature.  Paintings.  Perhaps even sculpture.

Take chances.  Make mistakes.  Get messy.

He . . . is Ms. Frizzle.



Final Grade: A.


Why White People Suck II (or, "The North Won the War and the South Won the Peace.")


"The history of the United States is the history of the debate over the definition of Liberty."





















I was lucky enough to get a class with the same History Teacher I had for Why White People Suck I.  Picking up with the American Civil War, we studied and examined history from reconstruction through the Nixon administration, and then read the chronicles and studied as much as we could up to present day.  Alas, when history is too recent, the repercussions of pivotal actions still cannot be seen, and the causes are at least in part only guessed at.  Indeed, just how pivotal an action will be is yet to be determined.  But we did out best, bearing this in mind, and read up through modern day.

Her enthusiasm and her love of Socratic circles are undiminished, as is her dedication to the ideals of history, knowledge, and the joy of learning.  Two tests, two essays, tons of discussion and a variety of summaries later, the class is done, and far too soon.  I'm going to miss this class most of all.  Seriously, if I could have kept taking it through the summer I would have.

I had given her a god-name before, but the first day of class she brought to my attention that her high school students gave her one the year before, and she found it amusing.  I should have seen it myself, really.  After all, what other master teacher is small, more agile than he should be, inspired by wisdom and history, older than all his students combined and still going strong . . .?

"When 600 years you are, look this good you will not!"






















Judge her not by her size.  She is Yoda.  And she will crush you to the wall with her historical knowledge.

Final Grade: A.


Paper Writing For Careers and Colleges (or, "Commas are of the Rakshasa!")


". . . and now edit . . ."
























To put this class into perspective, the entry I showed you on the Butter Battle Book was an assignment in this class.  On the up side, the Professor encouraged people to think about new things.  One assignment was a research paper on our own career paths.  Another was a film analysis using Campbell's Hero Cycle and Archetypes.

On the down side, my first major paper was brought from an A to a high C because of comma use.  In general, writers and those who teach writing fall into one of two camps.  First, there are those who love commas and think that the semicolon should be pulled out of the keyboard and thrown away.  Second, there are those who love semicolons and think that commas are an abomination to humankind . . . and therefore should almost never be seen.  Ever.

She is solidly in the second camp.

Angry Thor wallpaper (click to view)
"My grade was dropped down to WHAT?"


















On the other up side, she is more concerned with the overall learning experience than testing her students to destruction   So we were allowed to rewrite papers to show our growing understanding.  Which means I not only got a good grade, but learned from the rewriting process things that will benefit me in my paper-writing on future campuses for years to come.  All I needed was a few extra sets of arms and a half-dozen machetes.  Right.  I'm on it.

She delights in challenging all her students think they know.  She finds new weaknesses they didn't even know they had and explodes them, and so the weak points are strengthened.  And for all that she may seem exiled for a time, and her lessons mastered, she will somehow return to trouble her students in new ways, forcing them to learn more.  She . . . is Loki.  And though I have not seen Ragnarok, I will freely confess as I sit before you now that she smacked the hell out of my happy rainbow bridge.

"Next paper, I'm focusing on the Works Cited page.  Better brush up."





















Final Grade: A.

And so, thus concludes my gazette on my professors for this semester.  And to Professors Floyd, Frizzle, Yoda and Loki, if you should ever read this, I thank you for your teachings.  In the meantime, for those of you keeping score, this also means I got my 4.0 GPA.  Come the fall, I'll be taking Spanish and Algebra, and will be much less focused on grades for a while.  But I wanted to hit that mythical "FOUR" at least once.  Partly because I never had before, partly because I've been told not to bother trying . . .

"Hah.  Told you."




























. . . and partly, I will confess, as a middle finger to the system that keeps trying to kick me out.

The 4.0 managed to bring my net GPA up to a 2.06, and in theory that eliminates the various probations and other strangeness that has surrounded me this last year or so.  In theory.  In effect, we will see what happens next and I will keep you appraised.

Sometime again,

--Coyote.

Sunday, May 19, 2013

The Hierophant's New Clothes


The story you are about to read is true.  More accurately, it is an amalgam of stories that I have seen repeated in various forms over the years.  The names I have changed for the usual reasons.


* * * * *


Many years ago, when this ancient land was not quite so ancient, there was a priestess named Wind. Not Wind like in watch, she told the chat-rooms and forums, but like the Air.

As High Priestess of Zephyr Coven, Wind loved the respect that this brought her, sometimes to distraction.  She and her beloved coven-mates could often be found in the sunny glens of Renaissance festivals and psychic fairs, dancing in ritual garb or clad in the sky, showing to all the world their confidence and their ease with themselves.  Wind loved celebrating the freedom her faith gave her, with friends and with lovers, and of watching the auras of those around her: the mixings of gorgeous reds, purples, blues, and yellows.  She was especially fond of helping others in psychic or magikal distress, and of sharing her visions and insights with others. 

Most priestesses are busy women indeed, and they must keep a difficult balance.  They give help to those they can, seeking to help others learn and learn from those others and to walk always with Goddess in whatever way their path calls for.  Wind, however, was always busy showing the world how free and humble and insightful she was, and thus she became very popular.  Many people came to visit Wind and her coven, and her life was full of celebration.

One day, Wind and her sister-in-heart Sybil were lazing in a clearing, Wind playing her pan-pipes.  A stranger came up to them both, ignoring their nudity, and complimented Wind on her pipe playing.  Smiling, she pointed out that she had no training, but had merely been playing what was in her heart.  Even as she thanked him for the compliment, he looked at her in amazement.

“I had thought perhaps another had taught that tune to you,” he exclaimed, “but now that I see you more closely, I understand.  For you see, fair ladies, I have a gift: I not only know all my own past lives, but I can see the past lives of others, as well.  I see now that you are both sisters, or were hundreds of years ago, and daughters to me.  That song was known only to our tribe, and has not been played for over a century.  We were wiped out, all of us, by a grim betrayal.” 

At that moment, his calm broke.  Even as he wept openly, the two sisters moved in vain to comfort him.  Asking him more about himself, they learned that he was Roivas, a wanderer in this life, destined never to know a place of true rest.  This was because of the call of the Naililih, the guardian-spirits whom he served.  Being house-mates, and compassionate to his plight, the two sisters invited him to their house at once. 

Wind and Sybil gave Roivas their blessings and protection, as he was their guest, and introduced him to the rest of their coven.  Raven, Heather, She-Wolf and Delilah all received him, and made him welcome.  After Roivas brought the conversation to numerology, Heather noted that his addition brought their number up to seven, a very potent number.  Roivas interrupted, saying that he could never join any coven.  The powers that flowed through him were only for the protection of women, he told them, and would overpower and outbalance any circle’s harmony.  He then retired to his guest-room, to perform his rituals of prayer according to his vows to the Naililih.  There was a brief time of silence, and then the room exploded with questions and conjecture.

Which was, of course, how Roivas had wanted it.

Day and night, he stayed in his room, working his mighty magicks on behalf of the coven that had welcomed him.  “You see,” he explained, “only I, or another trained as I have been, can perform such rituals.  I dare not perform them before you, or you could be harmed by their power, having not been consecrated to them as I have.  Please, allow me to do this, in gratitude for all you have done for me.”  His conduct seemed to give credence to his claims of a sanctified life, and the coven gave him his space.  But when he was alone, he rested and laughed heartily.  Already, the coven was coming to trust him and his mystery more than they trusted themselves.

Wind had a nagging feeling that something was awry, but she did not want to seem either rude or a fool.  Therefore, she asked Raven to speak with Roivas in his room, and quietly scan the energies therein.  She shared none of her misgivings with Raven, and told no one else in the coven of their actions.  It seemed the wise thing to do.

Raven knocked, entered, and looked about.  Lord and Lady! thought she, I can’t see what he’s been doing at all!

She strained to see, and thought that perhaps she did see something.  So fearing to lose the respect of Roivas and of her coven, she pretended to see the energies and rituals he had been creating.

“What do you think, Lady?” asked Roivas, “I tried to tone it down a little, to be subtle. Did you notice the way I wove the elemental powers together, here and here?”

“Yes indeed,” said Raven, now half-believing that she saw what he spoke of. 

“I’m glad,” he said warmly, “that you think it might help. You know, most people couldn’t grasp the intricacy of this work, as you have done . . .”  They spent the next few hours talking, and Raven returned to Wind and told her how marvelous his magik was.

A few days later, Wind was again curious about how the work was progressing. Something seemed not quite right.  Still, she didn’t want to offend her guest, or hurt Raven’s feelings.  Therefore she quietly sent Heather to view his craft, again telling no one else in the coven of her concerns.  As had happened with Raven, Heather could see nothing, but betwixt her uncertainty and his flattery returned to Wind aglow with tales of Roivas’ power and insight.  So it went with She-Wolf and Delilah, as well. 

Over the next few weeks, Roivas further revealed that Heather had been a Highlands wise-woman, and his lover in a past life; that She-Wolf had always been a hunter and warrior, and that Delilah had been a priestess of Atlantis, helping him with the sacrament of the Old Gods.

Then Jane came to visit.

Jane was not a pagan, nor a witch, nor a sorceress of any stripe or hue.  She was the owner and operator of a health food store down the street from Wind and Sybil’s house, and had been friends with them for years.  The sisters told her how wonderful and insightful Roivas was, and Jane immediately smelled a rat.  She said as much, and advised them both to get rid of him.  Shocked by their friend’s attitude, they of course refused.

Jane shook her head.  “I don’t trust him.  It’s your business, you’re both adults, but for God’s sake be careful.  This sounds a bit too down pat, somehow.”  As a compromise, the two sisters invited Jane to their house to meet Roivas.  Surely if anyone could bring out her hidden talents in the mystic arts, it would be he. 

The evening went well at first, if a bit guardedly.  Then, Roivas began talking of the difficulty in mastering more than one style of magik, as he had. 

Jane didn’t care, and wasn’t concerned with spells.

“Of course not,” Roivas agreed.  “You have always been pragmatic.  Centuries ago, when you were in the Italian court—”

“I’m Christian,” Jane cut in.  “I don’t have past lives.”

Still later in the discussion, Roivas told her of his vows to use sex only in its highest, most pure and magikal form.  Jane didn’t care if he was found naked in a bathtub of lime Jell-O with two hippos and a hummingbird, and said as much.  Dinner went on in this vein for some time, and ultimately Jane left only after quietly asking her friends to kick out the fruit cup, sooner rather than later. 

When Wind and Sybil returned to the living room, they found Roivas sitting on the couch, hands clasped together, devastated.  Looking up at them with horror-struck eyes, he confessed that he had seen his worst fears realized.  For the traitor that had killed their tribe lifetimes ago had returned, masquerading as their friend!  This was why Jane denied having any past lives, he explained, and why she pretended not to be magically active.  It was the fate she had bound herself into—to destroy them all, life after life, so long as she got the chance.  She had probably tried to turn them against him, divide the three of them, hadn’t she?  So much the better pick them off later, now that they had re-united as a family.

That night, Wind slept badly, her few dreams sorely troubled.  Yet, morning found her awake and with newfound resolve: she would see his spells and energies herself, and judge him by his actions rather than by anyone’s words.  She gathered the whole of the coven together, and as one they went to see Roivas in his room.  There were serious charges on both sides, and it was time to see for certain.

She knocked.  He answered.  When she explained, he let them all in with good grace, understanding and compassionate.  All were in awe at Roivas’ magikal workings.  Even Roivas himself half-believed his stories by this time, and he joined them in the dance of words, always adding but never contradicting, describing the mastery of his magikal works.  “Magnificent!” said Wind’s coven-mates.  “How elegant, yet so simple . . . no wonder it takes so long to prepare!”

Wind, in the middle of it all, saw nothing.  Inwardly, she moaned, thinking the fault must lie in her.  Yet she put on a brave face and joined her voice with the others.  ”It’s dazzling, beautiful,” she chimed in.  And everyone agreed.

Change came quickly over the days that followed.  As Roivas’ vows forbade him from ever working against a woman, the coven worked without him.  They crafted spells against Jane in the name of defense and justice, and sure enough, her health began to suffer.  For his own part, Roivas spent little time in his room anymore.  He had explained that the magikal structure therein needed the space to grow during its last stages, and so he alternated sleeping in Wind’s bed and Sybil’s.  Of course, he knew that this would only be for a short while.  The rest of the coven was nearly convinced that his magik could only be taught through lovemaking, and soon he would reveal that the original, Atlantian Great Rite was an act of group sex.


* * * * *


The months passed for the coven in a rushed, dreamless sort of way.  Between lessons in Atlantian sorcery, Ninjitzu, and sex magik, not to mention all their jobs, there was little time for reflection—or thought at all, for that matter.  All too soon, it was weekend of the great Faire.  Here the protections he had placed upon them all would doubtless be most sorely needed, the training he’d been giving them best displayed.  

They walked out in full glory, proud of the powers they had gained from beloved Roivas, wishing he had accompanied them.  Practitioners of a hundred arts, not to mention a variety of groupies, fell silent to watch Zephyr Coven pass by.  Word had spread of their newfound powers, of their angelic auras and impenetrable shields, and everyone strained to witness.  No one could quite see these shields or angelic auras, of course.  There were echoes, born from their belief, but that was all.  But as each person there was afraid to be thought a fool or headblind, everyone strained to see, and many “Oh’s” and “Ah’s” sighed through the crowd.

Children had been brought to the fair, of course, as they were every year.  One little girl kept jumping up and down, trying to see as the procession went by.  At last she made her way to the front of the crowd.  And there, head cocked to one side (and in a much louder voice than she thought she used), she exclaimed, “But there’s nothing there!”

Slowly at first, but with rising speed and clarity, all present began to realize the truth.  The magikal wards were only dream-stuff and shadow, no more substantial than a promise made in wine.  Wind realized the truth, as did her coven, but they kept their heads held high as they finished their procession.  They would count on short memory to repair their tarnished reputation and ease their humiliation, made no less painful for having been shared.  By the time they returned to Wind and Sybil’s home, Roivas was gone.  So was all their cash, many of their valuables, and several credit cards.

Wind fled to her room and locked herself in.  “It’s all my fault,” she sobbed, “I’m not a priestess!  I’m not worthy of anything!  I’m nothing!  I should die!”  

Eventually, Sybil managed to pick the lock.  The sisters held each other until the tears stopped, and they could think again.  Late that night, the coven met, purified the house top to bottom, and somberly cast circle.  And, after much discussion, each member resolved never to allow herself to be duped again.


* * * * *



Zephyr Coven still exists today, though it has never been the same. It‘s the Walking Wounded Coven now, and while people meeting them can see the love and trust to be found there, it’s nothing like it was. 


Wind stepped down from her role as High Priestess the night that Roivas left, despite her friends’ protests.  She has never forgiven herself for “betraying her friends.”  Later, she left the Craft and the Goddess behind her entirely, and went into a business partnership with Jane.  To this day, she tries not to think too much about her days as a priestess, or the friends she needlessly left behind.  Jane is still trying to get Wind to talk about what happened, to no avail.  Wind trusts herself little, loves herself less, and is weaker for it. 

Sybil is High Priestess now, as she has been ever since Wind stepped down.  She rarely laughs anymore.  She takes full responsibility for her own decisions, and for the decisions of everyone around her.  This leaves scant time for laughter.

Raven and Heather were married six months after the Faire disaster, and are completely devoted to one another.  Raven trusts no one now, save for Heather.  Heather, for her part, continually looks for ways to force her wife to trust again.  Between them, they have established a cycle that could go on forever.

After Roivas, She-Wolf learned to harden her heart, and resolved that all men are evil.  She holds now that love, especially love for a man, is a weakness that corrodes the will.  This is the creed that she taught her daughter, Lilith, born nine months after Roivas fled.  Her coven-mates have always done their best over the years, but there’s a limit as to how much they can do to soften such bitterness.  Further, while Lilith knows she can talk to the rest of the coven, she dreads the day her boyfriends are discovered.

Delilah can no longer feel whole or loved unless she is in a sexual relationship, basing her self-image solely on the pleasure she can give men.  She and She-Wolf are still friends, each determined to help the other learn and grow through these trying times. 

All these psychic scars naturally caused their own problems in due course.  But, that is a story for another time.



(Thanks to Ms. Pamela Coleman-Smith, who illustrated A. E. Waite's designs for a tarot deck, as published by the William Rider & Son of London in 1909.)

Tuesday, May 7, 2013

Finals Spring 2013

At least, one hopes it is Spring 2013.

We've had Spring once a week here for the last month or so, and I am hoping that this one sticks.  I have finals this week and next, and a large paper due as well.  So, there will be no update next week.  The following week, however, I should have my gazette on the pantheon of Spring 2013, and I hope you will all join me.

There is a constant oscillation for me during finals week for most of my classes.  On the one hand, I know I have this covered.  I am, after all, brilliant and all that.  On the other hand, I know that I am prone to overconfidence.  And so I may stress a little, wondering if my feeling prepared is just me setting myself up for disaster.



I was a dishtowel cape kid.  Completely satisfied that I could fly, and why not, I would leap from huge heights (well, to a four-year-old) and generally come crashing down shortly thereafter   On occasion, there was hang time.  "Aha," I would say to myself, "I'm getting close.  If I could just get a little more altitude."  *WHAM!*  "You know, I think I need a bigger cape."

To this day, my reaction to heights generally comes in two parts.  The first is an instinctive response, independent of all reason, to seeing the round looming cartoon-like stories below: "Hmm.  I could make that.  In fact, if I keep my arms out just right, I bet I cold just glide right over those trees..."

My second response, which is amazingly dependent on reason, offers the democratic response of clutching the nearest stable object and not letting go.  Others, looking on, will misunderstand and try to comfort me with assurances that the railing is quite strong, etc.  And all the while, my hoarse whisper, unheard, "You don't understand, my medulla is trying to kill me!"



Some classes are immune to this effect.  My Anatomy/Physiology class, for example, was amazingly resilient in the face of my self-inflating ego.  But otherwise, when it comes to a blend of competence and cocksurety, I'm pretty well up there with Joshua Norton and Moses.




So, over the next week-plus, I am erring on the side of caution.  And I will say that thus far this has never done me harm.  But in the meantime, between confidence and caution, there will be no post next week.



And I am still looking for a big enough cape.

Sometime again,

--Coyote

(Stupendous Man is (c) Bill Watterson, and so is billionaire playboy Calvin.  No one knows why they have neevr been seen together.  All rights reserved.)