Was it you who spoke the words

Thought for the day

2009-12-17T13:16:25Z

Perhaps the fact that "Go Away Godboy" is my son's favourite way to start a morning means I've succeeded in nipping one more potential religious stalker in the bud.

(Maybe it just means I'm never going to see my Sirens disc again.)

Tangentially related, we watched Inkheart a couple of nights ago; now he wants to learn to spin fire.

Drifting

2009-12-11T15:01:22Z

~~~~~~~~~

Now off to mark the biggest book I've ever handled for sewing, that beautiful beautiful monster.
Must not be daunted and freeze.
Must remember I know what the hell I'm doing.
Must remember what the hell I'm doing...

"But the sword is SO beautiful..."

2009-12-05T23:37:58Z

The first of five installments, and the story's not over.
Methinks I'll have to find someone's written version of the Volsunga saga, though, given that Mr. Carruths hasn't updated the series since May, and I know not where it might've gone.
Alas.
Once I got into his delivery, it was glorious.

Kleptothermia

2009-12-02T00:31:40Z

Snuggling Mark, just now, I slipped hands beneath his shirt. His little belly, how I love to pet it. Usually this gesture is greeted with amused tolerance. But tonight?

"NO!" he shrieks, leaping away from me and hauling his shirt and sweater hems down.
I blink. This isn't the serious voice, this is the gremlin voice, but those hems mean business. "No?"
"NO CAN HAZ MA HEETZ!"
"Oh." I giggle. "I don't mean them to be cold, you know. It just happens."
"Let it happen over there." He's grinning now, though still out of reach. "J00 can haz ma heetz if I iz radi8n them, but NO CAN HAZ FRM SOURCE! I'Z USIN IT!"

It's that time of year again, you see. The temperature has dropped and stayed below 50F; my hands and feet will now feel as though we carved them from the azure heart of an iceberg. I forget they do this because I don't notice any joint stiffness or decreased dexterity, only that now I walk through the house aware of the warm spots. While we're cooking, Mark will remind me he's left one of the stove's eyes on; I'll already know, having been basking.

I forget that not everybody gets this way until I touch one of you who actually do all of what endotherms are supposed to, and things like this happen.

And now I'm fighting the urge to chase the man through the house with my Icy Hands of Doom splayed wide. I'm fighting the urge because I know where my beloved furnace sleeps, and I want a nice buffer of goodwill built up before I put my feet on his calves.

Float

2009-11-28T02:13:38Z

Dunno what's with me. Wherever I am, whatever I'm doing, it's like there's a three minute delay between body and spirit. Damn latency; it's insinuating itself between me and life, and I don't dig it.

O crewe?
What brings your feet back to the ground beneath them?

Further Fae-Con decompression

2009-11-23T03:38:37Z

Kate with her bright eyes has charmed the pen off my collar and is sharing it and a slip of paper with The Jack. They scribble to each other, merry and headdown like a pair of crowgirls with a spinny shiny toy. <3

I pick at my food, having suddenly decided that the broccoli and mushrooms are the interesting bits here and wondering whether the absence of beef was a bad idea or a really good one. There's curiosity bubbling--you remember the Bugs Bunny gag where he peeks into his cupped palms, looks at the other person in the skit, and turns away to go back to peeking?--but I pat it on the head. Either patience will pay or it won't; as long as I get my pen back, it's all good.

A flurry of paper and suppressed giggling, and the note is before Krys's eyes. Silence while she reads, then further silence (amused but tired and slowly losing patience) as she hands back the note and pinches her fingers together before Kate's face. No. Rather, No. Eloquent silences; I remember Graham Nash.

Kate grins, the same grin David Crosby gave Graham Nash around a mouthful of pick on that night back in 1970. Endearing entreaty. Her fist nods yes hopefully?

No. Fingers bite off the denial. About to stop being cute. Funny once, Mike.

Oh, we're back to the gecko, I think. "The gecko?" I ask Kate, around a cheekful of broccoli.

"Not exaaactly..." she grins.

And then, in language a coder would describe as elegant (it wastes nothing and conveys much), The Jack tells us about finding horses on Craigslist for free.

Free pony! Come on! What girl could resist?!

"The thing is," she says, "the horse itself isn't the expensive part of having one. It's the stable, the food, the training that cost." And apparently, there are folk who discover that fact AFTER buying the horse and so consider it a net gain to give the beastie away rather than pay and pay and pay. I blink.

(In my family, the horses were for admiring when they came up the hill to graze in the back yard. Neither was for riding, not unless you were grandda. They were for remembering Wyoming and their cousins who still ran wild, and for quietly renewing the curse on the ass who first caught the elder mare and treated her so poorly. The barn stood; the hay grew; the land has been ours for generations. I'd never had to muck out a stall or bale the hay; what did I know?)

Free pony. On Craigslist. So.

Krys speaks. "No, Kate, you may not have a pony."
"How about a place to keep the pony, and food for it?"
"No."
"But the pony itself might be free! From Craigslist!"

A wealth of horrifying possibilities fly past my eyes at that. Oh gods, nip that idea fast.
I put down my fork and raise an eyebrow. "Kate, honey, there's a lot of things free on Craigslist; doesn't mean it's a good idea to bring any of 'em home."

The Jack curls up a little and swallows more laughter.
Krys looks like she's just been goosed by God--not sure whether to laugh or smack someone, not sure who to smack.
Kate blinks, assessing reactions, and decides by them that there must be a sexual innuendo in there. She blinks some more and goes back to picking at her noodles, blushing.

And I...suddenly remember I'm talking to a 13-year-old girl.
~facepalm~
Yeah.
Sorry about that, babe.
It's still true, though.

"A Handful of Stars"

2009-11-18T04:31:18Z

Give me, O Night, a blessing
Of peace, and a handful of stars--
Give me , O Dawn, a begining,
New life, and a healing of scars;
Give me, O Day, a freshening
Of spirit, and warmth in the sun--
Give me, O Earth, of thy bounty,
Strength for the task I've begun.

Leave me, O Night, of your stillness
A calm for my inward soul--
Leave me a breath of your darkness
To cool me, and keep me whole;
Leave me the wind in the willows
The roll of the surf and the sea--
Leave me, Beloved, my memories
Of dreams you have given to me.

--Louis L'Amour, from
Smoke From This Altar

Bad Faeries. Bad, bad faeries...

2009-11-09T04:33:44Z

"Your boots! Is that really metal?" inquires a lovely redhead standing beside the charming demon we'd met earlier.
"It is," he answers for me, "They were once a street sign, correct?"
"Correct," I reply, turning one toe for general inspection. "Cut and heated and hammered and rolled. Strong enough to stand on; try."
The lass selling ad space in her bodicecollar and I share a smile as she tests her weight on the offered toecap. No stress.
"Was it a STOP sign by chance?" the demon asks. He's leading this for effect; we've had this conversation already.
I turn my grin on him. "No. A YIELD sign."
General laughter.
Brni returns from buying CDs. "She does have her own stop-signs, though," he says, "and I find it's best not to run them."
"Too right," says I, canting an eyebrow and smiling at my friend.
The demon catches up my hand. "Lady," he says, "you have fine taste." He drops a kiss on my knuckles. "And you taste fine as well."
"Darling," I wink, taking back my hand and a step or two of space, "you have no idea."

Just for the record:

2009-11-04T15:43:39Z

My mother-in-law is AWESOME.
And I need to pack...

ladywind @ 2009-11-03T12:26:00

2009-11-03T18:30:34Z

Text of a note sent home by my son's teacher:

"Dear Parents,

Please talk with your child about how Indian names were different from his/her name. Indian children had names that told something about them. Some examples: Little Pale Moon, Running Bear, Little Cloud, Three Stars. (Of course, their names were said in Indian words and didn't sound like the English names do.)

Your child has something special about himself that could be used to create an Indian picture name that would identify him/her. Help your child think up a picture name that suits him/her--making sure that your child can draw the picture name. Thanks!"

...
Right.
1) We're not even going to start with the "pretend to be an Indian for Thanksgiving so you too can welcome the Pilgrims" thing. The second it looks like this indoctrination is actually sticking, we're pulling out the smallpox blanket stories and the Why They Left England In The First Place stories.

2) We will, however, spare a moment for the "There's no difference between the Algonquin tribes who had to deal with the first influx of invaders and the Plains tribes we'll dress the kids up as" bullshit. Honest to God. It makes me want to fit a kid out in Austrian tracht for St. Patrick's Day, because Whitefolk Are All The Same, Too, Right? It burns...

3) I'd much rather give him an "original Pilgrim picture name"; at least then the only culture I'm poking in the eye is one I share 97% blood with. That and "Vengeance-Is-Mine-Sayeth-The-LORD Stevenson" just has a ring to it.

Gah....

Homesign

2009-11-01T15:01:21Z

The snoring stops and what sounds like a struggle for first breath begins. I look over my shoulder, waiting to welcome Mark to the day.

"No squid tonight," burbles up from his throat. Eyes aren't even open yet. This should be interesting.
"What?" His sleeping brain is much better acquainted with lucid language than mine; word salad is uncommon. I'm curious where this is going, where it's coming from.
"No. Squid. Tonight."
Okay, that message was intentional. Now what's it mean?
"Okay, no squid tonight. Should there have been?"
"NO!"
"No squid how?"
"No eating squid tonight."
"Okay, I won't let you."
"NO! YOU! No squid for you!"
"...kindof a shame, but okay. Why not?"

"Nightmare," he says. And then he makes this gesture. This beautiful fluid gesture that starts small with the popping into mouth of calamari, then builds into a frenzy of arms erupting from his mouth and reaching out to drag a large unwilling being back into the mouth and close up tight.

"OH GOD! NO SQUID TONIGHT!"
"Tha's what I've been saying, yeah."

Dissonant

2009-11-01T03:19:15Z

I'm probably missing the point.

I know that I should be celebrating the lives of my folk who've passed, honouring what was valuable about interactions that have run their course, looking at the year gone by and laying to rest the habits that didn't serve and being glad for the ones that did.

But all I can think is 1) Uncle Howard's gone; will his kids bother to show for the reunion in July? and 2) wow, I am capable of fucking some stuff right up.

It makes the parade of kids in dinosaur, ninja, and salaryman-devouring-schoolgirl getups kindof fade for me.

Bah.
Alright, Jess.
Enough.

ladywind @ 2009-09-29T09:36:00

2009-09-29T15:04:32Z

(I'm quietly certain that at some point, my cousins' mother is going to send me a private facebook-ping and ask me to stop talking to her children.

First, it was encouraging her 16-year-old to not-wuss-out because his band gave him the boot by telling him about four or five guys whose bands gave them the boot or who spent years being broke and unloved before experience accreted into fame. I didn't even mention the more drug-steeped ones!

Now it's "Bi and Gay Folk Are Human, Too 101" in a comment thread at her 13-year-old's. I'm keeping it age-appropriate and non-confrontational, but yeah, there it goes, I just outed myself to a member of my family. Because damn it, how much of Glynis shunning my granddad was because he was a preacher and she figured it was better to reject someone before they rejected her? How much of her life did she spend isolated from kin who loved her because of fear? I don't want to live that way. Just on the off chance the 13-year-old turns out anything like me, I don't want her to have to live that way, either.

And anyhow, it's a 101 that I wish more 13-year-olds got. Maybe folk like Matt Shepard would still be breathing if, as kids, the gits who killed him had gotten the word that Gay Folk Aren't The Devil.

So yeah. Just like when the girl in Dae's preschool asked why my hair was purple and I told her? Kid asks whether being bi is fun, I'm'a tell her. "It's a lot like being straight--you still get fumbletongued when you crush on somebody. You still fall in love every bit as hard, for most of the same reasons. It's just that the person you're head over heels for sometimes shops in the same clothing department as you do. There's the added hassle of listening to folk crack gay jokes around you, if you pass for straight by dating a guy. But yeah. We're people."

Since my cousins' mom is the one who started that thread, maybe just maybe I won't get the Cease & Desist today...but I'm still kindof convinced it's coming someday.)

ladywind @ 2009-09-26T11:08:00

2009-09-26T16:14:51Z

MARK: handing JESS his ESPRESSO CUP Eh. Look at that. You could do tasseomancy with what's left in that.

JESS: peering into the ESPRESSO CUP I see a lingering kiss in your future. And a very handsy female.

Thing discovered today:

2009-09-18T14:16:42Z

When I "grow up", I want to be as full of grace as my ~16-year-old cousin.
Dude trips me out and makes me humble.

We've got to stop meeting like this.

2009-09-14T14:17:18Z

My greataunt was more or less kidnapped from her Florida home by Mom & Gran & Grandda--they'd only been landed there for about an hour before Howard closed his eyes and his daughter started passing the word. "I don't know if I can make the trip," was met with, "You're staying with me for the week; your daughter will come up and fetch you home. And if she can't, you're staying with me for the month until I can take you home myself. Look, love, your bags are already packed. Into the car we go." So.

I wish I knew how to bring as many relatives out of the ground for a reunion as come out for a funeral. It would be good--oh, gods, so good--to be able to be round these glorious lunatics without feeling someone's shade is in the next room.

But if you want to be that way about it, there'll be shades at any reunion, so hey, take crack where you find it, right?

And it was good crack yesterday; I didn't want to leave.

I met a cousin who looked so much like his great grandfather it was scary, right down to fitting into Howard's shoes and suits. The entire day, it was as if Howard was standing there with my cousin tucked under his arm. Which was good, because he (the cousin) spent a significant chunk of the day with his little brother tucked underneath his arm. Such a person.

I met a cousin who nearly broke three of my ribs with a hug instead of a hello, bless her. I was half tempted to pick her up and swing her.

I met someone--I assume another cousin--whose son handed her a stack of Kerouac and Vonnegut to read while she recovered from a surgery, so that when he got "So it goes" tattooed on his left wrist, she would understand. (I asked whether she'd ever read Zen & the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, or if he had. She said he probably had, but she'd missed it. So I offered that up for further recovery reading. "It's better punctuated than Kerouac and not quite the same punch in the diaphragm as Vonnegut," I said. "Oh, good," she replied.)

I learned that I'm not the only photogeek in the family (or even the best one! yah for talented relatives. <3) and not the only SF fan and not the only pirate.

And I hugged folk. Was hugged by folk. Gently teased folk and was gently teased by them. Laughed and ate and listened and hugged some more. Traded contact data, so maybe-just-maybe the huge nest of us who live within 50 miles of one another can see each other somewhere besides a wake. Even though they are wonderful wakes.

I think Howard would've been proud. When I close my eyes, I see him playing badminton and flinging himself after the birdie, tripping over a guy line, and going ass over tippet into Gran's gardenias. He came up laughing.

This was like that.
<3

My poor grandfather...

2009-09-11T20:39:32Z

So...

Way back when Grandda and Gran got engaged, and announced it to their families (none of whom were surprised, very, given the have-his-mother-vet-her/ask-her-father-for-permission process and the fact that Grandda was right smitten, but I suppose there was a chance my shrewd Gran might've looked at the smitten man through a loup and decided he was a bad risk...), the difference in their upbringing was brought into sharp focus.

Grandda's brother Howard swept Gran up in a big bear hug and kissed her cheek for glee.

Gran was mortified. To be grabbed and hugged and kissed--in public!--by someone not her betrothed? Unacceptable.

Grandda was dumbfounded by this, as was Howard. She was family now, and he was happy for his little brother's good fortune, and when family make you happy, you squeeze them. Hell, when family stand within snuggling range, you squeeze them if they look like they could use a squeeze. That's just how they were. What was wrong?

Where Gran came from, it just wasn't done, that's what.

Well alright, that's enough. Sorry about that. Welcome to the family.

Thank you kindly.

And that was that.

Every time Uncle Howard came to one of the family reunions, you could see the light dancing in his eyes as he greeted my grandmother. A hand to shake, he cups it in both his, smiles warmly at her. Then squeezes his brother as tight as he's able. Then sits or stands somewhere out of the way to wait for his brother's daughters and their daughters to accost him for hugs.

You could tell who took after Gran and who didn't. One or two polite chin-to-shoulder-patpatpat hugs. One or two bonecrushers. I got the cheek kisses.

~*~

When his wife died, I remember how lost he looked standing next to his son and shaking the parade of hands that passed him, nodding at the sympathetic words.

When I got to him, I hugged him. Auntie may've been a harridan, but she was his harridan, his anchor, and now she was gone. Hugs were the next best thing. And he smiled and held on to me for a bit while he met the next couple of sympathetic voices.

No surprise when a few months later he was introducing us to his new girlfriend. Affection wants a home and will find one. It's how we're built. Go with God.

~*~

Howard fell asleep yesterday and just didn't wake up.
Funeral's Sunday.
Got to say, of all the possible ways to go, that's a good one. And now his soul's off doing whatever souls do when they don't have a skin to worry about. Maybe swimming in a great sea of other souls, and wouldn't Howard love that?

But still.
There's a rack full of cousins who just lost their grandda.
And all I can think is a) who besides me will curse at the family reunions now? and 2) we've got to get Grandda to Florida so he can squeeze his last sister. She's feisty, but she's also almost 90.

Oh gods...

Why thank you, Will!

2009-09-09T03:23:13Z

This Jess hath a pleasant seat.

Which work of Shakespeare was the original quote from?

Never Thirst

2009-08-30T06:05:47Z

Today/tonight there was brewing of mead. There was a great rolling bull session that had at its heart the differences between making beer and making mead (beer is science, apparently; mead is a divine gift. After all, lightning can strike a tree with a hive in it, break it open and let rain in, and in a few weeks, there will be mead.) but reached out its arms to include whatever was in our heads at the time. And there was tasting of beer.

Mike is our resident beer snob and supplier.
As my early exposure to beer was cheapass American brew, I had no use for it when I met this crewe. Naturally, Mike took this as a challenge--takes it that way still. So almost any time he and we are in the same place, there also will odd beers be.

He'll decant one into a large glass and tell us what he knows about it. Then he takes a sip and hands the glass to whoever's near to hand. That person sips, then, and passes it on to their next person. It keeps going round either until it's empty or someone's declared an adoration. If two agree on the adoration, they give it back and forth between them until it's gone. Then the process starts all over with the next odd beer.

Every single time, it reminds me of the first time I experienced this kind of packhood. It was in Charleston--Goose Creek, if you want to be specific--when Adam and his friends passed a leg of chicken among themselves at a cookout. I remember the way I felt when the barking madman I'd just met held the leg out for me: equal parts "I'm home!" and "you just bit that."

There, I peeled an untouched sliver of flesh off with my fingers and swallowed it almost without chewing.
Here, I accept the glass, savour the sip (even the stuff better suited for marinade), and pass it on.

Because in the back of my head, there's a wide eyed Martian boy taking a glass of water from the first person to see him as a fellow being instead of a legal glitch or a medical fluke, learning that humans can have great big hearts sometimes, if you expect it of them and they rise to the occasion. There's a shaken and stubborn old coot taking a glass from the Martian and rediscovering what a heart is for. I toast them, bright wishful ideas, every time. I see by how carefully Mike pours that he remembers that Martian, too.

It's not quite the same communion. Not everyone in the circle knows the story or is as touched by it, and though we're like family, if any of us told another to jump out of a high window, "fuck you; you first" would be an appropriate response.
But it's very close. Very close.

Drink deep, beloved ones.
<3

ladywind @ 2009-08-28T08:38:00

2009-08-28T14:22:38Z

This up-and-out-of-the-house-by-7:45 thing is messing with me.
Nothing but grocery stores are open at 8:00! If a grocery-run is what's on the day's agenda, great; I'm SOL with time to kill if it's not.
Today, upon discovering that our insurance agent also doesn't open till after 8:00, I found myself drafted onto Four Mile Post as it went over the mountain. (Robust hill. Whatever. The locals think it's a mountain; who am I to ask whether any of them have seen the Rockies?)

Alright, thought I, We'll do this for a while. It's been wet the past few days. Maybe Krys's creek is back. Maybe the spiders and cicadas will let me sit near the rock this time.

(Last time, it had run dry. Last time there was physical and auditory static as thick as water between me and where the creek had run, to say nothing of the rock. Either the mountain loved you, Krys, or I haven't found my way back into the right mindset yet. Or both, which is where my money lies.)

And so I drove back up to the land trust.

At the first fork, I choose the path I've never walked before: if you only go looking for magic in places you've found it in the past, you might miss it where it is now. Ten steps down the way, I come face to face with an orbweaver's web. Right straight across the path it's strung, and too high to step over, too low to crawl beneath. There's breakfast quivering in its centre.

Right. Not today, then. Back we go.

Back up to the Certain trail, which makes me chuckle when I think of it, because it is kindof my one sure bet. It's been worked on recently: most of the near-path saplings are cut, and the ones left standing have been notched. The ground underfoot has been tamped and either scraped away to show rock or filled to bridge between rocks. Man-feeling all around. But I remember that the man-feeling was there at the bottom of the trail before, too. So.

Movement on a mossy log. I stop, watch. A granddaddy longlegs, looking like the CG wireform of a spider more than a spider itself, feeling its way through the verge. It meanders for a while, always avoiding the warm spot yours truly makes. There's a messy web tucked into the niche between a root and a hole. So.

Rain falls on the canopy above; down here it's only mist and the occasional drop. There's no dew on anything, though, nor any mud. Just after the second fork, the air across the path thrums. And there I am again, nose to dead insect with another orb web.

... Really?
Are we seriously going to do this?
Cattle prods would be less creepy and do the same job.
You're just creeped out because you haven't accepted us.
No, I'm creeped out because I can't seem to brush you off.
Same thing.
It's pretty though. Glad I haven't ruined it. Does it span the way, too?

No, it's strung at an angle. I step around it and go on, ignoring the whispery laughter in the back of my head.

Ten feet, maybe twelve, there's another. I walk into one of its anchor lines and curse, then crouch down and put a hand up so that if I find the web itself, it's with my hand instead of my face.
Guess where the web itself is.
Yeah, my new nose level.
Alright.
I get it.
I'm turning around.
Don't want to try your luck any further?
Why, are there more webs up that way?
Yes. They're pretty, too, and effective.
Doubtless. Why do you string 'em where humans walk, anyhow? We're a bit big to eat. Seems futile.
But you can see it isn't. There's food waiting that might've been missed if we hadn't woven there. If you keep going, maybe you'll run into one and hurt our work and yours. Is there something else you should be doing just now?

Which also feels like I've cast my net for prey too big for me.
Which also feeds me anyway.
I exhale.
Ah. Now I do get it:

You weave anyway; it's what you're built to do. If you don't, you starve.
But you don't freak out about it. You just do it.

I look at my phone. 8:30.

Thank you, Grandmother.

The insurance office is open when I pass it; I duck in and give them their cheque. Now it's a quick breakfast for me and back to binding things.

Dae saw two crows in the parkinglot this morning, munching on animal crackers by another mother's car. He called out a bright hello; they didn't flinch.
Yeah, it's shaping up to be a mirthful day.
:D Dry humor and a damp day. But merry.
<3

I'll take it.

2009-08-25T04:14:45Z

Your results:
You are Mr. Scott

Mr. Scott		80%
Geordi LaForge		75%
Mr. Sulu		70%
Deanna Troi		70%
An Expendable Character (Redshirt)		60%
Chekov		55%
Uhura		55%
Jean-Luc Picard		55%
Will Riker		55%
James T. Kirk (Captain)		50%
Leonard McCoy (Bones)		45%
Beverly Crusher		45%
Worf		40%
Spock		34%
Data		26%

You are a fun-loving foreigner with an
amazing ability to get any job done on time.
Often described as a "Miracle Worker".

Click here to take the Star Trek Personality Quiz

ladywind @ 2009-08-23T11:30:00

2009-08-23T16:35:20Z

"And a mess is still a moment I can seize until I know
That all will be well
Even though sometimes this is hard to tell
And the fight is just as frustrating as hell
All will be well."

Thing learnt tonight...today...to-whatever this odd inbetween space is:

2009-08-21T05:24:51Z

Frosting covers a multitude of sins.
Particularly when you've whipped it with Bailey's.

Exchange of the night

2009-08-16T00:55:00Z

(while playing tag, running from Mark-who-was-It:)

James: (to Mel) Nah, I figure I'm pretty safe--he seems intent on catchin' Jess.
Me: The thrill of the chase. That is, I get a little thrill out of him chasin' me. ~grin~
James: Oh honey. The time to play hard to get was before the rings were exchanged.
Me: Nah. Too much chance of actually losing him, then.
James: Nah. You could've played a lot harder to get and he'd still have followed.
Me: Really?
James: Yep. ... Course, we were keeping him pretty drunk most of the time.
Me: Oh, thanks, man.
James: (grinning) Kinda backhanded, there, innit?
Me: You leftys and your compliments.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He's the greatest honorary big brother a girl could ask for.
The silly ass.
<3 :D

ladywind @ 2009-08-11T09:53:00

2009-08-11T15:51:48Z

Dreamt last night that I was the captain of a ship--not a pirate per se: we had letters of marque and reprisal, and since we were repelling folk who were trying to overtake our nation, we had the full support of what little government remained. (ah, yes, letters of marque and reprisal from a government that may or may not survive the night. Maybe we were pirates, but at least we were loyal ones. Privateers? Corsairs?)

Apparently, the East India Company--not Britainnia herself, but the EIC--was attempting to conquer the US (probably other places as well but we had all we could handle trying to defend ourselves). They'd already waged some odd shadow war that left the economy in shambles and the government as weak as termite-ridden wood, and now they were presenting themselves as our brave saviors, come to put a chicken in every pot and keep the peace in every town.

On one side? Nobody was fooled; they all knew the hand that gives was the hand that took.
On the other? Baby, it's cold outside. Accepting the EIC's deal wasn't the BEST solution, but it was the only solution that would offer stability NOW.

My crew (and probably other crews; we didn't feel unique, but we were autonomous. Privately owned, privately directed.) were there to disrupt the EIC's trade and supply lines at sea. On land, we didn't bother with pitched battle--we were sailors: our "ritual movements" involved running the ship, firing the cannons, and boarding other ships. In a fight we were on our own. Instead, we would find the homes of the "oppressor"'s commanding officers, break in while they slept, and kill them.

Then field dress them like deer or wild pigs.

Then leave the entrails where once the officers had slept and pack the meat home with us to butcher, share out, and eat.

Lather, rinse, repeat, until the local garrison was gone.

Because war was hell, our world was splintered and broken, and our relatives were hungry.

What's grimly funny is that we weren't at all quiet about this practice. We used it as intimidation.

Alright, Mr. Man, you're the EIC's official watchdog here? Great to meet you. Here's a bottle of wine from my first mate's father's vineyard. A wonderful vintage, I would drink it myself. Why don't you and your men linger over it, maybe find a nice book, and let this little hamlet run itself? You just disappear and live; the people will take you in if you behave.

No?

I'll be having that bottle back then--we'll want it for your marinade. ~snaps teeth, knifes man~

The only flavour I can remember, though, is blood.
Eeh.
~headshake & shiver~