#the drip effect on the skirt and the apple necklace!!!

[descendantofthesparrow]

Like wtf these designs are so good like ?!

@secondary-colorentimy im putting your art/designs on a plate and eating them

[wintersongstress]

You Haven’t Done This Tag Before, I Promise.

I was tagged by @a-shakespearean-in-paris to do the 11 Questions Tag! Sorry this took me awhile, I didn’t mean for this to get so long, although to be fair you brought up a mythology question so you kind of asked for this.

Rules: Answer 11 questions, make up your own 11 questions, and then tag 11 people to answer those. 

1. Favorite supernatural creature?

I had to visit some weird ass websites to find an extensive list of these. I’m gonna have to go with the phoenix. I had a lot of beautiful illustrated storybooks of the tale of the firebird when I was growing up. 

2. Favorite Folktale/myth?

*does the birdman hand rub* Mythology is my shit. It’s so rich in culture and ripe with inspiring story ideas. I could talk about it all day, but what I can really talk about is the curse of the Koh-i-Noor diamond.

Mysterious in origin and Ancient Persian for “mountain of light”, it’s one of the largest diamonds in the world and its journey throughout history is full of misfortune and violence.

There is a story in Vedas of the Syamantaka jewel, a gift from the Hindu sun-god Surya to his most devout follower, King Satrājit, as a blessing to his kingdom. It was a divine jewel, said to have magical powers and possessing a luminous glow, for it came from the heart of a fallen star.

Surya warned Satrājit that while the jewel would produce 170 pounds of gold a day(around 3 million USD) and ward off famine and disease, he wasn’t to keep the jewel and all of its wealth and prosperity for himself. It would only reverse the effects and bring him bad luck if he did not share it. He did not heed this advice. Satrājit fashioned the diamond into a necklace and one day, his brother stole it for himself when the King refused to share. While Prasena was hunting and stalking his prey of a lion from a tree, a snake fell from the branch above and  Prasena fell. The chain caught him on the branch and strangled him to death, and the lion saw the gleam of the jewel and was ensorcelled. The lion brought the jewel back to his den, only for the King of the Bears to battle him for the stone. Its hard to pinpoint where the Syamantaka jewel enters historical record and becomes known as the Koh-i-Noor but from then on, it gets passed down throughout the Mughal Empire. Shah Jahan sets it in the Peacock Throne and is later imprisoned by his sons and usurped, and then the Persians invade and steal it. The Persian invader Nadir Shah is assassinated later in his life, and from there on the diamond falls through many hands and brings misfortune to all who keep it. What I find most interesting is how in the Vedas it is written “He who owns the Diamond will own the world, but will also know all its misfortunes. Only God, or a woman, can wear it with impunity."

The Koh-i-Noor is currently part of the British Crown Jewels and rests in the Queen Mother’s Crown. Isn’t it interesting how only the Queen of England can wear it? Because all the men who possess it get some serious bad luck??? I’m sorry, didn’t mean to turn into a nerd but I think it’s cool. 

3. Favorite thing to wear?

On the opposite end of the spectrum of my sweatpants and lunar phase knee socks, in the summertime I love wearing long skirts with a shawl draped around my shoulders. 

4. What’s a piece of media (book, movie, game, etc.) that has had the greatest impact on you as a person?

Patricia A. McKillip’s books made me fall in love with the fantasy genre and hold a special place in my heart. Her stories kindled my love of reading and storytelling in the beginning. I first picked them up because her covers are gorgeously illustrated by Kinuko Y. Craft and they’re so detailed that every time I look at them I see something I never noticed before. 

5. Favorite thing about yourself? Physical and Non physical.

Ehhh. You know, I think I’m very plain-looking. I suppose I like my eyes because they have some of green in them. Non-physically, I like my investigative personality. 

6. Favorite Disney movie? 

7. What does your dream apartment/house look like?

Encompassed by bookshelves so tall I need a rolling ladder, filled with encyclopedias, spider plants, corals and crystals and terrariums. Turkish lanterns hang down from the ceiling and Audubon prints of cormorants decorate the wall, as well as an old map pinned with all the places I want to travel. An enormous Persian rug covers the wood floor and is strewn with lounging pillows.  A low coffee table rests in the center and holds a platter of fuzzy peaches and vase stuffed with white peacock feathers. The latticed windows are open to a mountain view, and the silvery notes of trickling wind-chimes drift inside with the breeze. A porcelain cup of tea steams in my sweater-paw hands as I sit on the sill and watch the sun rise. Trumpet vines swallow the balcony and offer their nectar to the hummingbirds. And all the while a black cat purrs beside me with its eyes closed. Yeah. 

8. What are your thoughts on marriage?

Well, that fantasy involves a person who doesn’t exist in my life...but I would like to get married someday. I’m just not that person yet and I’m far from it. 

9. Describe what makes a good ship to you.

Conflict, dichotomy, and dualism. One person falls in love way before the other. Changing their natures, Person A thinking Person B is too good for them when their good for each other. Enemies to lovers on opposites sides of a war. 

10. What does home feel like to you?

Home is the warmth of my bed at night, listening to the train horns in the distance and watching the familiar shadows of trees on my walls. Its a place with a crab-apple tree and a swing. A rose garden. 

The truest moments when I feel it is when I listen to my sister practice piano, when I lick the icing off my birthday candles after blowing them out, when I put my favorite ornaments on the christmas tree. Its having dirty feet and watermelon juice drip down my hand in the summertime, and having a lot of blankets and cats and tea in the winter. Home is my siblings and memories of good times. 

Home feels like a place that’s part of who I am and is safe to be.

11. Your favorite thing to eat?

I can’t tell you how happy häagen-dazs green tea ice cream makes me. Also, wood-fired pizza. OOf and aloo gobi masala curry hits the spot, too. 

Doing this tag is up to you and totally optional!! And you don’t have to tag 11 people. I’ll be tagging: @marvelousmorales // @connorshero // @shadows-echoes // @the-darklings // @deviantramblings // @anniesburg // @cirillasfiona // @dicax-asina // @miusmius-@selfships-in-spanish  // @0ik4wa  // @flawinthemachine 

Questions to answer:

What is one of your favorite memories?

What is the dumbest thing you have ever heard someone say?

What was the first movie you ever saw in theaters?

Tell a story about the biggest spider you have ever encountered. 

What color is your bedspread?

When you were little, what did you want to be when you grew up?

Would you rather go to an art, history, or science museum? 

What’s one thing on your bucket list?

What is on your bedside table?

What is the most beautiful place you have ever been to? 

Have you ever broken a bone?

EDIT: I’M A DUMBASS WHO FORGOT THE 11TH QUESTION. MY B.

[indigogoinggone-blog]

Mennonite and Mexico

Checking my prejudice

It had been three days since I stuck out my thumb and tied my bike to the backseat of this Mexican man’s car. We are in hot pursuit of the greatest taco in the Yucatan as we hurtle ever closer to the Belizean border that will signify our parting of ways. Presently we are in the armpit of some great God. It smells pugnant, moist and like heavy immovable air - though this is not a necessarily a bad smell. The God showers regularly and eats well it would seem, which figures given its divine status and probable access to green smoothies, but smell aside it is the stifling heat that is the dominating sensation inside the vehicle. I turn to my new friend. “Mucho calor, putaaaaaa.” He wears a necklace of sweat beads as he declines to verbally answer, instead making a rapid right turn.

He tells me that he remembers seeing a beach marked here on the map, and sure enough, a parking space emerges in our line of vision, flanked by vendors of every description. Particularly pleasing to me was the peddling of mango in all its forms. Do you want it dried? Fresh and sliced? Diced? Whole? With chilli? Frozen? On a kebab? As a juice? Ohhhh sweet fruit, oh sweet, sweet package of sugar and joy, my mouth salivates and hands exchange pesos for you eagerly. There is a childish and excitable fevor gripping both my partner and I. We have mango juices dripping perversely from chin to chest, eyes alight with a sugar rush, and tyranny of the humidity forgotten. Car parked, we join the throng that is descending upon the gracious shores of the Carribean.

And here is when something happens that has been stuck in the machinery of my reflection, trying to churn out an understanding for the last two weeks. It begins with a young boy holding up a bag of apples to me. “Quiero?” He asks. In immediate essence he isn’t profoundly different from the dozens of other vendors littering the path to the beach. I decline his offer for the apples, and begin to walk ahead when something - I don’t exactly know what - forces me to stare at him a little longer. It’s his eyes that I notice first. Trauma. A hand squeezes my maternal heart and instinct, gently at first and then with a paralysing gusto. Having seen traumatised children before, and having been close to trauma and it’s side effects for many of my recent years, a strange sense for its manifestations has developed. I can’t look away. His little eyes are flickering from me to my partner to the ground, with that tragic vagueness indicative of a childhood robbed. His tiny frame flinches as I reach above his head for my hat, as if he were reacting to a pulled punch. I’m so consumed by the mother within me that I hadn’t noticed the more obvious oddities to his appearance.

His eyes are blue, skin freckled and pale and tiny frame sporting dusty look overalls. Cowboy hat and turned up shoes, he looks as though he been pulled from the set of a bad B grade movie, probably starring Reagan in his hey day. But he was speaking Spanish? My friend catches my eye in shared confusion. We watch as the little boy picks his way through the crowds, stopping to tempt others with his apples. None of the locals seem put off by his strange appearance and I conclude it must be me who is the strange one then. I watch the kid find his way back to a group of similarly dressed kin. A whole group of what looks like conservative Amish meets Mormon meets traditional farmers named McDonald. Six people in total, peddling apples and carrots and bracelets like the Mayan and a Mexican vendors around them, and all dressed in either overalls, cowboy hat and turned up shoes (male) or thick, oppressive, dirt length dresses with a bonnet and ribboned hat (female). All pale, blue eyed, freckled and tall amongst a population of dark eyed and sun tanned small peoples.

The mother in me recoils at the sight of who appears to be the patriarch. He has cruel lips and eyes almost totally enveloped by his eyebrows. I don’t understand the literal translations of his words, but his tone is terrifying. In what I can only describe as an act of self preservation, I grasp the hand of my friend and walk only a pace away from running all the way to the beach. I ask him if he knows why there would be gringos in farm clothes like that, but he’s from the Baja. He’s got no idea. I can’t help think how fucking weird they seem. These predjudiced thoughts begin to take over, fuelled by my instinct that something wasn’t right. Or is it vice versa? Did I fill their narrative with violence simply because they were different and i didn’t understand their presence?

On my ride south to the border, I see a group dressed so similarly that there’s no mistake they share some common set of beliefs. This time the group is on horseback, drawing carts of furniture. While they certainly look a little different to the other people here, I don’t have a sick and alarming feeling in my stomach when I look at them.

Again, crossing the border into Guatemala I see one more family dressed in these overalls and cowboy hats that cover their blue eyes. Who are they? Where did they come from? My sense of fear has entirely disappeared and is replaced by blatant curiosity. Some deep seeded biological part of me recognises them as people who look similar to me in base appearance, and wants to connect with them. Understand why those who look like me dress differently. What is their story?

And in some ironic symbolism of the modern age, I am walking through Flores - after deciding that I will live here for a month or two - and outside the alter of Burger King I see a tribe of Mayan vendors and a tribe of these same pale farmer-esque peoples. Finally I’m in a position to quench my curiousity. I approach them with my hands behind my back in what I hope is the most non threatening and approachable body language possible. In broken Spanish I ask where they are from and what their names are. Their accents are much thicker than other Guatemalans and I struggle to associate meaning with a lot of what they are saying. I pick up on Mennonite, El Ramate, family, God and a few other key words. Eventually I smile a little awkwardly and bid them farewell. In an act of human connection, one of the ladies emerges from behind who appears to be her husband and breaks off half of her Burger and extends it to me. I eat fast food for the first time in five years and ponder the absolute absurdity that is this situation. Traditionally dressed Mayans and who I now understand to be Mennonites eat a product of the American consumerist culture that is both intentionally and unintentionally swallowing their cultures alive. And they share this product with me, who is also somewhat a product of consumerist culture. Strange strange strange. Gringo meets Mayans in colourful skirts meets other white skinned farmers who nonetheless speak a dialect the gringo does not understand.

Still these moments mulled over in my mind. I went searching for Mennonites on the inter webs and found their long history in the Americas. They were a new sight to me and my friend from the Baja because they migrated down the Carribean coast, settling in enclaves that still loosely exist today. From my understanding - and perhaps you could enlighten me if you know anything about them - they came from Europe during the settling of the Americas like many persecuted réglions groups. They have a story similar to many minority groups with themes of isolationism, cultural celebration, technological rejections and persecution. I experienced a major twinge of guilt upon recognising my own prejudices and perceptions. My composite image of an average person right now was so far removed from their image that immediately upon seeing them in Mexico for the first time, i immediately passed judgement. I felt threatened and perceived them as hostile, when perhaps they were not. However, I didn’t perceive future groups of their people as hostile, only curiosities. I think perhaps there is an instinctual understanding of who constitutes a threat, and who appears traumatised. But I’m still unsure. I’m unsure if my construction of them as Other influenced the way I saw their dynamics. I am aware that I am human and that I have these biases and tendencies to misconstrue the Other. In the same breath, I felt the traumitised state of a child and minorities have their share of abuse and abusers as any group of people do.

I guess my point of this whole rant is my awakening to how pervasive our perceptions of Other are in shaping our understanding of people. All it took was one conversation to break down the barrier between them and I; suddenly they were not an oddity but a part of the environment and landscape as anyone else. I no longer had residual fear or suspicion when I saw a group of them, simply because I spoke to them and took an interest in their history of movement. However my initial contact was influenced by the look of trauma I am uncomfortably familiar with. People are never entirely good or bad; there is no way to paint one group with one brush stroke; there is only fluidity, life, suffering and joy all in one. I think also my expectation that farm clothes and horse and cart riding entails cult like behaviour and therefore abuse needed to be challenged. Cults certainly entail a predisposition to abuse, but farm clothes, a rejection of technology in the favour of God and a tight knit cultural community do no entail a cult. And here ends my untangling of such a small series of encounters.

You know me, I can’t let the little things go. I have to understand, have to connect the dots. So I felt like sharing that one instance of dot collecting and drift into deep thought, though I have countless, day in and day out. It’s a powerful thing to travel. To move and migrate. To live in various places across Earth. Oh yes I forgot to mention, I live in Flores Guatemala now. Work at a bar and have wonderful neighbours. I will be here about a month before I hitch hike again. In any case, having homes, friends, experiences and a sense of movement has eroded any lingering belief in the story of the nation. We are people on a planet. Diverse peoples and often strange environments, but still just people on a planet. More similar than we are different. Mmmmm I have hooked into my meditative practises more regularly recently, and the sense of clarity is much appreciated.