Prelude

Sitting on the train today, feeling luckier than a leprechaun sliding up a rainbow towards a pot of gold, I happened across a story in the recesses of my brain.

The Bear Story

Before I tell you this tale, I must tell you of its origins. When I was a good deal smaller than you are now, my Dad took my sister and I camping. Neither of us could sleep, scared of the bears which roam so freely in the New Forest. And this story was born. From then on, it became a firm favourite for holidays, journeys, and unsure moments, told and retold.

I’m sure this story altered with time and retellings, and in its many forms it is an integral part of me. A part which I try now to meld into one, passable version that I may share it with you:

Once upon a time, deep within a thick forest, stood a cave. And in the cave, lived a big, shaggy-haired, bear.

“Wuurrrgh!” Said the bear, stretching as he awoke from his sleep. “I’m hungry!”

So the bear got up, and went to look in his larder see what he could find for breakfast.

But there was nothing there save a little butter and a solitary nutmeg.

“Urrr!” he said, sadly. “I guess I shall not be having breakfast after all.” And as his belly rumbled, he added “and I’d better go and find something for supper, otherwise I shall be very hungry indeed!

So the bear gathered up his basket and set off, out of the cave and into the forest.

He hadn’t gone very far before he stopped and sniffed. Mushrooms! Sure enough, a little way off, on an old fallen log, there were 3 big, soft mushrooms, and not far from that, sat a clump of delicate yellow fungi.

“Urr!” he said, in amazement. “Bears like mushrooms.” And the bear followed the mushroomy trail, gathering them all up into his basket, until he came to a huuuuuge tree trunk, so huge in fact that it blocked his path. He was about to go alter course and go around i, but his ears pricked, catching the low hard-working sound of bees. Glancing up, he saw a hive, hanging from the lower branches.

“Urr!” he said. “Honey! Bears like honey!”

So with that, the bear quickly scaled the tree and, using his big, sharp claws, sliced away a section of the hive, its honeycomb dripping with honey.

The bear placed it in his basket, next to the mushrooms.

“Mushrooms. And honey. Honey and mushrooms.” Mused the bear. “Bears like them, but there’s not a lot that you can make with mushrooms and honey, butter, and a solitary nutmeg. It won’t be very filling.”

So the bear carried on with his walk, keeping an eye out for anything that might be good to eat.

The bear walked, and sniffed, and walked some more, until the sun rose high above the tree-tops. His stomach growled.

He was just about to turn around, and make do with a plate of mushrooms for dinner, when he spied a fallen nest, cradling 6 blue-ish eggs. One of them had smashed, but the bear gingerly rested the others in his basket.

“Bears like eggs.” He said. And then he surveyed his finds. Mushrooms, and eggs. Eggs and mushrooms. And honey. What can I do with mushrooms and eggs?” The bear thought for a moment, and it came to him. “I shall make an omelette, a honey and mushroom omelette!”

And that, is exactly what he did. And though it was rather sticky, it was very nice indeed.

Coming At You Like A Shark With Knees!

Over the last few days, I have oft been experiencing a paradoxical state dependant associative phenomenon. That is, déjà vu. See, the coming weekend shall see a repeat of The Week That They Were Writers. Only this time, it shall be bigger, and much much better. This time, undeterred by the 17hour journey (a result of not having a driver among us) five of us shall ascend upon the unsuspecting peoples of Ardanaeskan, armed with laptops, warm waterproof clothing, enough tea to quench the thirsts of thousands, and a rather warped collective humour. I can’t wait.

In the mean time, I should really stop watching star trek and knuckle down to some work, before getting hopelessly drunk with old friends as I stop off in Leeds on the way up North.

The Sky You Were Born Under.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how incredibly bloody lucky I am. At times, with things not going the way I had envisioned, these thoughts were somewhat forced, accompanied by pangs of guilt over ridiculous self-pity. And at times, the same thoughts came in jolts of bubbling, giggly ecstasy .

With all this, amongst strangely urgent dealings with assignments, bills, pub-outings and tulips, has come the search for a summer project. Complicated by both finances and the possibility of spending part of said project with my sister, BRIF is looking, for today, like the most likely candidate.

I've also been spending much free time with a group of awesome religion/philosophy students, and one of our many regular debates has been this: is there such a thing as a selfless act?

Thoughts, anyone?

swing-step with the planets', or, ‘tis the season for the emo post’

With several hours to kill between lectures, and the sun shining in earnest I turn my back on the library this afternoon and head for the wood-encapsulated lake. How anyone can feel uninspired with learning in a setting like this I do not know. I spend a while reciting a few stories aloud as I meander along the water’s edge (much to the surprise and amusement of the few others wandering the path). I’m walking slowly, because it’s beautiful, and I don’t want it to end. And then I sit for a while, musing over the day’s chance encounters with a dozen or so friends. And it occurs to me, not for the first time recently, just how lucky I am. And just how much I’d miss the place if I ever had to leave.

I hope it doesn’t come to that.

I seem at the moment to be in a state of perpetual calamity, and with it a never-ending roller-coaster of highs and lows. Frankly I don’t know how anyone around me puts up with it. I don’t know how I'm putting up with it. Most of the time I’m getting nothing done, at least not with any efficiency, which is in part why there has been so little bloggage of late. It’s also probably contributing to the lack of coherent conclusion of this post.

Perhaps an evening with Terry Pratchett will sort things out. At least for a moment.

Good Things

Rachel tagged me for this, and though it took me a while to figure any of them out, there *are* at least 7 things I love about the world. The knowledge of this has me greatly reassured.

7 things I truly love about the world , in no particular order:

1. Movies which, meandering or fast paced have something gritty within them that makes me, ultimately, think.

2. Mythologies and the way they shape the tangible Earth. Something I’m totally obsessed with at the moment.

3. Walking (by the sea or through a forest especially), with nothing but my thoughts for company.

4. A decent cup of coffee after a period of good solid work.

5. Watching something shift inside a person as they cement something new in their minds.

6. Deep conversations with close friends, which last until we slip into the unconsciousness of dreams.

7. Live music, whatever the style, whatever the setting. There’s just something about it that’s never captured in recordings.

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tagging shall follow in an edit shortly.

Lost In The Sea Of Stories

It’s National Storytelling Week this week; a fitting occasion to re-enter the blogosphere and tell of the host of oral-tale-telling events I shall be running this semester. However, as close as events come, planning is still in its infancy. In other creative news, The Writers’ Descent #3 is set to run this Easter. The line-up of fools undertaking the challenge is as yet uncertain, but it promises to be every bit as productive/fun as its predecessors.

Despite a week free of academic constraints, I have done little more than dabble at writing, and certainly have completed no major chunks of prose, for I have been rather distracted. The birth of Sævör, my first LARP character, and along with it, costume window-shopping and the discovery of obscure Norse legend has stolen much of my attention, and even that has been frequently interrupted by the acquisition of the extended Lord of the Rings dvds, and second hand copies of the first two Edge Chronicles novels. In short, I’ve been lost in worlds of deep myth, so much so that I’ve been unable to create my own.

That shall change however, in the following week (also free of academia). At least I hope it shall, for, wonderful as myth-encapsulation is, I'm starting to feel like I'm in an unshakeable trance, and it's slightly disconcerting. I plan to shape the unseen horrors of Meenu into something presentable. I shall also be working on learning materials to perform, and if I can work out how to do it, might even post up some audio clips.

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I shall endeavour, over the course of the week, to post the obligatory new year posts, albeit rather belatedly.

Christmas Letter

‘Twas a dark and stormy afternoon (I jest not) as the scribe sat down, mug of tea beside her, to write a letter to her fairy godmother. Sleet and hail lashed alternately at the window, filling the room with a soggy drum-roll in place of light. Atmospheric, she thought. A bloody nuisance, because writing in the gloom can, as every writer knows, give you a stonking headache, but atmospheric all the same.

Dearest Fairy Godmother,

she began.

I hope that this yuletide greeting finds you in good health and spirits.

She paused, sucking on the end of her pen, pondering a decent beginning, because Fairy Godmothers are the sort to notice these things. The standard launch into the mundane trivia of life just wouldn’t do. She wondered whether the Fairy Godmother would appreciate sensationalised tales of Washing-up Mountains, of Essays Worse than Death, of Extra-curricular Quests which suck the very life from you until you wonder, as 100 school-kids pounce upon you, screeching wildly, why, exactly, you put your name forward. No, she decided, perhaps not. Although it would be rather closer to the truth than might be imagined. And yet, she couldn’t tell of buses which never arrived on time, or relaxing evenings in the student union with new-found friends; it would not make for a thrilling read. It would, in fact, be almost as heinous as ’all going swimmingly, here’ or some such tosh. But that was the thing. Apart from essays of doom, and organisational headaches, it was going swimmingly. Even the Attack of the Minors had been fun. They’d been terrified by her spectre-voice.

The writer sighed. It wasn’t easy, living up to creative expectations.

Outside, the sky had darkened further, tendrils of moist, black cloud reaching towards the warm, candle-light glow of the city’s buildings. Pressing her nose against the pane, she peered across the rooftops at the barely visible wind-bowed trees on the skyline, and shuddered; anyone out there was in for a rough ride. The phrase ‘weather here gloomy as ever’ flashed across her mind for an instant. She banished it to the cerebral recycle bin.

Back at her desk, she contemplated sketching out the characters in her new life – from the dumpy lecturer who’d trail off into a critique of fantasy novels and star-trek incidents at every opportunity, to the technophobic tutor who had, at the start of term, blown the projector instead of switching on the lights. But there were libel issues. Her friends might have fewer objections, perhaps, but the writer was sure she couldn’t do them justice.

She stared into ethereal space, awaiting that crashing block of inspiration. None came. She thought upon Christmassy things, the joy of which she hoped to bundle into her message. She thought of mince pies, and mistletoe and laughter, and enough snow to merit the season, without delivering hazard to the community. She thought of fireside tales and warmest wishes.

Warmest Wishes,

She wrote, hoping that the rest of her Christmas tableau would ooze wordlessly from the page. Fairy Godmothers got that sort of thing, right?

She scrutinised the page. Pretty standard stuff, and not nearly as informative as she’d hoped. Still, it’s the intent that counts. She read it again, and wasn’t satisfied. But the post would be collected any minute, and she still had to find her scarf, and the stamps, and...

She signed.

Your Fairy Goddaughter

And, in a flash of revelation, quickly but carefully inserted one last line above ‘warmest wishes’:

All going swimmingly here.