Good as any, Better than most

Thursday, September 28, 2006

Mine.  Chapter 1 Part 4

Mort was a tall man, taller even than his father.  He shared his father’s serious countenance, and sharp features.  Augmenting his hawklike nose, were piercing ice blue eyes, the only feature he had inherited from his mother.  The people of the land respected him as much as Norwin, due to his fastidious and meticulous ways.  He was fair, and respected everyone for their attributes.

Yet, there were few in Grippa that could meet his gaze.  Most that tried, felt as if Mort was peering directly into their soul, their feelings and thoughts all laid bare for his perusal.  They would hold his gaze for a few seconds, and the feeling that Mort could see everything about them would engulf and override any other thought.  People that interacted directly with him daily, quickly developed a habit of talking to his chest.  Of course, the fact that Mort’s chest was the same height as most men’s eyes helped this seem natural.

In addition to his height, or perhaps in direct contrast to it, were Mort’s speed and lithe movements.  Most large people are a bit ponderous in their movements, always seeming to be careful not to squash those around them.  Mort moved with a fluid grace.  Trained heavily in combat since he was a small boy, every move he made seemed to flow into the next.  Mort was easily the strongest person in all of Grippa.  He had won the Test of Strength contest held every year at the Grippan Faire since he was 14, no one else even coming close to his feats of prodigious strength.

At 24, Mort had not even peaked physically.  He continued to train daily with every known weapon, and without any weapon.  As the eldest child, it was expected that he would take over the baronet of Grippa when his father no longer performed those duties.  Mort was well versed in every aspect of the land.  He had long since learned everything his tutors, both mental and physical, had to teach.  His former weapons masters would spar with him, sometimes in multiple pairs, honing their skills, and still be clearly overmatched.  His former tutors, instead of testing him with bits of language, or philosophy, or math, would come to him when they had need of a mind greater than their own.

Mort was, in truth, the epitome of a mythical Hero, come to life.

Onieda called him Mooky.

Wednesday, September 27, 2006

Wake Up!

Back in ‘97, some friends and I used IRC a lot.  It was almost like an addiction, had to chat.

We broke up our Starcraft playing with chatting.

We’d chat about chatting.

mIRC, the client of choice, has a built in feature for sounds.  You can type /sound blah.wav, and it’ll play blah.wav for you, and anyone else that has the sound.

We had a sound called wakeup.wav It was this incredibly loud, annoying guy screaming “Wake up”.  We would play it for each other when trying to get someone’s attention, if they happend to be home, but not actively at their computer.

I could really use that sound this morning.  Since I left work yesterday, I’ve slept ~12 hours.  I’m still tired.  Tonight, my cohort and I will be upgrading one of the software packages we use at work, and it’s probably going to take until midnight.

I have a feeling I’ll be needing the sound, and a pot of coffee by then.

Tuesday, September 26, 2006

Ripples

The mead is doing well.  It has a nice foamy top, you can see small bubbles working their way up from the bottom, almost like a boiling pot.

I think I’m more excited about the process, than the actual outcome.  I’m sure eventually, it won’t be exciting.  It probably won’t be exciting if I make another batch of it, or a wine, or a beer, or anything that ferments…

For now, I can just sit and watch the bubbles.  They race up, zipping from the point they form, until they burst at the top.  It’s like a soda, with unlimited carbonation.  It looks completely unnatural, but I know it’s what yeast has been doing for thousands of years.

I left work at 1pm today, and played a little on the PC, and slept off and on.  I think the late nights are getting to me finally.

Monday, September 25, 2006

Tragedy

Boy am I dragging this morning.

Started brewing up the first batch last night, and ended up having to boil some extra water out of the maple syrup.  Woe.  Woe is me.

I misread the scale on my hydrometer, so instead adding enough water to hit the targetted 1.12, I was at 1.02.  I had to siphon off 2 gallons of the mix, and add another gallon of syrup (thanks ^T for getting me 2!), and got close to the number (hit 1.11).

So, here I had 2 gallons of brown water.  The only pot I have big enough for 2 gallons is a 10 gallon behemoth I make chili in.  On our stove, you almost can’t boil water in it, it’s so big.  We dumped the water in it, put it on 2 burners, and let it heat. 

And heat

And heat

And heat

3 hours later, it was boiled down enough to fit into a normal sized pot, so I transferred it over, and got some actual boiling action.  Another hour in that pot, and finally, I had a quart of syrup.

And a house that smelled vaguely like a sugarbush, and felt like a tropical rainforest.

The liquid in the carboy is slowly turning into a black and tan, only it has 3 layers.  The layer on the top is about 2” of almost white foam.  Below that is a layer of dark tan, and the rest is the rich brown color of the original must.  The water trap is trapping.  The yeast is growing.  All systems are a go.  In about 2 weeks, I should have some sort of mapley alcohol.

Friday, September 22, 2006

Hobby

I’ve always wanted to have a good hobby.  I’ve tried a few, and kind of tinker at some.  I love wood-working, but don’t have the space to do it.  I like home theater, but don’t really have the money to upgrade what I already have.

So, I’m going to do some homebrewing.  I don’t really drink beer or wine, so that leaves me with malt beverages.  My first run is going to be mead-like, only made with maple syrup instead of honey.  I like the taste of maple syrup better than honey, so hopefully I’ll like maple mead better than normal mead.

The upside to this, is that it’s something I only have to “work” on a few hours.  The rest of the time the product just has to sit and make itself potable.  Now that’s my kind of hobby…

Thursday, September 21, 2006

Mine.  Chapter 1 Part 3

The smell of fresh baked bread greeted Onieda as she strode into the main hall.  She noted her father’s place setting already being cleared by the drudges.  Her siblings had not yet arrived to break their evening fasts, so Onieda sat at her place.  She loaded her platter with warm slices of bread, and a few scoops of khilot.

The oatmeal like paste named Khilot was a dish only served in Grippa.  A mix of several indigenous plants, roughly chopped, it took several weeks to prepare a single batch.  Only with great care, and specifically timed addition of ingredients, can it be made.  It is said that a single spoonful of khilot can fuel a strong man for several days of labor.  Grippan healers use flakes of dried khilot to bring wasted patients to health in hours, instead of weeks.  Someone, unaccustomed to its properties, eating a small bowl, becomes infused with energy and strength for days.  The effects of Khilot are widely known, and the trading of the traditional paste forms the base of Grippan economy.

Onieda topped her helping with red berries, and sighed in contentment at the flavor.  Even after eating khilot three times daily since she turned 1, it was one of her favorite foods.  A child of privilege, she consumed more of the paste in one sitting, than a wealthy healer would use in a year.  Long ago, Onieda stopped feeling the zing of energy at each bite.  The bowl she ate now, seemingly affected her no more than a bowl of normal grain would affect any other person.

She simply enjoyed the taste.  She hadn’t kept track of each meal, and so, as she finished her meal, she had no way of knowing that she had just consumed the last few ounces in five tons of khilot over her lifetime.

Five tons of this nearly legendary, magical food.  Wars had been fought over a few pounds of khilot.  In countries that didn’t share a border with Grippa, an ounce of khilot would trade well for a carriage, and a team of horses to pull it, lifetime wages for a coachman, and driver, and feed for the team.

The khilot she had always eaten was fresh, taken in the first pulls of each batch.  The drying process weakened the effects, so fresh moist khilot is the most effective and potent.  A Grippan child was always fed fresh khilot for their second year.  Most of them grew to despise the bitter, caking taste of the mash.  Onieda had not.  When she turned two, and her parents stopped the ritual feeding, baby Onieda had coliced.  The only food that she was able to keep was khilot, and so, she had always had khilot.

Today was no different, inasmuch as Onieda’s eating habits went.  The paste was followed by the bread, covered in melted butter.  The bread was followed with a small morning ale.

As she stood, her eldest brother, Mort, entered the hall.

Wednesday, September 20, 2006

Mission Statement

How to write original material, day after day?

That’s the question I asked myself a couple of weeks ago, when I decided to start posting.  I have these ideals, that I’d like to entertain any possible readers (and I know who all 3 of you are), even when I really don’t have anything to say when I type these out.

I have several thousand little stories from my childhood that shock and amuse.  I’m writing that story that I post on Thursdays (pretty much no lead time, I write the part I post, just before I post, so you’re seeing raw first draft material.

And then there’s days where I’m just going to bitch about work, either allegorically, or specifically.

I’m going to limit myself on posting about my time wasting hobby of playing World of Warcraft.  I’m not going to try and be a place people stop for global, technological or current news.

I will try to be entertaining though.  At least once a month.  When it’s precipitating.

Tuesday, September 19, 2006

When in Rome…

I’m just a cog.  A cog in a wheel.  A wheel on an axle. An axle in a machine.  A machine that has no idea it has cogs.

Aren’t we all just cogs?

Everything we do, everything we think about is just some action to achieve a desired effect.  Our actions, regardless of what is intended, causes reactions.

Everything, everywhere, is only there, because of some action.

I’m just a cog, in a wheel, and so are you.

Monday, September 18, 2006

Tra la la, la la la.

Finally, a weekend where I didn’t have to drive, or go anywhere, or really do anything.

I skipped out on 2 birthday parties, and a family reunion, and felt kind of bad about it.  I feel much better today though, after a weekend of puttering around the house, putting up shelf brackets getting the jungle I call a lawn cut, playing Warcraft…

I also made some beef short ribs on the grill.  They were OK, but as I was eating them, I kept wishing they were pork.

Speaking of food, the diet is going well, I’m down 16lbs from where I started.  I’ve basically stopped drinking soda and milk (can you believe milk is 100 calories a cup?), and have just been eating a little less.

If I can keep it up, I will fit in my old dress pants in a couple months, and won’t have to buy new ones.  That’ll be awesomeness.  Yes, awesomeness.

Peas!

Friday, September 15, 2006

MMM

I’m going to eat me some Culver’s tonight.

I haven’t indulged in bad-for-me food in a few weeks.  I skipped lunch, I’m ready for my thousand calorie meal.  Big juicy double cheese burger.  MMMM

Is it ready for me?

Thursday, September 14, 2006

Mine.  Chapter 1 Part 2

Norwin wished he could remain longer, sharing his strength and comfort, yet duties called.  Eve though the sun had not yet crested the horizon, workers throughout the keep would have questions and require guidance from him.  Such was the life of a Baron, in the country of Grippa.

Onieda watched as her father slipped out the door.  The terrors in her sleep, while never forgotten, were relegated back into a corner of her mind.  She was a dutiful daughter of Grippa.  A dark, nameless fear that clawed at her in the night had no business occupying her mind during the day.  Onieda was born privileged, but her parents had instilled in her a deep sense of responsibility for the land and its people.

A few moments after the door closed, she threw back the covers and swung her feet to the cold stone floor.  Spring had come to the land, but the keep was set deep in the bedrock footing.  It’s walls and floors were always chilled, even in the heat of summer.  She quickly moved to the rug in front of her armoire and shed her shift.  She shrugged into her favorite brown linen shirt, and began tying it up, noting that it was tight across her chest.  She had worn the shirt for years and was sad that what hours of activities hadn’t accomplished, her quickening into a woman grown had, making the shirt unsuitable to wear.

Not today though.  Later, she would break in a new shirt, but for now a thick leather vest would hold her modesty.  She donned the leather breeches that unbeknownst to her, caused every eye in the castle to follow her walk.  Slipping on her boots, and tightly lacing them, she was ready for the day’s labor.

Wednesday, September 13, 2006

A branch, a sword, a gun, a motorcycle.

When I was young, a busted off branch represented an infinite realm of possibilities.

For hours, I would be the brave hero, defeating swarms of evil grassy minions, relishing the conquest of my villainous foes.

I could lock and load, fight my way through the snowy hell, and claim the mountain from the commie horde.

Squealing my rear tire, pulling a wheelie for hours, I was the fastest rider on the dirt track.

I miss my stick.

Monday, September 11, 2006

Monday Monday

Ah Monday.  How I love and despise you.

It’s been raining all weekend.  Usually the gentle patter of rain lulls me into a deep sleep.  Last night, it woke me every time drops would hit the window.  When I rolled out of bed at 7:45 this morning, already 45 minutes late for work, the floor looked so far away.

Over the weekend the lovely wife and I went to her grandparent’s 50th wedding anniversary.  At least I think it was the 50th, I don’t really pay attention to those sort of things.  I played a little volleyball with a few of the regular players (LW’s brother, sister, their significant others) and a whole crop of cousins that I’d barely heard of, much less met.  If I were a farmer, I’d have left the crop on the field a little longer to mature.  The fun was a little dulled by having to play twice as hard for half the effect (when volleying for serve takes 15 minutes, you know it’s going to be a long game), but I still had a good time.

Yesterday, we came home, and took a little nap.  I then played WoW for a few hours.  A few hours longer than I should have, but it’s always a good time to hang out with my “online friends”.  And I say “online friends” because over the years, they’ve become real friends, that I just happen to have met online, and only see once or twice a year, but I digress…

This morning, I paid pretty harshly for that good time.  Arms and legs aching, the floor looked 100 miles away.  I dropped down to it, winced and performed my morning ablutions.

I rolled in to work just under 2 hours late.  Now, I’m writing this, because it seems more productive than just staring at the screen, not having any ambition to do any actual work.

I wonder if other bloggers read what they’ve written, before they post it.  I know I don’t…

Friday, September 08, 2006

It does what?!

Being fairly new to the world of online publishing, I don’t know much about the subculture it has generated.

Granted, I’ve been reading online journals way before the quasi-word *blog* every appeared, but I read them for entertainment value, never giving a thought to the fact that their very existence was part of this entire new world of ideals and “foundations”.

I jumped in, head first, without even testing the waters first.  I found that not only was the water way deeper where I jumped than I thought, I was in a stagnant pool, connected to a river larger than any I’d seen before.

That’s OK though.  This isn’t about notoriety, or fame.  Hell, I’m not even trying to entertain people.  I just need a spot to spout off once in a while, and have a creative outlet.  I’m going to break all the blogger rules, and follow them.

Because really, that’s what it’s all about.

Off to do the hokey pokey....

Thursday, September 07, 2006

Mine.  Chapter 1 Part 1

Twisting, crying soundlessly, Onieda Firth awoke.  Her dreams details and memories slipped quickly away, leaving only the sense of terror and dread.  Her ragged breathing punctuated the otherwise silent room.  The cool morning air slipped into her lungs, cool and comforting.  Onieda’s eyes flitted around the room, taking in everything and nothing in the dim grayness of the predawn hour.

On the far wall, the hearth sat empty, the interior stone work swept clean.  Winter had not yet gripped the land.  To the left sat a leather chair, the seat piled with half finished knitting.  To the right, a clear glass window looked out on the gray landscape.  In the dim light, Onieda could not yet make out the forms of the workers in the fields, nor could she make out the fields themselves clearly, yet she knew they were already toiling.

Her eyes moved on to the closed door.  The stout oaken door was carved from a single piece.  The side in Onieda’s view, carved with hundreds of small figures locked forever in merry celebration was comforting, a reminder that she was safe in her room.  Her gasps for air slowed.  Her fingers unclenched from the blankets they had been gripping tightly.

“What was I dreaming” she thought.  She was unable to remember even the theme of the dream, only the terror it had caused.  The latch to her door clicked, and Onieda instantly felt the claws of fear clenching her spine.  She opened her mouth to scream, when she saw the familiar face of father peek around the slightly opened door.

Norwin Firth watched the stark fear drain from his youngest child’s face, giving way to a look that spoke to him of relief, love, and the need for comfort.  He had merely been checking on Onieda’s sleep, as he had every day since her birth 17 years earlier.  Pushing the door open further, and moving with a lithe step, Norwin quickly came to his progeny’s side, and held her head gently to his slim chest.

Even a year ago, he would have expected Onieda’s tears.  6 months ago, she would have pushed him away, brusquely informing him that she was ok.  A month ago, her mother, his wife of 60 years, took a fall from her horse and died.  The barriers of teenage rebellion had been ripped asunder, and Onieda and Norwin were again as close as they had been when Onieda was 6.

“The dreams again?” He asked, already knowing the answer.

“Yes, poppa.  It woke me, and I still can’t remember what they are.”

He rubbed the top of her head, smoothing her slept-tossed hair.  When he had first moved to her, Onieda had been shaking violently.  Now, feeling safe and protected in his arms, the shaking ceased.  He looked down at his child as she looked up.  Their eyes met.  Hers spoke of the gratitude and love that she felt.  His were filled with the concern over her night terrors, the loss of the soul mate he saw reflected in the lines of his daughters face and the pride he felt for her.