Things I like. Writing, photography, nerd stuff, doctor who, sherlock, travel, gaming, life, stuff. My "serious" Tumblr about art, science and serious things is here: http://rowanaftyn.tumblr.com
There’s a certain attitude that scares the shit out of me – let’s call it destructive sensitivity.  It’s the philosophy that, if an idea is uncomfortable, it needs to go away.  If an image upsets you, or reminds you of a bad experience you had, then not only should you not have to look at it, no one should be allowed to look at it.  And if you can’t eradicate it completely, it should at least be buried so deep that a casual viewer would never stumble upon it.  This kind of censorship is nothing new, but I feel like it’s becoming more and more common.  So, why do I think it’s a problem?
FICTION
An important question we need to ask ourselves first is, what is the purpose of media, and particularly of fiction?  Why do we read, why do we look at artwork, why do we watch movies?  To only see happy things?  As escapism?  That’s certainly a valid interpretation, but it’s not the only one.
For the artist or creator, fiction can be a way to communicate the inner self to the outer world, through the use of symbols.  It’s a means of expression.  What they express might be deep, might be simple, might be beautiful or disgusting, might be for a niche audience or the whole world, but in the end, it is the artist taking pieces of their own experience and creating something new. Â
For the viewer, fiction is a way to understand things that are outside their experience, and a way to expand their experience safely.  Fiction allows us to go places and do things that we can’t or wouldn’t in our own lives, without risk, without physical harm, and without causing harm to others.  Fiction can teach us what we fear, what we love, what we’re missing.  It can show us how others live, how others see us, how we see ourselves, and we’re free to engage with it as shallowly or as deeply as we want.
But fiction is not equal to reality. Watching Friday the 13th doesn’t make you a murderer, and it doesn’t kill you.  Reading Lolita doesn’t make you a pedophile.  Writing a story where a character is raped is not the same as committing rape, and reading that story is not the same as being raped.  Thought is not crime.
CENSORSHIP
Censorship is a way to force your interpretation of material on others, to reduce or destroy another’s experience by prejudging it as harmful to them.  But part of becoming a well-rounded human being is accepting that not everyone has the same sensibilities, and not every experience needs to be positive. Â
What you find offensive, some might find enjoyable.  What you find traumatic, some might see as an exercise in empathy, or a means of catharsis.  Sad songs can be beautiful.  Horror stories can be fun.  When you decide to silence the things you don’t like, you’re cutting off others from that same experience. You’re making decisions for others, and you’re essentially saying that your feelings (and the feelings of people who agree with you) are more valid than anyone else’s.  I find this darkly ironic, because the audience that holds these particular sensitivities also tends to be the first to champion acceptance and non-traditional viewpoints, while organizing witch hunts for those they feel disrespect them.
So, why is this important to me?  Why does it scare me?  Well, as an artist, the complaint of one sensitive viewer can erase my work in an instant.  When complaints are made, content is removed first and questions are asked later.  Artists are guilty by default, and viewers are treated as victims.  No content host wants to be the one to stand up for freedom of expression at the risk of being seen as supporting offensive material.  Most alarming of all, this is all seen as totally acceptable, or even justified.  When an artist’s work is taken down, I see comments like, “Well, that’s the risk you take when you post stuff like that.  Can’t be helped.”  Even the people who disagree with censorship just shrug their shoulders.
SENSITIVITY
To those who are sensitive, I’m not trying to say, “just get over it”.  Emotional hurt is real, traumatic experiences are real.  I would never belittle someone else’s pain.  But you have to realize as well that your experience is not the be-all, end-all of the world.  Not all content is made with you in mind.  It is inevitable, if we want to exist in a world with other people in it, that we’ll be exposed to things we don’t enjoy.  The answer is not to destroy or degrade those things, but to try to understand them – and if that fails, at the very least, we can allow them to exist on equal terms.  It is that frightening desire to homogenize the world, to eliminate that which we fail to understand or which causes us emotional distress, that can lead as to real prejudice, to real violence and real crime.  Please understand that allowing content you dislike to exist is not the same as advocating it. Â
THE ANSWER
What I would love to see is a perspective shift.  I want to see a world where responsibility is on the viewer, not the creator or the content host.  If you have a problem with something, it’s up to you to not see it, not for the artist to hide it for you, or add unavoidable warnings that prejudge a work.  I want a world where, rather than censorship by default, censorship is a conscious choice for those who want it.  No work is hidden until a user hides it themselves.  Artists are not punished for merely posting content that some find offensive, only for not tagging it correctly.  Freedom of expression and variety of content is seen as more important than protecting viewers from fiction, from discomfort, from viewpoints that don’t mesh with their own.
Accept others.  Take responsibility for yourself (and only yourself).  Understand that not all content is meant for you.  Understand that fiction is not crime, and fiction does not equate to real-world harm.  That’s all I’m asking.
(please don’t let this become a shitstorm… TT _ TT)
I don’t have children. I am 38 and I decided (for various reasons) not to have children, but I appreciate what moms do and in a better world ALL moms (and families) would love and support their children regardless of their orientation. But I know we don’t live in that world.Â
I am a bisexual woman, but I have been married to a wonderful husband for 18 years so I swing towards identifying more as a heterosexual now, at least in practice. To be honest, I don’t think about labels much at all, as they have never been important to me. However, as a teen, I was kicked out of my home for kissing a girl, and I would never wish anyone to feel the kind of pain and loneliness I did. I could give you the sad story but that’s not the point. I think the point is that to some degree, I understand. I don’t know exactly what every queer kid is going through, but I can touch that pain on some level. I also know that there are far too many people (kids and adults too) who have been shunned because of their orientation and end up lonely and scared during the holidays. I know the suicide rate is highest during the xmas season.Â
My husband Alec and I are pretty low key for xmas. We have a nice dinner. We watch movies. We might have a friend or two over to the house. It’s an easygoing day for us. We don’t let the craziness get in. Because of that, we stay pretty happy. There is a sense of easy calm in my house on xmas, which I think is a nice thing to be around.Â
This xmas I would like to “virtually adopt” whoever needs an ear to talk to, a caring voice, some really bad jokes (I have loads of those) and maybe a recipe for the worst fruitcake you’ve ever tasted. I don’t want people to be alone. If you are alone this xmas, I am here to talk, to listen, to share stories or whatever you need to get you through and hopefully, to put a smile on your face.Â
If you need someone to talk to, contact me on Facebook first.Â
https://www.facebook.com/clockwork.gypsy
From there, we can chat, and if you like, we can Skype. I live in Panama so just calling gets expensive. Skype is better for phone calls. I am a fierce chat room chatter. We can fangirl together, we can sing, we can do whatever you need to do to feel better. My goofy ass husband might pop in and make worse jokes than I do. One of my obnoxious friends will likely want to say hi. They love everybody. Except Pedro, he’s full of comic rage, but we love him anyway.Â
I don’t expect my adopted internet kids to vanish after xmas either. Keep in touch. Love is love and we need all of that good shit that we can get.Â
So, I will be home and checking into Facebook all day on Xmas. (contact me before is even better so we can schedule chats and calls)
Be safe, practice self care and remember that you’re beautiful.Â
Happy Holidays,
Internet Mom
PS: Pass this around to anyone who might be alone this xmas. Thanks <3
I never post set-lock and other celeb-stalky things.
I really don’t feel comfortable with people taking photos of closed film sets, artists at work and celebs going about their daily lives. I think they give enough to the public without their work and their privacy being invaded. Think of how weird it would be if you were at work, doing your job and someone was sneaking around taking photos of you while you try to get your job done... and then posting them online to your supposed “fans.” I don’t think that posting sneaky pics of people makes you a real “fan” of someone. I think it makes you a stalker in a way. And quite rude.
I was disheartened today to see photos on my dash of Benedict Cumberbatch filming as Dr. Strange. The man is WORKING. Leave him the fuck alone. People’s interference DOES affect a person’s concentration and performance. He has said as much in interviews. Let him do his job and turn out the best performance he is capable of creating. That’s how you can be a true fan- let him do his job without invading his life. Have some basic respect. You wouldn’t do that to your neighbor or co-worker, and if you did, there would be a restraining order against you.
So, I know that not many people read my blog, but I ask that if you do, please at least consider for a moment that these people are human beings and that what you’re doing is quite simply... intrusive.Â
I am going to be unfollowing blogs that post set photos and invasive photos of people I admire, or anyone for that matter.
Alec: "I got something for you. It's a present. It's a surprise. Hold out your hand."
Me: "No."
Alec: "Why not?"
Me: "Because we BOTH know it's your wiener."
Alec: "Yeah, it's my wiener."
Above is the only photograph of me (that I am aware of) before the age of twenty. I am the one in the rainbow shoes leaning to the right. The other two are my half siblings.
My Story:
Warning: it aint pretty. Rape, incest, abuse, horror. But a happy ending.
I come from a family RAGING with mental illness. My mother clearly had some kind of mental illness as she was self destructive, physically abusive to her children and had an on and off drug problem. She married and had me at age 16, and my biological father was a very violent, abusive heroin addict who was in and out of prison his whole life. He was out of my life by the time I was a toddler. The first time I met him, I was fifteen and it was visiting him in prison.
My mother remarried a man who sexually molested children, including me and my sister. My half brother and sister are his biological children. He started molesting me when I was around seven. He continued until I was twelve and I told a school nurse. Promptly, police cars and social services showed up at my school. I was questioned, then driven to my house by a social worker, where I had 30 minutes to pack a suitcase with what belongings I wanted to keep. I didn’t have a suitcase, so I used a garbage bag. I was taken to a receiving home, which is a very temporary (less than two weeks) foster home. After that, eight more foster homes followed. Two of them were severely abusive, filthy and rife with neglect. I shared a room for months with a teenage girl who called herself Crystal because she was a big fan of crystal meth.
Another foster home was run by a wealthy woman who encouraged eating disorders. Her two daughters had been chubby as teenagers and she referred to being fat as “the worst thing that could happen to a girl.” She provided her female wards with toothbrushes with tape wrapped around the handle end that made a soft padding. She had made these instruments to be used as vomit inducing gag sticks... and she taught us how to use them. There is often no room in the foster care system for kids over twelve. Teens are often difficult and have behavioral problems so foster homes tend to not want to accept them. This means that “group homes” are often the destination for those who are 12 and up. Group homes are usually packed with kids with serious behavioral issues. Violent kids. Drug addicts. Gang members. I was basically a quiet kid that liked to read a lot, so I didn’t fit in and I got picked on, physically abused by other kids and adults ignored this.
When group homes fill up, kids are shifted around to different homes. After a year in foster care, my maternal grandparents offered to take me in. Life was quiet and nice with them for a few months, but my grandmother had severe heart problems and one evening the pain was overwhelming and she purposely killed herself by taking a bottle of nitroglycerine.
I found her body.
I was put in touch with my mother again, though I was still being shifted home to home. She did not seem to recognize the problems I was having and insisted on talking about how great her life was now. She partied a lot. And she was proud of this and found her sudden lack of children to be a relief.
After I told the school nurse about my step father’s assaults, I saw my half brother and sister twice each. I never saw them again.
At the age of thirteen, I had my first seizure. I was diagnosed with temporal lobe epilepsy. This would be a problem for the rest of my life. (I am now medicated but I still have frequent seizures.)
The shifting around to different homes caused me to be behind in school. I changed schools every couple of months. I had to go to summer school every summer to make grades. I was a smart kid, but I couldn’t do homework with screaming and yelling in the group homes and kids trying to beat the shit out of me. I could recite Shakespeare and understood complex chemistry but I failed at school. I fell asleep in class because I couldn’t sleep at home. It was so bad that I had a teacher who knew I was in a group home and told me “go ahead and get some sleep if you have to.”
Rules and regulations in these homes could be extreme and unreasonable for teens. Punishments as well. I was once made to pull weeds in the very large back yard for seven hours because I was accused of stealing a plastic hair brush from another girl. Later that day, the hairbrush was found in her school backpack. No one apologized, making me feel less than human. I auditioned for a school play and got a large role as Titania in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. However, I auditioned without permission from my house mother, who did not allow after school activities. I was surprised when she agreed to let me take the part. I fell in love with theater and made a lot of friends preparing for the play. Two days before opening night, my house mother, Susan, called the school and informed them that she would not allow me to continue doing the play and they would have to replace me.
Of course, they could not replace me on two days notice. I became an object of scorn among the other kids in the play and my drama teacher refused to put me in anything after that, as I was unreliable. Susan informed me she had done this to “teach me a lesson about asking permission.”
Another foster mother was a widowed piano teacher who was quite nice to me. She convinced me she was going to adopt me. However, she never meant it and admitted later that she “got carried away.” I learned very quickly to never take any offer like that seriously.
At age sixteen, my paternal Aunt, Leia offered to take me in, after getting assurance from a social worker that she would receive a check every month from the state for my upkeep. She accused me of “seducing” my step father into molesting me. Remember, I was seven. She had severe mental illness, was a very vocal racist and refused to allow black people in her house. I lived with her until two weeks before I turned eighteen, when she informed me that in two weeks, I would be “out on my ass” and homeless, since she would not receive any money for me anymore.
After this, it was impossible to continue with high school. My life was too chaotic. Most days I had no way to even get to school. I dropped out, reluctantly. I just stopped showing up.
Two days before I turned eighteen, I was walking home from school in the rain. I was crying because I was terrified. I stopped at various shops to pick up job applications, hoping to find some way to care for myself. A friend called a women’s shelter for me. A man pulled up alongside me and asked if I was OK. He seemed nice. He asked if I wanted a ride home. In a moment of letting my guard down, I said yes. He drove toward the edge of town and I protested, but was scared to hit him or fight because he was driving very fast and using the vehicle as a weapon to keep me from fleeing. I tried screaming. We ended up too far out in the country for anyone to hear. He stopped the car and I jumped out and ran. We were next to an orchard. he chased me down and knocked me down into gravel, scraping my skin badly. My elbows and knees were bleeding. He had a knife and he tried to put it against my neck but I raised my hands defensively and he stabbed me in the palm of my hand. The scar is still there. You can see the faded stitch marks and the two inch raised line.
I was out of breath and exhausted and scared and didn’t want to die, so I stopped fighting. He raped me in the gravel and threatened to sodomize me if I fought back anymore. When he was done, he tossed my clothing at me dismissively, got into his car and sped away. I ran through the orchard until I found the house of a Mexican farming family. They called the police.
The police called my aunt who was my legal guardian who had kicked me out. The police stood completely stunned when she told them on the phone that she would not come to get me or help me, because I was an adult and could deal with it myself. I had nowhere to go. I had a rape kit done, which felt like a major violation. I wanted to kill myself. She finally agreed to at least drive me to the courthouse on my court day. In the car she told me, “I hope you got fucked in the ass.” Those exact words. She told me I was the product of a whore she never approved of (my mother) and I looked just like her.
I spent two months hopping from shelter to shelter and occasionally a friend (or stranger’s) couch. I learned that my biological father was out of prison. I called him and asked if he could help. He agreed to let me stay in his apartment with him and his girlfriend for a few weeks. His apartment was on the worst part of one of the most dangerous cities in the US (Stockton, CA in the 90′s). I was surrounded by heroin addicts, a frequently visiting arsonist who once set the house on fire, and sex offenders. His girlfriend was a prostitute with a permanently bent leg from injecting herself and getting abscesses. Several times she tried to arrange to prostitute me to very old clients of hers. I refused. My biological father was a violent man who hated when anyone would cry. If I cried, he stopped this behavior by punching me in the stomach until I either stopped crying or urinated on myself.
No, I am not making this up.
My biological father became violently ill with liver disease. I watched him vomit mass amounts of blood and refuse to go to the hospital. I was put in charge of taking care of him. I had no idea how. Finally, he got so sick that he was taken by ambulance and put in intensive care. For three weeks, I watched my father die. I could do nothing. I froze and could do nothing but stand still. My aunt who kicked me out blamed me for “allowing” him to take drugs. He had been a heroin addict before I was born. The nurses attested to this, but she was determined to find a scapegoat.
I got a job as an office assistant at a car smog shop. What money I made was taken by my father and his girlfriend for drugs. He got me a small television for christmas, then sold it a week later. I started to hide money. I claimed that I quit my job so they wouldn’t ask for it. I managed to save a few hundred dollars and convince a friend to let me rent a bedroom in his two bedroom apartment. I moved out. I got a little more stable, though I struggled. I took a few classes at a junior college, though I did not have a high school diploma (and I still don’t.)
I got a new job as a live in housekeeper for a couple in their 60′s. They were nice to me. I got involved in my local Pagan community. I started to feel... human. Just a little.
At the age of twenty, I attended a pagan gathering on Halloween. There, I met a man who eventually fell in love with. His name is Alec. We did not waste time with guessing. We talked about real things. What did we want in life? What did we not want. We had almost everything in common. Four months later, we moved in together. He got a very good job in Arizona and we moved into a comfortable life emotionally and financially. All that seemed surreal to me. He noticed several things about me that he felt I should seek help for.
I asked permission to go to the bathroom.
I physically would freeze up at the idea of buying anything or spending money. We needed to furnish an apartment and I physically froze up and started crying in a furniture store.
I flinched if anyone hugged me. (The first time anyone hugged me, I was eleven years old and I thought she was attacking me)
I became absolutely terrified to the point of full on panic attack if I was ever late for anything. Subconsciously, I expected to be beaten. I had a lot of difficulty making friends. I had absolutely no social skills. I had manners but I had no confidence to talk to people.
I got a job working in a used bookstore, which I loved. Finally, work I loved. Throughout my life, I had always written short stories as a way to cope, and working in a bookstore, I was inspired to write. Alec encouraged me to write. But for ten years I never showed Alec anything I wrote. He knew this and let me take my time. He asked often if he could read my writing but I always froze up and said no. He allowed me that privacy.
Then something really strange happened. We had been together two years. And I was something like happy. I trusted him. I loved him. He was (and is) a good man with absolutely no violence. He treated me like a princess and still does. When I was twenty-two, he got a job offer in Argentina. We found ourselves living in Buenos Aires for a year. I found an entirely new life. As an expat, I did not have a work visa, so instead I focused on writing and I started to get short stories and articles published. I did some travel writing for publications focused on expat life. Then we moved to Panama. We bought a house there, mostly as an investment, but it was a house... my own house. A nice ocean view house. I was... living a good, stable life.
I had a husband I adored. We had a fairly stable sex life (which is unusual for someone who has been through what I have been through), I made friends easier, and I even became the president of a philanthropic group of expats in Latin America. I dressed nicely. I had nice shoes. We took vacations. Vacations! We went to Christmas parties and I learned archery. I began competing and occasionally, I won. All this felt like being reborn into a completely different person. In 2006, I won a trip to Paris (I am a trivia champion... yes, seriously. Geeky, I know.) I have always wanted to see Iceland and Alec said we should stop over in Iceland for a few days after Paris.
In Iceland, at The Blue Lagoon, he slipped a ring on my finger and asked me to marry him. I said the most enthusiastic yes of my life. Eight months later, we were married on a beach in Hawaii.
Another strange thing happened. I began to forget things. I forgot what my mother looked like. I have a vague idea, but I might not recognize her on the street. In fact, for many years I did not know if she was alive or dead. Since then she has found me on Facebook. I did not reply. I cannot remember what my siblings look like at all. I don’t go searching for them. I don’t want to interrupt their lives. My mother (through Facebook) informed me that my brother is working as a forklift driver. My sister is in a mental institution. At the age of 21, she stabbed a woman and almost killed her. She is apparently violently mentally ill and has paranoid schizophrenia. I have decided I am finally happy and stable and I cannot open my life up to any of that.
My evil aunt Leia is still being evil to other family members.
My step father is living in sex offender halfway housing. He molested three other children. He remarried. A schoolteacher married him, knowing he was a sex offender. He molested both of her daughters. He lives somewhere in Oregon.
I have not spoken to or been in the same room with ANYONE who shares my DNA in seventeen years. I have no family of my own. Because of my family history of mental illness and my own mental illness (I have bipolar 1 and depression) I have made a decision (one my husband agrees with, to not have children. I am happy with this decision and so is he.
In 2009, I got breast cancer. I underwent some very painful and miserable therapy and survived.
Today, my husband and I celebrated our 18 year anniversary.
In our time together, we have lived in Buenos Aires, Panama, Prague, Budapest and Hong Kong. I have visited 14 countries. I have learned three new languages, worked for a major travel magazine, started two small businesses of my own, won six regional archery tournaments, learned to make mead, wrote two books and dozens of short stories, been an extra in eight movies, opened a film and television casting company for casting extras, been a bridesmaid five times (hey look, I have friends!), learned flamenco dancing, learned how to spin fire, sang in a band, learned to sail a catamaran, cared for two epileptic dogs, had brain surgery (aneurysm), learned to surf (not very well, but still!), been in nine plays in three countries, was a chairman of a theater guild, raised $35,000 for epilepsy charity and started my own publication for disabled travelers.
I have medication that (mostly) regulates my seizures and my bipolar disorder.
Now, I have cervical cancer.
So, clearly, shit happens.
But here’s the thing...
.
.
.
.
I’m fine. I am a stable, well rounded human being. You will be too. You can go through a war and come out of it whole. You can even excel. It’s the hardest thing to do, but it can be done. And nothing is ever perfect but but can be... good. Not all the time, but most of the time. You’ll be OK.
Me, today.
Me, floating in The Blue Lagoon, Iceland.
My husband, Alec, and I. He is cute and his voice is exactly like Adam Scott’s.
Me, a photo for “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” - I finally got to be Titania.
Chemotherapy.
Me, in Istanbul, a gorgeous city I visited while travel writing.
Original writing (not fan fic) or “Hey, I’m writing a dirty book!”
I am starting a novel (for Nanowrimo, but it will go past November)
It is original fiction, not fan fiction. I have written a couple of novels before, so it isn’t completely new to me. I have written in the genres of science fiction (with no erotica in it) and erotica (with lots of erotica in it) and this time I am going for the latter... with a twist.Â
I have noticed a lack of bisexual and poly characters in novels. I have also noticed that when gay romances are written (usually by women) one of the men is usually feminized. I plan to write something different. I don’t know if I will succeed, but I hope I do.
On one hand, the story is as old as the hills. Scottish highlands (but this is modern, set in 2016) hunky men, brooding alpha, artistic independent female, a castle in the highlands as a setting.Â
But...
Within that classic gothic romance, I want to write unapologetic characters who are not afraid of their sexuality. A female lead who is not virginal, OR a whore. A brooding, hunky male who is not ONLY an alpha. Another hunky male who is not a simpering queen or a soft, sensitive one. Nobody rides a motorcycle or hunts vampires. No one turns into a wolf or a bear.Â
They do, however, have a lot of hot, kinky sex (not too freaky but freaky enough), and it actually has a plot. Things happen other than the hot sex.
I have no way to gage my talents myself. I think I can write with a reasonable amount of talent. Or me-write-good-me-think. But I have no actual clue. What I do know is that I am going to write the book and put it all on Tumblr so y’all can read it...
(are there like... four people who read this blog? Maybe five?)
If you’d like to read it as I write, tune in. But I warn you:
It is gay, bisexual, kinky, BDSM-ish, unapologetic, not politically correct and has a lot of penises involved.Â
Today was day one, cycle 8 of treatment. (Short explanation: I have cancer.)
The medication usually doesn't hit me really hard until about day three, so today wasn't bad. I took it slow. We went out and saw beautiful things and I rested when I needed to. I am getting the hang of "push a little, not a lot" instead of trying to bulldoze my way through life.
We started the day with breakfast at a cafe that had been converted from a Victorian church. After that, Kilchurn Castle. Kilchurn is a castle ruin and I doubt it is in many guide books or itineraries... but it should be. It stands on a hill in a huge marshy clearing. It is all sagging walls now, jagged edges and broken teeth. Ghosts could live here, but they would get lonely. It is very atmospheric. It sits on the very edge of the lake and you can see it from the highway but it is not nearly as good as hiking up there and exploring. I managed the hiking better than I thought I would. I am getting stronger - getting fresh air, good sleep, good food and exercise. Above all, inspiration.
After that, we went to Inverary Castle. Inverary is a late 17th century castle that has all the romantic points of a postcard picture. A square turreted castle, it was not, however, built to be fortified or defendable. If you watch Downton Abbey, Inverary is the Scottish castle where the family goes on holiday to stay with country cousins. It is easy to imagine Maggie Smith's character sitting in the parlor, bitching at people. (Does anything else ever happen on that show?
The drive home was harrowing as usual. This is our last night in this area. In the morning we head to Edinburgh.
Today I took a falconing course here in Scotland. It was even more amazing than I expected. Phoenix Falconry is in the rustic countryside and has a beautiful grounds for various birds of prey. The master falconer, Adrian, is a man in his fifties who has been doing this since age eight. He is wonderfully knowledgable about the birds and also a biologist.
We got to fly and feed six different birds, including a Himalayan owl, a Cara Cara, a peregrine falcon, a land eagle, a buzzard and an American bald eagle. With each bird, we learned their nature, their habits, history and biology. The peregrine falcon we flew was a hybrid (I forget the name) and there are only three of its kind in the world.
The peregrine falcon flies up to 160 miles per hour. Himalayan owls swallow their prey whole and asphyxiate them in their throats like a snake does. The little hood that falcons wear that prevents them from seeing is a kindness rather than a hinderance. They have weak hearts and they will often fly until their hearts give out. With the hood on, they calm and relax, assuming it is night time. The little plume of feathers at the top of the hood was historically a trophy- for each kill the falcon made, it got to wear a feather from its kill. The color of the hood meant something as well. Purple was for royalty, red hoods were for birds that hunted highland prey. Green was for birds that hunted in the lower regions of England.
It is a thrilling and daunting feeling, holding out your hand for an eagle with a six foot wing span to land on your wrist. They fly right at your face. The eagles particularly want to prove dominance over you and they stare you down for intimidation purposes. The buzzard was named "Evil Edna" because she not only has a itchy disposition but she escapes her specialized pen (they had to make her a special escape proof pen because she broke out so often) but she also murders other birds. She ripped through my glove (I was supervised closely by the falconry master and not in any danger) until the ends of the fingers came off and I retracted my hand through the leather glove. Evil Edna is 38 years old... my age. I think we share some traits
The experience was fantastic and one of those things that has imprinted on my memory in all my senses.
###
Unfortunately, falconing does not lend itself well to getting photographs with the birds. The action of raising your arm to take a photo is almost the same one as "please fly violently into my face" so no one got pictures with the birds.
that youtube channel where they just like heat up a metal ball and drop it on shit to see it burn or warp or whatever seems like something a robot would jack off to. but like not a normal robot, a robot with like, no friends, a robot all the other robots hate for being fucking weird
Yesterday I wandered around Doune Castle here in Scotland. Doune Castle has a rich history in reality but is probably more known in recent times as being a film location. Three of my favorite stories have been filmed here. In the 1970′s, Monty Python used Doune Castle as a primary location for their film The Holy Grail. More recently, Doune has been the primary location for the TV series Outlander, doubling as Castle Leoch, the Clan MacKenzie castle where Claire and Jamie spend most of their time. Doune was also used as the setting for Winterfell in Game Of Thrones.Â
So, you can imagine that being here in this storied place in both reality and fiction is a bit overwhelming to someone with a very active imagination... like me. The castle FEELS like fiction. Rich, syrup thick story.Â
The leaves have changed colors now in the Autumn and the castle is surrounded by color, yellow and red, flaming from the trees that edge the nearby river. I couldn’t see the castle that way though, despite the lovely weather and the Autumn flare. For me, the castle is Winterfell and the Stark children are playing in the courtyard. Jon Snow is practicing sword skills and Ned Stark is making bad decisions.
In any case, Doune Castle has been a literary highlight of my journey.
