With the Passing of Time

Archive for the ‘writing’ Category

© f 1.2; click image for original picture

Amethyst blossoms in clear glass vases …


If it managed to slip past you, there’s a new round of RaceFail that in some ways makes me more sad than the first. There’s a good summary here with links to some of the discussion and problematic comments.

Super quick rundown: Patricia Wrede wrote a story where the solution she very cheerily chose for dealing with the “problem” of Native Americans was simply to eliminate them. People voice their concerns at this premise in a discussion thread of a review of the book during which Lois Bujold, another author and a friend of Patricia Wrede, says some very glib and la de da remarks, and then continues her flippancy by implying that there were hardly any fen of color until the internet because she went to a lot of conventions and they weren’t there.

Even more disturbing to me is someone found a discussion thread from 2006 where Patricia Wrede is talking about writing this book and some of the remarks she makes about her decision to erase Native Americans are just so upsetting, including her thoughts that she might need to include more African slaves because “there won’t be any Native Americans to have already done a certain amount of prepping land for human occupation, nor to be exploited later.” Is she saying that Native Americans aren’t human? It sure sounds that way to me.

Today is a day of protest and celebration to let people know that we are here, we’re not invisible, and try as they might they can’t ignore us. We were asked to post our own speculative fiction or artwork, write a post about our favorite fandom or character. But I’m going to break from that a bit. The rest of this post is me trying to express something I’ve been struggling to put into words for a while. Read the rest of this entry »


“He’s dead to me” sounds so dramatic; over the top. But in a way I have disowned him. He’s no backbone to speak of, has no sense of family or responsibility. I didn’t forgive him for not coming to his brother’s funeral but even then there was an opening, a chance to possibly make amends. Not coming to his mother’s funeral was the last straw, not even an attempt at an explanation, to reach out to anyone. A poor pathetic excuse of a man. I may worry that my ancestors are disappointed in me. He doesn’t have to worry. There’s no doubt that his are mortified that he’s related; no question his father is ashamed.

© 2009 With the Passing of Time


The best thing I can think of to post here is the Tarot story that I found at the first link.

The Hierophant Basic Tarot Story (from Aeclectic Tarot)

Having created a solid foundation on which to build his future, the Fool is struck with a sudden fear. What if everything he’s worked for is taken away? Is stolen, or lost, or destroyed or vanishes? Or what if it is just not good enough? In a panic, he heads into a holy place where he finds the Hierophant, a wise teacher and holy man. Acolytes kneel before the man, ready to hear and pass on his teachings. The Fool tells the Hierophant his fears, and asks how he can be free of them.

“There are only two ways,” says the Hierophant sagely, “Either give up that which you fear to lose so it no longer holds any power over you, or consider what you will still have if your fear comes to pass. After all,” the Hierophant continues, “if you did lose all you’d built, you would still keep the experience and knowledge that you’ve gained up to this point, wouldn’t you?”

This surprisingly pragmatic advice releases the Fool from his fear, and he is able exit out of the sanctuary and face the world’s challenges once again.

“Either give up that which you fear to lose so it no longer holds any power over you, or consider what you will still have if your fear comes to pass.”

Advice I need to find a way to heed.


The creature approached us, slowly and methodically. It was more a shape than a body, a mass of shifting plasma forming and reforming at the whim of some horrific god. Its skin glowed, as if lit from within by a filtered incandescent light. It had no face to speak of, yet it formed words through its viscous flesh, a slithering guttural sound that you could feel in every synapse of your body.

I tried to determine how it was moving, looked for some obvious mode of propulsion, but found nothing. It could have been gliding or floating or shifting forward in incremental fragments of time. In the end it didn’t matter; it was an impossible nightmare made real before our eyes. Either curiosity or fear kept our feet rooted to the ground, unable to escape its choking presence.

The parishioners parlayed with the pagans, a painstaking process to put it plainly. People pontificated and pathetically pleaded. Pigheaded sycophants pointedly prayed to put off punishment from the powerful priests who pronounced prolonged suffering and posthumous pillorying.

Pedantic pillocks offered no profundity; only perceived proof of possible parasites. The palaver plateaued, and the pioneering crowd plopped prostrate on the ground to peruse the porcellous patchwork of clouds, promising periodic precipitation.

Perhaps some parvenu could properly peruse the predatory crowd and predict without profanity the primary participants and pacify the pixelated Longfellow Deeds. Indeed, a prosperous purse to this praiseworthy person.


The ad promised to turn you into a well-dressed and refined woman. Hair elegantly coiffed. Clothes perfectly tailored and stylish. You could picture yourself attending the swankiest openings and up-scale events, the epitome of cool sophistication turning heads the moment you enter.

But instead you remained the drab wallflower you had always been. Invisible and uninteresting. Lifeless; the essence of ennui. You stare at the faded ad in your hand, determined not to cry, not to add red and blotchy to the list of your descriptors. It had given you such hope. Now back to the familiar strains of futility.


Willingness to join soil, sound, hands; memory follows me ~ Viggo Mortensen
February 2018
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Daily words come from Merriam-Webster's word of the day. All rambling comes from my head.


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