fire in my head

Tom Cowan’s book, Fire in the Head, explores the independently-developed similarities in shamanic tradition across the globe. I read it a number of years ago, but elements of it are ingrained in my mind.

In many cultures, when someone is “called” to be a shaman, when they develop that fire in the head, they often fall ill. If they resist, if they do not heed this call within a period of time, they die.

In a parallel universe, I’m in a job interview right. this. second. Here and now, I’m not in that interview, and am feeling okay about it. I withdrew last night.

When I was 18, I made choices out of fear, and changed the entire course of my life with one sheet of paper. With one word. Instead of writing “English” on my blanket university application, I wrote “geography”, because I was afraid of a life of poverty—of literal death. As the daughter of a writer consumed by his craft, by the fire in his head, I lived in straitened circumstances, and I was terrified of that same poverty following me into my own adult life.

It was years before I realised that I’d traded one type of impoverishment for another. That single word was my attempt to smother the fire in my own head. I too had been called, and had refused to heed the summons. I was too young to realise the imperative nature of the call. I thought it could be turned off.

And so I find myself today with a fantastic salary, but no sense of comfort or security. I’m poor all the same. Impoverished, and burning up from the fire in my head. It’s true: ignoring the summons does lead to illness. I’ve spent years forcibly trying to separate myself from my nature, and now realise that it’s as cruel and horrifying a pursuit as physically trying to peel my skin from my flesh.

It’s time. It’s time to feed the flames, to stoke the fire, and to start, rather than waiting for my life to start for me. I’ve often expressed that I don’t know who I am, what I think, or what I like; last week, someone told me they think that, deep down, I do know, but that I have trouble reconciling this with my uncertainty as to whether I’ll be acceptable to others. I instantly knew this was true.

I don’t know what this will look like—or what I will look like for that matter, other than messy, filthy, and betimes bloody—but at least I’ll be wearing my own skin.

No more smoke signals, if I can help it. It’s time to let the fire burn true.

evener keel

That'd be a great name for a character in a novel, wouldn't it?

Today's a great example of medicine's effectiveness. I'm ready to fight crime...or at least get on with it. :)

I wish I had some telepathic way of doing stuff at home when I'm not there. I'm feeling inspired to sort stuff out, but by the time I return, the powerful tractor beam emitted by my computer will probably override the finest of intentions. At least I'm a Slayer of Giants in the electronic realm...

...and some levity

To counterbalance that last post, I offer the following, courtesy of Cristina:

articulating...

Even though I love playing with words, sometimes they fail me. It's impossible to capture certain thoughts or mind-states without penning an essay. That's where folks like the Inspiral Carpets come in. Oh look - they have a new album for the first time in over 10 years... Lately, watching myself and how I move through the world, I feel like Plutoman. Self-inflicted, self-caused, self-limiting, and somewhat schizoid or schizotypal.

Colours and music is what you will see and you live for
Take a ride with a stingray and you'll see the world through his eyes...

...You know what they say about the lady who talks with the fishes:
They say that she'll always have at least a billion billion friends
And somewhere there's a god who will grant each and all of her wishes
She laughs in the face of the man looking over the fence

I can see that you're dreaming
But I can't see the pictures
Sleeping in the light of
Starshine and goldfishes

Even out here where he sits drowning in isolation
He's stacking his bricks high and slowly walling out the world
She's sending him flowers and sunshine but he doesn't notice
On the stem of a rose she writes, "Have A Nice Day, Plutoman."

I can see that you're dreaming
But I can't see the pictures
Sleeping in the light of
Starshine and goldfishes

He feels like he's the last man alive, he feels like he's stuck on Pluto
Each day's a bad one, each day he's all alone

Colours and music is what you will see and you live for
Take a ride with a stingray and you'll see the world through his eyes
She's sending him flowers and sunshine but he doesn't notice
On the stem of a rose she writes, "Have A Nice Day, Plutoman."

squeeeeeeeeee...

...eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee...

...eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

*rushes out to buy milk and comestibles so she won't starve whilst glued to her computer for several days straight*

I fought the pole...and the pole won

So my friend Vivienne (co-creatrix of the TTC Knitalong), has just been certified as a pole dance instructor. Who knew?

Jacquie and I checked out one of her introductory classes last night, and it was pretty fantastic. Where else do you get to pose like a pinup girl in the midst of yoga-poses??

Today my arms feel like rubber, thanks to my spectacular level of sluglike unfitness. Typing and putting on shirts has become a fascinating experience.

Whilst reflecting this morning on my attempts at the classic fireman spin, I realised that I've spent so much of my life in my head - in a state of hyper-vigilance - that there's a powerful disconnect between my mind and my body. I operate on a purely primitive, instinctual level when it comes to physical movement. Any calculated movement involving non-finger-related artifice is difficult for me to control.

When I was flinging myself around the pole, the act of doing so almost obliterated my awareness of the different parts of my body so that it was pretty much impossible for me to consider adjustments in the position of my feet, grip, etc.. I think this struck me after watching Jacquie spiral gracefully around the pole after a few tries, then hearing Vivienne suggest an adjustment in the position of her knees...which she did without a second thought.

Makes me think. Guess I need to work on reconnecting.

P.S. The Boots

I CAN HAS GIANT-ARSE MONITR!!

lolz - oh hai!

i m riting wile luking @ a wide 20" flatscrn mi b/f got 4 mi brthdai - rily erli

My brain's gonna explode. So...much...surface - it burns my eyes!

Kinda like my new DMs, which are...how you say in my language?...white.

Yup.

But don't get all freaked out, now: they've got a really cool branchy pattern on them and a lovely, delicate, death's-head moth. Just in time for tomorrow's Mad Hatter tea at AlterKnit. Not so out-of-the-ordinary after all.

It isn't them!!

Thank heckins! Someone finally got back to me, and Nu and Po are safe at home, being "charming and ornery" (you can guess who's being what). I can't help but wonder, though, if Princess is related to Niamh...

doppelganger shock

These are my babies: Niamh (white) and Freya (tabby). Freya showed up on the porch one day, and Niamh was found at the Humane Society, sporting the stereotypical name Princess. We soon fixed that. They're now seven years old, and I haven't seen them for two and a half years, as they live with my former husband, M. I miss them terribly.

I will eventually be in the market for new furchildren, and I occasionally visit the Toronto Humane Society website to see who needs a home. Today a nasty, killing-voltage-level, electric shock ran through me:

The society estimates they're about eight years old. The one on the left is named Princess. The one on the right is listed as Gabby. I have been frantically trying to find out more about them, to absolutely ensure they're not Niamh and Freya, but the society won't give out background info on animals over the phone.

They can't be Nuni and Po. They just can't. And yet my guts are twisting. I'm so frightened. Mel offered the sage, calm opinion that it isn't them, but it's such a freaky coincidence. Niamh's electronic pet chip still lists her as Princess. They're seven. Too close to be calm. Too close. The only things keeping me even remotely okay are that Princess' beauty spot is on the opposite side of her nose -- but what if the photo's reversed?? -- and that I can't imagine M surrendering the cats and not coming to me first. That just isn't like him. At all.

But I can't get ahold of anyone who can 100% confirm for me that Niamh and Freya are indeed still in residence at my old home. M is on vacation, and our housemate, who was in a meeting at work when I called, hasn't called back, despite my urgent message.

So I'm vacillating between calm, terror, and grief.

The only way I'll know for sure is if I go down and see them. But I can't do that. I just can't. Going there would kill me. Mum and dad could take them if it really was them, so that's sorted. But I cannot have a new pet right now, and going down there, being amongst so many friends in need of homes...I can't.

The things we put ourselves through, eh?

the fates are kind...

The phone rang before 8:00 this morning. It was someone from the coffee shop: they'd found my mp3 player sitting in plain sight, in the middle of the counter. Hmmm. And hooray!

In other, random news:

I finished a knitted, open-front cardigan-thing. Yup -- I finished something!

I have a Tamagotchi, which has just headed off into the electronic ether after breeding with a small ninja, leaving me to raise her offspring. Wow - second generation!

I'm returning to work on August 13th, starting slowly and ramping up to full time over the course of six weeks.

When I went out for a walk tonight, the quality of the light through the trees was exactly as depicted in one of my favourite paintings, not-coincidentally titled Empire of Light. I was lucky enough to see Magritte's original when I visited the Guggenheim in Venice; electronic representations just don't do it justice.

I'm totally digging Amy Winehouse's latest album, Back to Black.

It's stinky-hot here.

And lalala.

crap, buggery, arse, and other strong words of displeasure

Some fuckwit stole my mp3 player out of my bag whilst I was at the coffee shop.

The only grim satisfaction I have is that since it isn't an iPod, it'll be bloody hard, if not impossible, for them to get any use out of it without the special charger and computer hookup.

Blast, damn and hellfire.

teafinder

Y'know how, when your cordless phone is misplaced, you can hit the page button and it'll beep & reveal its whereabouts? Or if your cell is missing, you can call it and follow the ring (assuming you haven't turned off the ringer)?

I regularly find myself thinking - for split-second, irrational moments - that I'll page my missing tea, which I've put down somewhere then wandered off. Then I realise that I can't page my tea.

And then I think - for longer, slightly-more-rational, petulant moments - that, dang it, I should be able to page my tea...and my glasses...and my wallet...and my rings...and my knitting needles...&c.

Heyyyyy - maybe if I fasten my cell phone to my tea mug...

insert some saying about agony and good stuff here

Agony. Defeat. De feet. Ecstasy.

First, the agony:
I finished the first inside-out sock from the STR club. It's gorgeous. My first attempt at toe-up (I tried on the foot before starting on the leg, and it fits perfectly), the cables are divine, and it's a work of stunning beauty, if I do say so myself.

"So, Soph," you're saying, "where's the agony in this? Sounds pretty good to me!"

Dear readers, those gorgeous cables are too tight. I can't fit them over my heel. I have to rip out the leg and re-knit. Hours and hours of work for nought. I don't mind that so much; what I do mind is that I finished the dang thing, and can't try it on!! I wanna!! lol


Now that that's out of the way, on to the good stuff:

I've been doing a lot of self-work, lately, and decided to do something symbolic to reflect this. I'm a talker, as those that have met me know, but it's often superficial waggishness; I often have difficulty articulating what I want and need - even to myself. Since the colour of the throat chakra (which governs communication) is blue, and since in dreams and archetypal imagery the ocean represents the unconscious, I decided to make a blue and turquoise necklace - to hang around my throat - that represented my reclamation of my voice.

I haven't done any beading in a long time, and have (had) never made a necklace. Over the last week, I made a few forays, adventures, and pilgrimages to various bead shops and picked up a variety of things to supplement the materials I already had. When I examined my modest stash, it turns out I've been collecting for this necklace for years without realising it.

And so, verily, it was strung and worn by me.

And each full day I've worn it, someone's inquired as to whether I sell them. My editorial grammar instructor has commissioned one.
I'm all aflutter.

music for my paranormal life

...with apologies to Neuroticfish for the paraphrased rip-off of one of his song titles.

All I can say is (to quote Jacquie): OMGWTFBBQ!!!!

I was wandering through the local HMV about half an hour ago, and heard the Smiths...well, a cover of the Smiths. An absolutely brilliant cover of Stop Me. I had to ask, and was pointed to a listening post, where lounged (insouciantly, no less), an album entitled Version, by one Mark Ronson, who I have discovered is some hotshot London dj.

With the help of folks such as Robbie Williams, Kasabian, etc., he's recorded covers of songs by a plethora of artists, including the aforementioned Smiths, Britney Spears, Radiohead, the Charlatans, etc.

Brilliant. Abso-brilliant. Fucking weird, but brilliant. Not everyone is as jazzed about it, but it's amusing the biscuits out of me.

the newest knitter

Last night, I got to meet Natalie, who was only four days old, and born on her mum's birthday. Congratulations, Heather! Happy birthday to both of you!
Natalie has the most incredible feet - with the longest toes - I've ever seen on any baby. Perhaps she'll use them to hold her knitting needles...

Knitalong sneak preview

More to come soon, but for now, this is my thousand words. Sandi, you are an absolute delight.

Tea Swap - Thanks Dorene!

Dorene sent me a little bit of Southern hospitality from her holiday home in South Carolina. We have virtually identical tastes - both in teas and in colours - so the treats I got were absolutely perfect!
Here we have: loose Darjeeling from the mighty Republic of Tea (love their stuff!), a little candle in a warm-drinky-themed box, some Southern Raspberry Mix, which Tom has already busted into and pronounced perfect in Diet Coke, Nana's Been-a-Nut Bread, and some Indian Breakfast tea, which is a lovely, punchy black blend that me loves. I'll have to see if I can get this again.

I particularly like the recipe on the nut bread bag. An excerpt: Git ya muffin pans out an greez 'em up real good. Set dis aside jus a minute.

Har.

And then there's the yarn - Cherry Tree Hill supersock in a fabbo colourway called Misty Moor.

Thanks so much, Dorene! You did a super job on your first swap - good on ya'!

various gallivanty, frolicky stuff

...must...take...photos!

I've finished some things (a vest and more armwarmers), and started some things (multi-yarn knittery knittishness, the first STR sock club pattern, seaming up the first of the sideways socks).

The Knitalong is this weekend! Hooray!

And today I'm having a tiny knitalong with Jacquie, including stops at Lettuce and Dangerous Romni, the Aladdin's cave of yarn. *stuffs wallet into cheek so she can't pull it out*

knitting it together

Jane Thornley is in town for the weekend. Mum and I are taking two classes with her at Lettuce Knit. Jane's all about organic knitting, and knitting within a chosen colour palette (aka 'colour story') using yarns of different weights and textures. For a person with a generally gnat-sized attention span, changing up all these colours, weights and stitches feels like being in an oasis.

I'm trying to incorporate different weights and textures into my personal story as well. I think of you all every day, all the time. I'm so glad you're out there, and I apologise that I can be difficult to know, or that my experiences can be difficult to take in. Please bear with me, if you can - I'm determined to bring this black dog to heel, and get back to life.

x

hellohellohellohello!

Hello! Hello! I'm here!

A bit tattered around the edges and pretty much all awol, all the time at the moment, but I am alive! I have pictures of various green things to post, including my kingdom and some fiddleheads I had for dinner the other night, and a picture of Kelly to prove that she made it up here from Florida and is in one piece.

So many pictures, so many stories. All trapped in my head, along with the rest of me...

*goes off to fight crime*