Oh, fine.

I confess.


I made the grid crash because I really wanted an extra evening in which to add tulle swags to the pews in the church. They're just so plain as-is, aren't they?


I knew you'd understand.

Er. Oops?

There is something not quite right with my mind.

I'm not simply stating a fact which must be plainly obvious to anyone with whom I have a passing acquaintance, but actually declaring: there has to be something wrong with me. Why else would I volunteer (in a roundabout way, but still) to do for the entertainment of others something at which I generally tend to fail, and to do it in a particular way in which I have no experience? Caught up in the excitement of the meeting for the new Prim Perfect/Connolly Telegraph collaborative magazine, Primgraph, I cheerfully spoke up to offer my services. And was promptly taken up on the offer. And made a social correspondent. The recluse, who's never written an article before... *flail* I'm going to need to learn a great deal, and rather quickly, in order not to turn out to be a complete embarrassment.

Luckily, the subject does indeed interest me very much, and I'm looking forward to being able to work with some extremely talented people, and- maybe most of all- excited to have something valuable to contribute at last. Curiously, this gives me the opportunity to return to a project I'd begun a couple of months back, which involves one of my favorite guilty pasttimes: the categorization of data (mmmm, data)- in this case, a survey of the residents of Caledon and their activities and creations. The scope of Primgraph, of course, extends well beyond our 19th century shores, encompassing as it does all communities inspired by the historical period between 1740 and 1920- so, potentially, very large indeed. I'm only sorry that places such as Versailles and Al-Andalus will likely have to be excluded, but perhaps not from everything.

Much more on this to come, in any case!

Sorry you asked?

I am TAGGED, says Mr. O'Toole, and must obey. For the record, I sympathize with Miss Orr in that I did do this once already for the benefit of non-SL friends- this time it's somewhat easier, since... they know me, and you, whomever you are, do not. Unless you've been stalking me. Which is highly unlikely, but just in case:

1) In real life, I am a krav maga master. My favorite weapon is a sterling silver cheese grater.




...fine, if you're going to be like that, I'll start over.

First, since it relates to my tagger... Within my extended family, I seem to have inherited the rare gene that designates one as the next keeper of the family histories, the recipient of the genealogical bug, as it were. I enjoy placing things in context, I suppose. I'm also something of a Shakespeare enthusiast. So it was with great amusement that, last year, I traced one of my lines quite unexpectedly back to this fellow (and his ally, incidentally, but that's another story...) Obviously, the amusement was renewed when I met Mr. O'Toole.

Second, in spite of the occasional bewilderment of my parents and pretty modest resources, I did somehow manage to come by a stereotypical Southern girl's upbringing in many respects- cotillions, etiquette lessons, riding in shows and all of that, culminating (after a move up north) in a debut at two traditional deb balls when I was seventeen. I'm not much for waiting for anyone to make my life romantic; I'd rather arrange it myself, and so far, it's working out well.

Third, when asked as a prekindergartener by a school yearbook reporter what I intended to be when I grew up, my reply was, "I haven't really decided yet whether I want to be a princess, or a zookeeper." Almost two decades later, I still can't choose between the two.

Fourth, my cat Spaulding has the build and weight of a good-sized terrier and can pretty much pwn you, and your dog. He's been my companion for almost half my life.

Fifth, I've sold portrait sketches, despite the fact that I never intended to sell any. I gave one as a wedding gift to a friend who happened to have friends who happened to like it. But it's a very personal thing; I draw my entire understanding of a person when I attempt their portrait, and that's not something I'd want to do with strangers. It's too bad, because the money would be nice. I don't have to worry about selling any paintings- I have a few dozen canvases, and have never finished one.

Sixth, I listen to classical music almost exclusively. Oh, there are exceptions, but I rarely seek out modern music I like because it usually does so little for me. Beautiful music is probably the only unadulterated joy in my life- both listening to it, and creating it as a singer in various choirs, and cellist. People on SL have been wonderful about exposing me to music I wouldn't otherwise hear, though I have to admit that often I'll turn the sound off at raves and the like. Not because I dislike it per se, but because I cannot follow the conversations if when my mind is also trying to process lyrics, due to the fact that...

Seventh, I have severe ADHD, de-emphasis on the H. The absolute best part of it, I have to say, is encountering people who either a) think it doesn't exist except as an excuse for laziness or stupidity, or b) think that you're one of the people who claim to have it without ever having been actually diagnosed by competent evaluators, or at all. For the most part, I don't tell people, because it's less demoralizing to be thought of as unwilling than unable. There is no area of my life that this has failed to affect in some significant, negative manner. I guess, then, if you ever wonder where my mind is... I'm looking for it too.

Eighth, I have about 100,000 words of a historical novel written, and probably about as many left to write. There are several others in lesser stages of completion, and their existence enables me to write the main one... I'll manage to put down a page or perhaps two at a time, and then have to set it aside and pick up another because that's all my concentration will allow. It's tempting to weave them all together into a Dickensian morass, but I have pity on my future readers. Oddly, I really don't like short stories, though I've written them for practice (and publishing in magazines). Gloire, incidentally, has an extensive history, but I probably won't write it apart from the disjointed mutterings on my other blog. She and I have a little too much in common.

I don't think there's anyone left to tag at this point, so bye-bye, meme!

A smallish note of thanks

I didn't know what to expect from my first rezday party. It felt a little odd to celebrate it, in the first place, since I didn't start to log in regularly until almost the middle of March. And to be completely honest, I didn't expect anyone to really show up- things are always busy in Caledon, and... "What poster?" asked my friend, only a few hours before the party when I asked him if he'd be dropping by. I was hoping some would for Gnarli's sake more than mine, since he went to the trouble of arranging everything. For whatever reason, people did, and what resulted was a lovely evening of the sort I favor in RL. Between the darling gifts (a cello! from Mr. Abel, a buoy with bells! from Mr. O'Toole, a tea-table from Lady Christine with scoooooones- just to name a few), the perfect music thanks to Sir Edward, the laughter, and good company from everyone who came, I really felt quite blessed and touched by everybody's kindness. Thank you all so much. :)

LULZ, and such

First, if you can't tell, I give up (I really do) on making the blog look like something. Wrestled with the blasted thing for hours and after much swearing, reverted back to... well, it's very brown, isn't it? But nicely mellow, so it'll do for now. Perhaps the next time I'm feeling masochistic, I'll give it another whirl, but not just at present.

Second... how cheated do I feel by the fact that I completely missed out on Middlesea getting shut down by griefers the other day. By the time I woke up from my restful nap, our GGLS and two vigilant Lindens had come and gone, and the sim was purring along like nothing at all had happened. Take a moment to imagine my disappointment, if you can, as I surveyed the utter lack of destruction and noted the dismayingly lagless performance. Where were the 50m banners of Trotsky? Where were the thousands of self-replicating clock spiders? Where were my lulz? Am I not furry enough for these people? Who do I have to click around here to get buried under a mountain of flying phalli?

These griefers have no respect.

Orcas and I: A Poem

Twilight comes. I gaze

on these gentle beasts, and think:

fricken' laser beams?

To paraphrase an old friend:

Reports of my not having a life have been greatly exaggerated.

Apologies, apologies

The more confused I am, the less I want to write. You can imagine, therefore, that my mind is typically a jumble, and that the last several weeks have been worse than usual. During most of it, I've wanted nothing more than to retreat to my cave... things have a way of resolving themselves and even when I'm present, it sometimes feels as though there's little I can do. It's not exactly wise or considerate of me to attempt to be sociable when I'm reeling from things that have nothing to do with the people or place I'm around- so I've mostly stayed off SL (and away from acquaintances in real life, though it's sort of pointless to mention them because they don't know I have an SL and won't be reading this, but whatever.)
Right, so... sorry? I forgot if I had anything worthwhile to say.

The Cape of Cod

It's come at last, the week to which I look forward all year: Cape Cod week. Writer's Conference week- although I won't be attending that this year because none of the classes appealed too hugely to me. The evening lectures are always surprisingly interesting, however. Last year they had Dennis Lehane for a talk and a reading one night, and although I actually tried to get out of going because I hadn't read or seen Mystic River or any of the rest of his stuff, it ended up being my favorite night of the week due to a rather thrilling reading of his work-in-progress, a novel (or novels, according to Wikipedia) on the Boston Police Strike of 19somethingorother. Which, normally, sounds like a subject that would've had me falling asleep on the painfully hard hardwood benches, except that the man has a gift for building suspense and tension.

It didn't hurt that he's kind of cute in person. Married, of course, but so is everyone else in the entire world.

Anyway, I'll be gone until next Sunday or thereabouts, assuming I'm unable to locate a steady internet connection. The wireless on the green is perfectly fine for posting blogs (sorry!) but I doubt it'd appreciate my attempting to fire up SL, even assuming downloading and running it didn't melt my laptop into a small puddle of plastic and metal and hate.

Therefore, instead of staring longingly at the virtual water as I'm wont to do, I'll be gazing peacefully at this:




...and being generally as happy as an unfried clam.



In Other News: Is it sad when getting hit on during a late night Slushie run at the Quick-E-Mart* makes one's day?



I'll be back in a week, .03% closer to death by skin cancer.











* All convenience stores are Quick-E-Mart to me.

Beware of Flashback

Decided to make more of an effort to post in my in-character blog in order to (as recommended by a knowledgeable soul) give me more of a basis from which to conduct myself in-game. Not that I expect to do much serious roleplaying, really; SL isn't conducive to that, yet. But it never hurts to practice writing, and I hate to waste a character, so... expect many trips to the Department of Backstory in between her reflections upon the present day.

Hopefully it will not all be OH-NOES-TEH-PAIN and have some redeeming qualities, but I won't be holding my breath and I'd recommend that you not, either. Okay? Okay.

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In light of the fact that I am utterly incapable of dressing myself...

(...as any self-respecting noblewoman really ought to be, I might add in my defense), I am hereby soliciting applications for a maidservant.

Her duties shall be confined to lacing me, ensuring that I do not leave the house a sartorial failure, bringing my morning chocolate, and removing all traces of a gentleman's presence from my bedchamber before the next gentleman arrives.

The fourth is somewhat tentative at the moment, but one should always be prepared for the possibility of a total moral collapse.

Second... Mom?

Let this be a lesson, my friends: if you have parents or family who are in any way technologically inclined, do not tell them about Second Life unless you want them to join it. Obviously, if this bit of advice was taught elsewhere before, I missed it completely. Evidently my usual common sense was not enough to prevent me from blundering headlong into folly.

Purely so I would have something to talk about with them (my first life at the moment being rather boring due to the amount of hours I work and being, unlike them, an introvert by choice,) I've taken to talking about some of my interesting explorations of Second Life to my parents. I thought it would mostly interest Dad, since he's the most tech-advanced of us all, and this seemed to be the case for some time. He happened to be engaged to give a talk recently that touched upon ideas of individuality and the soul and technology, and almost in passing happened to mention Second Life. Afterwards, a woman came up to him and my mother and gave them her card... which had a picture of her avatar on it. Apparently, she happens to run a rather active place of worship on SL. And they talked. Evidently, for a good while. It was at this point last night's retelling that I began to squirm slightly in precognition.

My mother wants to join Second Life and run spirituality and healing workshops. She does this in her first life, among many, many other things, and I have no doubt whatsoever of her capability of doing it, but... my dear God (literally, I guess). This is rather disturbing. While my mother is a perfectly competent adult (obviously), she remains, at least in terms of first-hand experience, fairly naive as to the depth and breadth of internet weirdness. She was a practicing psychologist for years and came of age in the 60s and 70s, and yet I am doubtful as to whether she could remain unshocked by certain things on SL. I don't think it would be beneficial for her in any way to ever become unshocked; I think that jadedness to such things is the curse, or occasional blessing, of newer generations such as mine which will always have been exposed to them. It's not something worth acquiring if one can avoid it. I grant that I am somewhat overprotective of my parents- I've been attempting to protect them from me ever since I first disappointed them- but this, I feel, is within reason. How can I possibly protect her from the crazy? Perhaps this person whom she met has a good idea of how to handle problems that might arise, and it's likely, if she's well established, but I will have a hard time seeing my mother go anywhere other than Info Island or Caledon (except during a rave...). I just don't trust other places.

I don't worry too much about her raising an eyebrow at my playing a character, because apparently she wants to do so herself, something I find adorable but which made me raise both brows because I'm well aware that she always used to consider my roleplaying on MUDs to be weird. Which it probably was, but I think she'll find that it can be quite fun and educational as well.Oh, and apparently my brother-in-law also considered at least logging on (he's in advertising, and is curious about all such things) but he couldn't find a last name he liked. My sister considered it, but decided she doesn't have enough time. I had no idea that I was so influential!

Okay, I think I'm going to go cry awhile over the idea of my mother tping over to hang out with me.

When's Friday again?

The purpose of this blog is not to kvetch about my first life, but allow me to say at least this in response to this week's schedule, which has me working from 7pm until 5am every day but Friday:

MEH.

But at least nobody was depending upon me to be in-game, and so I can bear the bitter, bitter agony of separation rather well. My castle-thing, however, missed me dreadfully. I can tell by its forlorn, bedraggled appearance, which has nothing at all to do with my building skills and everything to do with my neglect. Horrors, there's to be an Eyre simwarming sort of party on Friday, I think, and it's nowhere near ready to show. Can't decide whether I want to prod it into some semblance of unfurnished order, or leave the windmill standing and offer rides that day. Pride versus sanity, and in the end, neither will win, because I'll give in to the former but ultimately fail to complete anything worth showing, and then be forced to settle for the windmill after all. I could use this realization to help me alter my behavior for the better, but I'm just sleep-deprived enough that I will not.

Found the Caledon: The Motion Picture list to be too amusing, and largely accurate (I will not debate what I do not know) and so spent a half-second deciding what lucky actress would have the pleasure of playing Gloire. It would probably have to be Rose Byrne. You know, that undersized Australian girl who tends, at least in my opinion, to choose characters who are ever so slightly unhinged... no resemblence at all on the last point, but she'll do well enough. And she is appropriately not nearly as well-known as anyone on the main list. There's also Rachel Weisz (undersized, English, and unhinged) but I'm afraid that might be forgetting my place.

House? Or Funhouse?

And you thought it was just for providing a precociously ecological alternative to the soot-belching furnaces that elsewhere pollute fair Caledon's skies!




Shame on you.

On a recent trip off Caledon to throw away my money on pretty useful pretty things, I staggered into Bare Rose and was almost immediately struck in the face by a fluffy neko tail and in the heart by the Dhampir Rider... costume (is the only word.) It comes with a pair of breeches and a jaunty waist sash which will absolutely be making an appearance at an upcoming dance. It also comes with a passamenterie-adorned jacket which, I delightedly realized, could be combined with the horridly-made skirt I created for the Reconciliation Day Ball, tinted to a deep mocha brown, and paired with my Huguenot cross for a moderately irreverent highlighting of the decollete. As so:

Perfect, I have found, for those tedious waits by yon bonnie banks and/or braes when, after having taken exceeding care to follow the high road to its conclusion as specifically directed, one discovers that one has been most rudely stood up by one's true love, who is probably, at that very moment, desecrating some other shady glen with that blowsy tramp Ailsa Kerr whose penchant for Englishmen is common talk from here to Ben Hope.

(Wi' apologies to Lady Scott or whomever actually did write the thing, and to my ancestors. But not to the English.)

I has a windmill.

And it may be the cutest thing I've ever seen. It spins. It mills. It makes a deep whushing sound that I suspect I could grow very much used to. It even, god bless it, has dirt on its none-too-recently whitewashed inner walls. Yet I am cursing Ms. Wind's name for building it, because it breaks my heart to have to take it down!

The sad truth is that my IC self, that tenuous and questionable entity, is not the type to live in a windmill, even the most precious one that ever existed, unless perhaps she's hiding out from being pursued by assassins or pirates or something, and I'm afraid that I'm not aware of anyone being after her. So I will probably be going ahead with the half-ruined mountaintop castle a la Burg Schadeck. Eyre, after all. One must uphold a certain quasigothic standard. Imagine- if you can- Rochester brooding in the shadow of an aesthetically appealing and eminently practical windmill.

No, it simply can't be done.

Pardon me, sir...

...yes. You.

Er, yes. It's lovely to see you, but aren't you perhaps just a little bit... close?

Sir? Really now.

All right, I truly am sorry, but I must take exception...

Sir, if you would please step back just a little bit? 30m or so?

SIR-

ALL RIGHT, BACK OFF THE PLOT.

...that is better. Thank you.

Gone until Monday night

Observe my extreme joy at the prospect of missing both the Tournament for Life and the Caledon formal ball this weekend.





Yeah.

On the other hand, of course, my first life will be unusually fun during the next few days as I traipse around San Francisco, spending too much money on pretty things and too rarely-available time on family and friends. So, no more grumbling. Waste of time, and I have a plane to catch!

Oh snap.

Had an unexpectedly grand time last night shooting a couple dozen photos of the CAF in action. The flying da Vinci-esque things and the balloon were so gorgeous up there against the sparkling sky that I couldn't resist. I'm not sure what it is about this place that makes me shy as hell, but it was no different last evening... I just decided, at the end of it, to ignore it and send off the pictures to the Colonel, since he'd mentioned it. Shock and awe, they liked my shots! Maybe I do have something to contribute after all.

It's been a rough couple of weeks work-wise offscreen, and disgustingly summerlike besides, so I haven't been putting much effort into SL. I did, however, download the Avimator, and... muahaha. My god, I love that thing. First project? Replicating poses from famous paintings. If we must be a geek, we might as well be an artistic one. The difficulty this creates, however, is that suddenly I find I may need to buy more... costumes. For the sake of... authenticity. Quite. I'm resigned to the fact that I'm probably not going to become some fabulous fashion designer- I mostly don't have the freaking patience- so this is going to take some serious scouring of the grid. I'll be documenting said scouring in Yet Another Blog, which will be added Sometime Later. It occurs that I have a significant amount of otherwise completely useless knowledge about historical costume (no, I'm not in the SCA; no, I don't cosplay... I just read too much,) so why not put it to use?

It May Be Fatal

I'm king of the Siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiim!

Oh God. I'm already so, so sorry for that.

...well, maybe not.