warriorlord.com

all is well. I am moving “blog”  Check this out.

I know…

I’ve just been busy

As I’m not sure what exactly has changed since last I wrote, I’ll just do a ‘present update’.

Presently:  Chris is attending a 7th Day Adventist school. Claire is in Grade 1 at a local elementary school, and we’re keeping her up with her English 4th Grade Math and Language Arts after school.  She’s learning Mandarin. Imagine how cool that is. I believe it’s the most spoken language in all the world.

Oh, Chris’s school is great.  And they’re planning a trip to Cambodia, to help people there.

Today Claire’s school had a flea market, but the money went to the individuals selling. Claire made around 800 NT clear. She was pretty happy. Peter had fun helping her.

Oh,  I am not writing fiction right now. I am writing a lot of non-fiction, and I am attempting to make money this way. So far it is working pretty well. (As an aside, I am making mullah.)

Life is in flux. I’m not sure if you say that…but, anyhow, mine is and I will keep you updated as Peter said I should. I can just go into withdrawal and not communicate with anyone, and it doesn’t bother me.  Peter thinks it is important that I keep this blog up.  So, out of obedience to my husband I will do so.

Chris is on facebook, by the way.  I don’t really care for it, it seems a lot of work to keep it up and I have other things to do.  But I’m fine with her doing it as long as you all let me know if she does anything  weird.  :-P  Mother speaking.  (She will probably eventually read this post and complain, that’s why I said what I did.)

We are saving for a trip back to Australia, that’s what I’m doing most of my ‘make money online’ stuff for.  It’s building up.

I’d like to somehow make this blog into something that makes me money. How mercurial is that? I couldn’t put adsense ads on as they wouldn’t be at all relevant. Forget it. This blog could never make money, it’s too random. I had a writing blog but would-be-writers are notoriously ‘purists’ and I dont think they’d ever do anything for money–other than write a good book, of course.

I’ve lost that compunction. I had learned to write tight and compact, don’t over use words.  Now I write for money. No more “I’m” as that’s one word, instead it is always “I am”.  Word count matters when you are getting paid for each word you write.
I realise this post is a lot of random thoughts. Just thot it might be the best way to get everyone updated on my present state of ‘un’ mind.

Me, Claire and Mike went out to Shilin Night Market (in the afternoon) and ran into some friendly aliens who were visiting. They looked pretty scary but actually they were fairly nice, even let us take our photo with them.

Chris is studying a poetry unit in her Language Arts.  I read her this poem. By the time the first stanza was over, Claire had put down her pen and listened too. I love it.  Try reading it out loud, better yet try delivering it with meaning and swirls of your cape.

It’s long, but well worth the read.  But it MUST be read out loud. The words curl and twist and tell the story themselves. A perfect poem.

THE VAGABOND

By: R. C. Lehmann

It was deadly cold in Danbury town
One terrible night in mid November,
A night that the Danbury folk remember
For the sleety wind that hammered them down,
That chilled their faces and chapped their skin,
And froze their fingers and bit their feet,
And made them ice to the heart within,
And spattered and scattered
And shattered and battered
Their shivering bodies about the street;
And the fact is most of them didn’t roam
In the face of the storm, but stayed at home;
While here and there a policeman, stamping
To keep himself warm or sedately tramping
Hither and thither, paced his beat;
Or peered where out of the blizzard’s welter
Some wretched being had crept to shelter,
And now, drenched through by the sleet, a muddled
Blur of a man and his rags, lay huddled.

But one there was who didn’t care,
Whatever the furious storm might dare,
A wonderful, hook-nosed bright-eyed fellow
In a thin brown cape and a cap of yellow
That perched on his dripping coal-black hair.
A red scarf set off his throat and bound him,
Crossing his breast, and, winding round him,
Flapped at his flank
In a red streak dank;
And his hose were red, with a purple sheen
From his tunic’s blue, and his shoes were green.
He was most outlandishly patched together
With ribbons of silk and tags of leather,
And chains of silver and buttons of stone,
And knobs of amber and polished bone,
And a turquoise brooch and a collar of jade,
And a belt and a pouch of rich brocade,
And a gleaming dagger with inlaid blade
And jewelled handle of burnished gold
Rakishly stuck in the red scarf’s fold–
A dress, in short, that might suit a wizard
On a calm warm day
In the month of May,
But was hardly fit for an autumn blizzard.

Whence had he come there? Who could say,
As he swung through Danbury town that day,
With a friendly light in his deep-set eyes,
And his free wild gait and his upright bearing,
And his air that nothing could well surprise,
So bright it was and so bold and daring?
He might have troubled the slothful ease
Of the Great Mogul in a warlike fever;
He might have bled for the Maccabees,
Or risen, spurred
By the Prophet’s word,
And swooped on the hosts of the unbeliever.

Whatever his birth and his nomenclature,
Something he seemed to have, some knowledge
That never was taught at school or college,
But was part of his very being’s nature:
Some ingrained lore that wanderers show
As over the earth they come and go,
Though they hardly know what it is they know.

And so with his head upheld he walked,
And ever the rain drove down;
And now and again to himself he talked
In the streets of Danbury town.
And now and again he’d stop and troll
A stave of music that seemed to roll
From the inmost depths of his ardent soul;
But the wind took hold of the notes and tossed them
And the few who chanced to be near him lost them.

So, moving on where his fancy listed,
He came to a street that turned and twisted;
And there by a shop-front dimly lighted
He suddenly stopped as though affrighted,
Stopped and stared with his deep gaze centred
On something seen, like a dream’s illusion,
Through the streaming glass, mid the queer confusion
Of objects littered on shelf and floor,
And about the counter and by the door–
And then with his lips set tight he entered.

There were rusty daggers and battered breastplates,
And jugs of pewter and carved oak cases,
And china monsters with hideous faces,
And cracked old plates that had once been best plates;
And needle-covers and such old-wivery;
Wonderful chess-men made from ivory;
Cut-glass bottles for wines and brandies,
Sticks once flourished by bucks and dandies;
Deep old glasses they drank enough in,
And golden boxes they took their snuff in;
Rings that flashed on a gallant’s knuckles,
Seals and lockets and shining buckles;
Watches sadly in need of menders,
Blackened firedogs and dinted fenders;
Prints and pictures and quaint knick-knackery,
Rare old silver and mere gimcrackery–
Such was the shop, and in its middle
Stood an old man holding a dusty fiddle.

The Vagabond bowed and the old man bowed,
And then the Vagabond spoke aloud.
“Sir,” he said, “we are two of a trade,
Each for the other planned and made,
And so we shall come to a fair agreement,
Since I am for you and you’re for me meant.
And I, having travelled hither from far, gain
You yourself as my life’s best bargain.
But I am one
Who chaffers for fun,
Who when he perceives such stores of beauty
Outspread conceives it to be his duty
To buy of his visit a slight memento:
Some curious gem of the quattrocento,
Or something equally rare and priceless,
Though its outward fashions perhaps entice less:
A Sultan’s slipper, a Bishop’s mitre,
Or the helmet owned by a Roundhead fighter,
Or an old buff coat by the years worn thin,
Or–what do you say to the violin?
I’ll wager you’ve many, so you can’t miss one,
And I–well, I have a mind for this one,
This which was made, as you must know,
Three hundred years and a year ago
By one who dwelt in Cremona city
For me–but I lost it, more’s the pity,
Sixty years back in a wild disorder
That flamed to a fight on the Afghan border;
And, whatever it costs, I am bound to win it,
For I left the half of my full soul in it.”

And now as he spoke his eyes began
To shiver the heart of the grey old man;
And the old man stuttered,
And “Sir,” he muttered,
“The words you speak are the merest riddle,
But-five pounds down, and you own the fiddle!
And I’ll choose for your hand, while the pounds you dole out,
A bow with which you may pick that soul out.”

So said so done, and our friend again
Was out in the raging wind and rain.
Swift through the twisting street he passed
And came to the Market Square at last,
And climbed and stood
On a block of wood
Where a pent-house, leant to a wall, gave shelter
From the brunt of the blizzard’s helter-skelter,
And, waving his bow, he cried, “Ahoy!
Now steady your hearts for an hour of joy!”
And so to his cheek and jutting chin
Straight he fitted the violin,
And, rounding his arm in a movement gay,
Touched the strings and began to play.

There hasn’t been heard since the world spun round
Such a marvellous blend of thrilling sound.
It streamed, it flamed, it rippled and blazed,
And now it reproached and now it praised,
And the liquid notes of it wove a scheme
That was one-half life and one-half a dream.
And again it scaled in a rush of fire
The glittering peaks of high desire;
Now, foiled and shattered, it rose again
And plucked at the souls and hearts of men;
And still as it rose the sleet came down
In the Market Square of Danbury town.

And now from hundreds of opened doors,
With quiet paces
And happy faces,
In ones and twos and threes and fours,
A crowd pressed out to the Market Square
And stood in the storm and listened there.

And, oh, with what a solemn tender strain
The long-drawn music eased their hearts of pain;
And gave them visions of divine content;
Green fields and happy valleys far away,
And rippling streams and sunshine and the scent
Of bursting buds and flowers that come in May.
And one spoke in a rapt and gentle voice,
And bade his friends rejoice,
“For now,” he said, “I see, I see once more
My little lass upon a pleasant shore
Standing, as long ago she used to stand,
And beckoning to me with her dimpled hand.
As in the vanished years,
So I behold her and forget my tears.”
And each one had his private joy, his own,
All the old happy things he once had known,
Renewed and from the prisoning past set free,
And mixed with hope and happy things to be.

So for a magic hour the music gushed,
Then faded to a close, and all was hushed,
And the tranced people woke and looked about,
And fell to wondering what had brought them out
On such a night of wind and piercing sleet,
Exposed with hatless heads and thin-shod feet.
Something, they knew, had chased their heavy sadness;
And for the years to come they still may keep,
As from a morning sleep,
Some broken gleam of half-remembered gladness.
But the wild fiddler on his feet of flame
Vanished and went the secret way he came.

I’ve been working at home. Chaos. :-P  Today I went to the warehouse/office to work and it was nice and conducive. I worked.  After work we had a ‘happy-hour’ to celebrate the end of a week.  This time it was at home (where I just moved from), and everyone participated–kids and all. (No, kids are not really into ‘happy hour’, they just like to run around while their parents are preoccupied.)

It was funny going back to my old house.  Dexter was happy to see me, he pranced around with a big smile on his ‘face’. I felt awkward, and not… Don’t know how to properly describe the feeling of being back in a place with a lot of memories but not really belonging there any longer.

My new  home is quite nice.  There are a few improvements needed, and we’re onto them.  It’s nice being closer to town yet still in a nice location. Lots less people here which is different. It’s nice in a way, more spontaneous.

Heard some good news about Claire’s piano. We were thinking of discontinuing her classes, mainly ’cause its about an hour away, and she can’t travel there by herself yet so its an investment in time.  But her teacher asked if she could continue, apparently she has potential.  Nice.

I had wondered about that. She picked up some piano books from someone’s leftovers and she randomly started playing songs that she’d never heard or played before.  It surprised me as it’s not that easy to do.

Chris is invited to a dance concert tomorrow–the guys she’ll be dancing with.  I’m going, and will most likely take Claire and Gabe along too.  Looking forward to Chris starting dance classes, she begins at the end of this month.

Rambling. But that’s my day.

She did.  What a little wonder cat.  She woke Peter up at 5 a.m. the other morning, meowing rather pitifully. He, nice cat lover that he is, woke up and fed her.  She showed up again that night for more food.  We tried to encourage her inside, but she would meow and pace back and forth in front of the glass doors till we let her back out.

Tonight she came, she ate, and she perched up on her favorite spot on the bed.  I think she’s here to stay now.

It is a relief. She’s a beautiful cat, so placid and tolerant. And she’s a real scaredy cat, in the true sense of the word.  She’s comfortable around us, but runs and hides when anyone else appears on the scene. She was a ferrel cat and still has that distrust of humans (except for us, of course.)  That’s a good thing as that means she won’t traipse through the house and disturb everyone else. To the contrary, she avoids people and keeps out of their hair (and their rooms and their lives.)

Anyhow, all’s well that ends well.

We moved.  Closer to “TOWN” but still on the side of a mountain. Yeah.

My personal tragedy is Tabby.  We brought one dog and one cat.  Nike is fine, she will dive in the pool one day–I’m sure, and she sleeps  by the window outside our room, but she’s okay.

Tabby, my fluffy, furry, grey, beautiful placid cat who was once a ferrel kitten took off and never returned.  I wish I’d left her behind. Knowing where she is (even though it’s not with you) is better than lost.

I saw her today.  I looked over our fence down…down…down and I saw a tabby cat. I called her name and that tabby cat stopped and looked up, she didn’t move. It was Tabby. There was a glimmer of recognition, then that’s all.  Oh, where’s the loyalty of cats?

Apparently, if you don’t sensitize them to their surroundings soon enough they will get lost, looking for their former territory.  They’ll trek across country searching for ‘territory’.

I think she’s lost.  I don’t think she’ll return ‘home’ (it’s an awful long hike) but I think she’ll adapt beautifully to life in the wild again–after all, that’s where she came from.

But she was a beautiful cat. She was grey, and warm, and affectionate. She would have been a good mother. Ah well, may she be happy and wll fed wherever she is.

I don’t know why anyone would say that….

Life has been hectic. And when life is hectic, blogging does tend to be a little sparse. What has been happening?

First of all, Kalea cat died.  That was actually pretty tragic. She was pregnant and the kids (and me) were looking forward to the life-birth-death cycle with life-birth emphasised.  She wasn’t due, she was about the equivalent I suppose of 7 months in human terms.

One day she came crawling back, looking quite ill. I thought she was in labor. It went on and on and she was not doing well. We took her to the vet. One of the kittens had died and the vet didn’t give her any chance of survival.

Claire went with Peter to the vet, a very brave little soul I think.  She said her goodbye’s to Kalea and the vet put her to sleep.  They brought her home and we had a full scale funeral/burial.

The kids cried, Chris held out the longest but she succumbed at last too.  I cried when I saw the kids crying. Poor Peter, alone with three weeping females.

Anyway…

That was a fairly major happening, one which should have earned a blog post on its own, complete with pictures.

The other major is that we’re moving. Yes, I’m following Peter as he chases his rainbow.  The Association has finally outgrown its nest and is asking for “a place of me’ own please.”  So we’re leaving our mountain home and heading for (slightly, or so we hope) drier lands, and a place a little closer to the hubbub of Taipei central.

Yes, I’m sad as I will miss this place.  But I know it’s needed.  Still, knowing that doesn’t necessarily make it any easier. The kids have mixed feelings. They’re not so keen to move either, but Chris is starting dance classes nearby and Claire may end up going to Chinese Primary School, so there are new horizons for the kids too.

We’re taking Nike ’cause no one wants us to leave her (she’s still at awkward puppy stage, only she’s full grown in size…) and because she’s my baby. We’re leaving Dexter. He just fits here, he suits, and he is a help catching snakes and barking at postmen. Plus he’s pretty low maintenance.  We’re taking one cat, and leaving one cat.

Sniff.

We’ve moved warehouse and I’m trying to work at home. That’s fairly chaotic.

So if anyone’s wondering why I haven’t posted in a while, that’s why.

Ange, I did it. I posted.

Thanks to all who cursory browse my blog. It has been a bad blogging month–too much happening.

We’re moving house, not till March but there’s a lot to think about. And our warehouse just moved, and is still in the process of getting set up. Life seems somehow fragmented at present, a little living here, a little living there, and vast expanses of time spent in what I term the ‘grey world’.

The weather is warming up, a plus. I don’t like endless days of rain.

Chris is looking into dance classes. Claire is still going full steam ahead with her piano, and she’s doing pretty well.  Claire wants to join a soccer class too. Guess we’ll see.

It has been one of those months where a lot happens, but not much, really. Nothing worth writing about, at least.

So, if you’re wondering why I’ve been so quiet–blame it on ‘the grey’.

Come again another day. Or not…

Did you know that it rains the approximate of half the year in Taiwan. I read that somewhere but can’t reference it right now. Anyway, that’s a lot of rainy days.

As you may be able to tell from this post, we’ve had consistent rain for a while now. <Sigh>

I can’t walk the dog, thus she goes crazy.

Our floor gets dirty, and our mats are soaked.

Everything feels damp, and dismal (that is, if things can ‘feel’ dismal.)

The pet food gets damp, and if not eaten soon enough, mouldy.

Nike has to stay inside a good part of the day, and, well, wet dog hair… not the nicest aroma.

We get on each others’ nerves. Inside time every day and night…no room to breath.

The cats race inside (it’s not only raining, but it’s cold too) and jump up on the bed, or on the cushions. They’re, well, you know, wet…  Paw marks adorn our bed-cover, and people wonder why I always choose brown???  I smudge them into the cover, and hey, no one knows the difference.

(Right now I hear a lot of people saying, “gross…”) 

I do wash my bedding and cover often. Just not every day.

Peter yells at Nike (the dog) on a regular basis, making her “SIT DOWN” on her spot. She obeys, but not always instantly.

Ahhh.  Rain.

I think I am having “winter blues”.