Tinhuviel Artanis

I have an apartment. It will be ready to move in to on the 6th of June. Here's my latest GoFundMe update with the particulars.

First of all, THANK YOU to everyone who has so far helped with this campaign. Your generosity is truly humblings, and I hope I can someday do the same for you, or anyone who may need whatever help I can provide! Now, down to the nitty gritty. I was approved for an apartment at Stonesthrow in Greenville, South Carolina. True, it's not Asheville, but it's closer to my family and friends, both of whom I need more than trying to capture the happiness I felt in my childhood in Asheville. Sometimes, necessity and simple contentment outweigh dreams that may have run their course. The move-in date is June 6th. It is unfurnished, and I have no furniture of which to speak. I have the old dining room table that was made by Grandaddy, at least I think it's still down at the old house. That's it. Needless to say, if I have any money left after paying deposits, rent, and getting utilities and Internet, my funds will be reserved for things like a bed. I still have a long, hard row to sow, so please keep up what little momentum this campaign still has, 'cos I'm still $495 away from my goal, and I'm more than a little scared right now.

If you wish to help by contributing or sharing my campaign, please click:

Help Tin Get Rehomed

As I was growing up in Asheville, I'd spend a great deal of time with my great-grandmother, Little Granny (she was 4'10"). Here's a picture of her mother, Granny Mehaffey, who was born on September 9, 1867, and fought a bobcat to the death in her 30s.  If I remember correctly, she was in her 90s when she died, and she had one tooth her head that she would use to eat apples! It's true that the Scots-Irish folk of the mountains are tough as goddamned nails. Nowadays, I'm thinking she would have to go a bit further into the Blue Ridge Mountains in order to be fully understood, since a lot of the language has faded over the decades. Granny Mehaffey probably sounded more like she was speaking a bastard version of Gaelic and German than the modern Appalachian dialect of today. Here are some words I used to hear her use, and some I even have used myself throughout my life. Those I've put in bold.

• Afeared - afraid
• Ary - any
  
• Bald - a treeless mountain summit
  
• Blinds - window shades
  
• Blinked or Blinky - gone sour, usually in reference to milk
  
• Brickle - brittle (Little Granny always called peanut brittle "brickle".
  
• Cat-head - a giant ass biscuit
  
• Clean - used as an adverb meaning "all the way."  "I'll knock your damn head clean off your shoulders!"
  
• Coke - any cola, be it Coca-Cola, Pepsi, or RC.
  
• Cornpone - cornbread (I had a dog named Cornpone!)
  
• Directly - soon, later, after a while, when it's convenient.  "I'll call you back die-RECK-lee."
  
• Fit - fought, as in (and I'm not lying here) "I'm so tired, I feel like I fit fire (pronounced far) all day."
  
• Haint - ghost, spirit, hideous woman
  
• Holler - for hollow, the valley in between mountains
  
• Hull - shell, as in a nut hull.
  
• Ill - bad-tempered
  
• Jarfly - cicada
  
• Kyarn - carrion.  Anything that smells rotten.
  
• Lay out - to skip school or work
  
• Meeting - religious service, as in "Sunday-go-to-meetin'"
  
• Nary - none
  
• Peckerwood - someone you think is an asshole.
  
• Piece - distance, as in, "You'll find the gas station up the road a piece."
  
• Plum - completely.  "I'm plum wore out!"
  
• Poke - satchel (see its origins for real and true. ----->)
  
• Poke sallet - a salad made from the boiled leaves of the poke bush.
  
• Quare - queer, as in the original meaning of the word, which was strange.
  
• Reckon - suppose
  
• Sigogglin - wonky, crooked, out-of-whack
  
• Sop - gravy
  
• Swan (or Swannee) - swear, as in "I swannee!" usually said as you shake your head in dismay.
  
• Toboggan - a toque, knit cap
  
• Tote - to carry.  Also can mean a sack.  So you can tote a poke or tote a tote.
  
• Tow sack - a big burlap bag
  
• Yonder (Little Granny said "yander") - there, as in "over yonder."

In late December, I requested an Uber ride up to the store. A handsome, middle-aged gentleman named Moises picked me up. I began a conversation with him, because I loved his accent, but couldn't quite pinpoint the origin. He told me that he was from Iran and that he was a movie director who made a film that that government did not like. For his trouble, he spent a year in jail and, afterward, it was hard to make a living doing anything.

So he legally immigrated to America and is now essentially a taxi driver, after being a creator and visionary. He told me he missed his family and that most of his money goes to them and to save enough to bring them over to him, hopefully next year.

I advised him to go to Mexico or Canada before it was too late. His optimism and faith in the way the United States is supposed to work was heartbreaking.

Ever since I heard the news on the Muslim ban, I can't stop thinking of Moises. It's much more personal when you see the soul-rending results of the decision of an extremist mad man sitting pretty in the White House, ruining lives with the flick of a pen.

The other day, I came across this article - and soon found myself in awe of the information the piece provided. It’s an image-heavy article, which means this post will also be image-heavy. I’m not copy-pasting the text, so I strongly suggest clicking this telling image to be taken to the full write-up, especially if you’ve had a breakdown, know someone who has had a breakdown, or you ever fell victim to one of my unexpected, late-night, inexplicable and incoherent ramblings via email, blog commentary, or any other method by which you and I maintain contact.

With each image that applies or have applied to my experience, I will share how it felt for me, if I suffered from the description in the picture. The first one here will show what will be behind the cut, should you decide to read further.

For me, this was not a sudden mindset, but a gradual one. In crises, I was always the one that held things together.  I could switch off parts of my brain, and do what I needed to do at that moment in time.  At the age of 12, I was the one who gave directions to the paramedics, when my great-grandmother had her massive stroke.  Granny was a non-functioning, human-shaped manifestation of panic, and Aunt Tudi was frantically trying to get things ready for when the ambulance arrived to the point where, honestly, she was being a detriment to any progress we might could have had. It was only two days later that the upheaval found me, at which time I became non-functional for a period of time, just a few days.  In times of turmoil, I realised I could take care of whatever situation I found myself, then release it all later in private.  The only times I ever lost that ability was the night before Granny died in 1993.  The doctors told us there was no hope, and she could die at any moment.  Since Granny also helped to raise me, having lived with me all my life, I fell to pieces.  But the next morning, when she died, I was cool as a cucumber.  This was Aunt Tudi's mother, to whom she had been excessively close.  This blow to her emotional well-being is something she never quite got over.  I was the one who had to make Granny's arrangements, and I did so in a disconnected manner, devoid of bothersome emotions.  Things needed to be done, and there was no one but me stepping up.  I remember a cousin remarking that I had to be some sort of Vulcan, or just callous as hell.

English is the only language I can fluently speak, and even that is debateable. I know bits and bobs of other languages, including Mandarin, Welsh, German, Yiddish, Russian, Polish, and Xhosa. But there is this one language whose intricacies I began learning at a very early age. That would be Sarcasm. When it comes to Sarcasm, it really doesn’t matter what your native tongue is; rather, it’s more to do with body posture, inflection of the words, even the tone of voice that makes for a successfully delivered dollop of linguistic malice.

I began learning Sarcasm at the tender age of nine. It had been going on three years since my parental units’ divorce and, even though I was well taken care of and had no doubt that I was loved by Granny and Aunt Tudi, I still missed that connection kids apparently enjoy, regardless of culture or location. I would write them letters, and be thrilled when they wrote me back.

If they wrote me back.

One day, Aunt Tudi and Granny took me to Woolworth’s so I could spend some of my allowance money. Instead of getting a little toy, or candy, or whatever a kid with a couple of bucks could buy back in 1976, I bought two identical greeting cards. After not hearing from either Unit for quite some time when I saw these cards, it was my first crash course in the wonderful world of Snark.

Even though I was hellbent on mailing them to the Mother and Father Units, Aunt Tudi convinced me not to do it. I kept the cards, though, up until I finally disposed of them in the late 90s, because they were yellow and tattered with age. The message was ingenious, though, and I kind of wish I’d held on to them, just for shits and giggles. I’ve recreated the card here, for the enjoyment of any and all.

Very simple, to the point, and unmerciful – like all good sarcasm should be.

When I was as young as three years old, I believed without question the existence of god. At four, I began wearing a towel on my head (don't go there with the jokes...), held down by a plastic mixing bowl, to pretend I was a nun. I also attended temple a couple of times with the Mother Unit. I got my first taste of wine there. Mogen David FTW!

At the age of five, in my first grade class, we were all required to recite psalm 23. Since my family was of mixed faith, and not excessively religious (I was probably the most "devout" at that time), I knew no bible verses by heart. I was the only one in my class not to get a silver star by her name. Looking back, this was my first experience with indoctrination in a setting that should have been more in line with the law of separation of church and state. It was mortifying, to say the least. I remember crying all the way home and staying up well past my bedtime to memorise the psalm, but was never called on in school to clear my name as a godless fiend. During this time, I also got it into my head that I wanted to be a preacher.

Aunt Tudi explained to me that I couldn't be nun, because I wasn't Catholic, and female preachers are few and far between, and usually weren't respected or listened to. So that was that.

A few months before my sixth birthday, my family exploded, when the Mother Unit requested a divorce. During this time, a pastor started frequenting the house. He'd take me for rides in the car on occasion, and we'd sing the BINGO song. While he was showing the face of a concerned man of god during this difficult time in the family's life, the family comprising of the Units, Granny, and Aunt Tudi, he was discreetly fleecing anything of worth from an already desperately poor family. I didn't find out that last part until years later, but I had always wondered why he suddenly stopped visiting, especially when I felt I needed him most, after the break-up was finalised and my Father Unit had a nervous breakdown. It turns out he got what he wanted, which was pretty much everything we had had as a family unit.

While I was being verbally terrorised by the Father Unit, as he instructed me to despise the Mother Unit for all she had done, and telling me she had never loved me, otherwise she wouldn't have left, I prayed fervently to a god that never seemed to hear me. I felt adrift. I never felt safe. When I got to see her, Granny would tell me the story of Job, and that all I needed was to hold on to my faith, and eventually everything would be okay.

But it wasn't. I had my home, my neighbourhood, my parents, and my favourite grandmother and aunt taken away from me, until the authorities decided on what to do with me. By the time I was seven, I was living with Aunt Tudi and Granny, in an A-frame chalet in Black Mountain, North Carolina. I still wanted to believe in the existence of a higher power, so I began reading the bible frequently. Aunt Tudi bought me a Rainbow Bible. I still have it...I think.

I remember reading about Gideon in Judges, how he wanted proof of the existence of god, and put the deity to a test. This verse, Judges 6:39, impacted me:

And Gideon said unto God, Let not thine anger be hot against me, and I will speak but this once: let me prove, I pray thee, but this once with the fleece; let it now be dry only upon the fleece, and upon all the ground let there be dew.

I figured if Gideon could do this, and be answered by god, surely I could too. It was in the bible, so it must be something that was true and could be repeated. I got a dry washcloth and, placing it in the very back of my closet, asked god to let me know he was with me, that he did listen to me, by making the cloth wet by morning.

Morning came, and I rushed to the closet with hope and expectation. The cloth was dry.

I could not bring myself to say there was no god. Atheism is still unthinkable in the Southeast United States, but back in the 70s, the very word itself was an abomination. I could not not believe in god. But I learned a new word - agnostic. From 1975 until 1988, I was an agnostic. That doesn't mean I didn't have spiritual experiences. I had a few throughout my life, like the revelation of Durga at the age of five, and the irrefutable holy feeling upon seeing the beginning of the movie Xanadu, featuring Jeff Lynne's music. Even Star Wars triggered a spiritual reaction in me, which I found out later was a very natural one, considering the use of archetypes and stories older than even our most ancient ancestors.

In 1988, I began studying Wicca. I felt like I'd come home. Here was a spiritual place that you carried within you, a way of life that held everyone (male, female, human, non-human - all life) in a kind of reverence. It renewed my belief in magick and the possibility of a life of wonderment. By 1990, I had become a New Age Fluffy Bunny. By 1992, I was a High Priestess in the Caledonii Tradition. Even though I eventually turned to solitary practice and dropped the Wiccan label, preferring the cognomen of Witch, my faith never faltered.

Until 2011. On August 25th, 2011, I was catapulted into the gravest spiritual crises I'd ever known. It was different this time. I didn't feel as though god/dess was not listening to my prayers; rather, I found I had nothing to say to any deity. If people would ask, I'd nonchalantly say that I was going through a spiritual crisis or that I was a Pagan-leaning agnostic.

Monday will mark the third anniversary of Aunt Tudi's death. When it happened, people wanted to pray for me, or pray with me. They tried to comfort me with praise of god/dess. I felt myself being offended and angry, not just with deity, but also with the people who seemed to crawl out of the woodwork to use my tragedy to turn me to god. On Christmas Eve, I called my Aunt Josephine to wish her a merry Christmas. I was only four months out from losing Aunt Tudi, so the wound was still raw (honestly, it still is). Instead of giving me any sort of comfort in her own way, instead of even wishing me a merry Christmas back, Josephine proceeded to tell me that I needed to get right with god; otherwise, I wouldn't see Aunt Tudi in the afterlife, as she was in heaven, and I was definitely headed for hell. That was the last time I ever talked to her.

Three years on, and where am I as far as my quest for a higher power or my need to commune with deity? In all honesty, I would have to say that I've crossed that line between agnosticism and atheism. With all the horror I see in the world now, I prefer the idea that there is no god as opposed to one that seems to revel in the continuous abject suffering of its creations. I have no patience for any of it, in whatever incarnation people claim it exists. I want no part of it.

Now some may say that this is simply my own version of the descent of the goddess, and they can believe that all they want to. If I've been descending, then this post is the end of my journey, because I don't plan on ascending. There is nothing up there for me.

So yeah, I think it is pretty safe to say that I am an atheist. Looking back on my experiences with the spiritual world, I can see now that it was an inevitability.

There may be people out there who have the impression that I’m a misanthropic asshole with no sense of gratitude.

It’s true, I am a misanthropic asshole, but I am grateful for a lot of things and beings, including people.  I thought it might behove me to step out of “character” for a few minutes and make a list.  So here we go.

1. The Mother Unit - for rescuing me from myself last year, and having more patience with me than I ever would with anyone, including myself.

2. My friends.  Even though I’ve lost a few since 2011, I’ve retained many very important souls in my life, many of which I met here on LJ.  Despite my general dislike for our species, I harbour much fondness for my Tribe.  Many of you stuck with me through the darkest period of my life, often saving my skin and literally saving my life and sanity when I did nothing to deserve such kindness, and there’s really no way I can ever sufficiently repay you for that.  I just hope that I can do something for each of you someday, that might properly express how much you mean to me.

3. Smidgen and Toby.  They cradle my soul like no one else would be willing to, or could.  The unconditional love cats and dogs give us may well be the primary way god/dess is trying to tell us that we aren’t alone, that we count in some way.  Despite my agnosticism, Toby and Smidgen are the ones who keep me from full-on atheism.

4. Music.  Music is the closest thing to the concept of Force that we can get.  I’ve long believed that the multiverse in which we dwell is a song that is still being composed.  It is the purest form of communication, and it is something that every living being expresses in one form or another.  We are all songs, we are the music of creation, we are the mathematics and art of dreams and concepts.

5. Fey Publishing - for taking a chance on me and my strange tales.  My third book will be available soon, thanks to Fey’s original owner, Sophie Childs, and its current sovereign, Kristen Duvall.  Click on their names to learn more about these brilliant women.  I owe them both a great deal, for their initial and continued faith in me, and for their patience as I struggled through my own personal bullfunky to finally get the third Vampire Relics book to Dark Fey’s door.

6. Shriekback, in particular Barry Andrews, for letting me have a ringside seat to their ongoing awesomeness.  Since 1990, they’ve been an almost constant source of inspiration and comfort, soundtracking my life’s highs and lows, and everything in between.  If we lived on Arrakis, I would owe Barry a huge water-debt.

7. The Impractical Jokers and The Epic Rap Battles of History.  My entire life, I’ve been a huge supporter of all brands of humour, but my quest for things that would make me laugh became a desperate effort following Aunt Tudi’s death.  Of all the things I explored in my quest for laughter, The Tenderloins (Impractical Jokers) and the guys behind The Epic Rap Battles were the only ones who never failed to bring me a joy that was otherwise almost impossible to find.

8. You Tube and Netflix.  When you don’t have a TV, these two wonderful services are a wonderful, and often preferable, alternative.

9. Dr. Harrington.  Of all the therapists I’ve had over the years, this is the only one I’ve ever felt actually listens to me.  His wry wit, proclivity to play devil’s advocate, and his willingness to swear are just three of many things that impress me about the man.  And he’s a good person, a genuinely good person.

10. The Internet.  When someone asked me how I felt about the Internet back in 1998, I told them that the Internet was the universe’s largest library. You could find out anything by exploring the endless halls of virtual books.  You need only be aware of the pervert at the end of each aisle and act accordingly to avoid them.

11. Sleep.  When you’re a chronic insomniac, the value of sleep increases a thousandfold.  I was never one of those kids who balked at bedtime; I was always a fan of slumber, mainly because of my vast dreamscape.  Being able to achieve lucidity at times only added to the wonder of it all.  After I began suffering from insomnia, those rare occasions where I’d achieve a few hours of really good sleep with a possible bonus of now rare dreams, reached a level of miraculous for me.  I am never not profoundly grateful for sleep.

12. Drum circles.  I’ve always been fond of them, but rediscovering drumming and, in particular, trance drumming, has reconnected me to deity on a level I thought was no longer possible.  There’s something about surrendering to a group rhythm that is both spiritual and therapeutic.  Thankfully, drum circles in San Diego are never on short supply, unlike the Upstate of South Carolina.

13. Earth.  I try to never take my home planet for granted, especially now that my species seems hellbent on destroying the only home we’ve ever known.  In vast expansiveness of the multiverse, this magickal sphere upon which we all live makes it seem more likely than not, that life is more prevalent than we can imagine.  And Earth is teeming with it, in mind-boggling varieties throughout an inconceivable history.  This “pale, blue dot” may be tiny in the scheme of everything, but the planet is unique and precious, a work of divine art, from the towering trees of the Amazon to the majesty of the Smoky Mountains, all resonating with the subtle song of water, that which gives life as we know it.  We have no right to visit so much suffering upon the body and spirit of our galactic mother.  Throughout every day, I am stunned by the miracle of our home, and I grieve for everything that has lost in the wake of our destruction.  I walk through life, grateful to Earth for her presence, and therefore ours, and I hope that my fellow humans and I can find some semblance of forgiveness for our transgressions.

So there it is.  Thirteen things for which I am very grateful.  I’m sure there’s more, but these are the Big Ones in my life, at this moment.  What do you treasure?  For what are you grateful?

1. I'll be giving Chester his Summertime shaving, and I'll be clipping all the dogs' toenails. At the very least, this will take me a couple of hours. Right now the dogs are all chillaxing like they haven't a care in the world. Once the toenails start flying, they'll know that the day isn't going to be a business-as-usual day of relaxation. I can hear the angry growls of protest now.


2. Blake is supposed to swing by for a visit so he can pick up his birthday card and gift. Aunt Tudi and I scrimped and saved like crazy in order to give him $20. I'm certain he'll be thrilled with the dough. In this day and age, people are thrilled to get monetary gifts, and they know how fortunate they are to be receiving such a gift. Ten years ago, $20 wasn't that big of a deal. Funny how just a handful of years can make all the difference in the world.


3. Sometime after the dogs' grooming and family visitation, I'd like to squeeze in some quality time for writing. I haven't sat down to seriously commit some wordage to virtual paper in about a week, and I'm beginning to suffer from the writing withdrawals. Ideally, I'd like to finish "The Last Acolyte" today and begin on the third story in the Cadmus anthology.


4. Before I begin my work, I'm having a late breakfast and watching 2012. That movie is like porn for me as I see global mass destruction on an unprecedented scale, and hope that this actually happens next year. The more I watch this movie, the more I get the warm fuzzlies. The only thing I hope does not happen is that anyone survives the cataclysm. Only the animals should survive the 2012 disaster. After all the horror our species has imposed upon planet Earth and our fellow inhabitants, Humanity deserves extinction.


5. After my work, I need to do some online research on Ramtha for Todd. I've known about this grifter for decades, and Todd and I have discussed her in the past. He was invited to a dinner party last weekend where the folks discussed a variety of spiritual matters. A few days later, he asked his friend to what group they all belonged because I had asked Todd and Todd didn't know. His friend told him that they belonged to Ramtha's School of Enlightenment. My knee jerk reaction was "Ohhh nooo..." I've already sent some information about JZ Knight/Ramtha to Todd, but I need to send him more. The aim is to ensure Todd does not associate with these people at any depth because RSE is a cult and a dangerous one at that.

green_goblin7t

paisleydaze

delenn99

stacye13

• Attending Circle. Sometimes even the most anti-social of us craves the group dynamics of a cast Circle. Not saying I'd want to do it on a regular basis, but it'd be nice to be with fellow Witches in sacred space for a little while.


• Bardic circles. These were almost as magickal as Sabbat and Esbat celebrations. But music is a magickal thing in and of itself. Tolkien himself contented in The Silmarillion that existence began with a song.


• Singing. Anywhere. Circle, Bardic, the UU Church. I miss singing.


• The Celtic music community of Greenville. I'll never be a part of it again, but that doesn't stop me from missing it. It's been 11 years now since I walked away.


• Quality Assurance and the people with whom I worked in that department: Doc, green_goblin7t, Richard, and Timothy. Sometimes even Raleigh and Terri.


• The Darth Maul Estrogen Brigade. It was 100% a positive experience and I made lifelong friendships because of that corner of smut on Teh Intarwebs, the most important being falkenna and Meche. It was a sad day when Darth Cleo shut the site down, archiving the majority for posterity's sake. I envisioned her turning out the lights in much the same way John Sheridan did at the end of B5. I often wonder about how Maulsmate, MaryCheetah, the Smut Brigade, MOTS, and Indigobunting are doing.


• My Friend Todd, every day, without fail.

Over a decade ago, I created a collage of some of my favourite photos of my favourite people and animals. Fastidiously gluing the scissor-sculpted photies together, I placed them on a poster board covered with tie-dye tissue paper, and I decorated my office wall in Quality Assurance and, later, my cube wall in Special Orders Services with my memories made manifest. It may be a bit redundant to take pictures of pictures, but I don't care. It's my journal and I can be redundant if I want to.

What I've done is take pictures of the collage in sections so I can write about the images featured in each picture. Over time, I plan on documenting the entire collage, starting with today's post.

Beginning on the left-hand side of the image, there’s a black and white photo of the Father Unit, circa 1978-79.  If memory serves, this was a press photo from when Dad was starting his acting career.  Mind, it was only local theatre, in the Virginia area at the time, but it grew to a pretty lucrative commercial career while he was in Japan.  The Japanese love goofy American actors, so the Father Unit fit right in.  Right above him is a picture of the Mother Unit in 1973, modeling some nifty 70s fashion.  She was quite the dish in the day.  Well, she still is but, in the 70s, the Mother Unit was definitely what you would call a hottie.  To her right is a picture of the Father Unit playing his guitar and, above that, is Granny, the Father Unit’s mother and the lady who helped Aunt Tudi raise me.  May the Goddess have mercy on her soul for having to put up with something like me.  Beside the Father Unit’s guitar photo is a picture from 1973 of Mama, Dad, and me on the Empire State Building.  Then we have two photos featuring the Units in their youth, a colour one from the 70s and a black and white one from their Beatnik days of the mid-60s.  Moving on to the right is a B&W photo of my maternal grandfather, G’Pa Irving.  Handsome devil, wasn’t he?  Below him is a picture of Mama and Granny from June of 1985, the night of my high school graduation.  Don’t they looked thrilled?  Right below that is a tiny picture of Uncle Michael, Janice, Little Michael, and Johnna.  Note that Johnna has her back to the camera.  From infancy, Johnna despised having her picture taken.  Maybe one of her past lives was that of an Amazonian tribesman who was certain that photography was tantamount to soul-stealing.  Whatever the reason, taking pictures of Johnna as a child was always an adventure.  To the left of the family of four, we have a severe B&W photie of the Mother Unit, circa 196?.  She had that “I’m so sexy I could kill you with a glance” thing going on.  Beside her are two tacky pictures of the Father Unit, who had that “I’m so goofy I could kill you with a glance” thing going on.  Not to be outdone, the Mother Unit offers up two goofy pictures of her own.  And, for good measure, and to finish up this portion of the collage, there’s a picture of the Mother Unit from a few years back, posing with two of her avian pals.