PSA: Moved

Not that anyone's been here in awhile, least of all me, but in the spirit of good-if-tardy housekeeping I feel I should inform y'all that I've centralized everything in one place. You can now find me at Adsartha's Useful Notes, with blog and links to other badass people and the requisite tongue-in-cheek bio.

Week Three: The Ashplant

I am going to apologize for this once. Then we are never going to speak of it again. Capisce? Good.

I suck at learning reels by sight reading them. I am so, so sorry you'll have one of these inflicted on you every few weeks (the sections in this book go jigs, slip jigs, reels, hornpipes, polkas, airs & waltzes, and the ever-popular miscellaneous). Truth be told, I'm not much looking forward to the hornpipes or polkas, either. As a classically trained musician, the lilting rhythm that is not at all implied on the paper by the cut time is painfully difficult to learn, and it's what convinced me that I had to learn tunes by ear as well as by written notes. It's much easier to pick up the rhythm in the complex meters, because the notes are already begging me to turn them into a dance.

(When I was doing ballroom dance, my favorites were waltz, tango, and jitterbug. This somehow seems not to have translated into as much of a feel for 4/4 and cut time in playing as I would like.)

I also ended up with a recording of last week's tune that, while not clean the whole way through (and oh, for the day that I manage one of those for you guys), has about as strong a start and finish to it as I could hope off a week's worth of practice. This tune turned out to be a really great example of pitch migration: what was on the page in front of me was up a full fourth from what most people played, yet the notes stayed in the same key. If you're mildly confused but think that must have made for a lot of cognitive dissonance, you are 100% correct.

Enjoy. (My humiliation.) I promise to be practicing my ass off starting tomorrow morning; tonight is for digging out different written versions over on The Session and looking for their recommended recordings on Spotify.

Your Comfort Zone Sucks

So here's the thing: comfort zones are bullshit. Comfort zone is a nice pretty lie of a phrase we use to convince ourselves that it's okay to work within our current limits, that being hurt by stretching for more is the worst thing ever. That writing or playing or composing (or performing any other act of creation you care to specify) should all be done within the scope of "what you know." What all of that really means is that you're staying small, and scared, and refusing to act.

But! You say. If I act then I'll be forced to keep acting. To follow through on my plans. I might, god forbid, have standards to live up to then.

Okay. Don't do anything, then.

Now you've got the self-hatred of not having done anything on top of the self-hatred spawned by making shit in the first place. I mean, assuming you're one of those people who stares at everything they've just done and whimpers that it could be so much better. If you're not, I don't want to hear from you: either you're wrong and I hate you, or worse, you're right and I hate you. Either way, I plan to use your guts in a very personal, very long anatomy lesson.

(Or you could be lying to me and/or yourself. If you need to lie about that shit, I mostly feel sorry for you. Because pity is what you hate most.)

I'm scared of what I'm doing all the fucking time. I was scared of putting up the short story today for the weekday murders (for those of you not familiar, @EvilGalProds contracted them out to @saalon while she was off-grid), because I have all kinds of voices about how I'm not a real writer. (Not the way I am a musician.) I'm scared of doing the recordings every week. I'm not a real musician. (I'm not getting paid. I don't have a band. I've never finished writing a song, never mind that I first started trying to write songs a month ago.) I'm scared of the lesson I've got with a new fiddle teacher on Monday, because she's won fiddle contests and has an album out and knows way more than me and is totally going to tell me this is a worthless endeavor. (One of these things is almost certainly a lie. I like to leave a little room for people to disappoint me, after all.) (Bonus points for spotting the reference.) I'm fucking terrified of going to Swannanoa Gathering for Celtic Week because I'll be old and outdated and everyone else will be better than me. I'm scared that this blog post is going to just rehash shit other people have said better and more convincingly.

But I'm doing all these things anyway. Half the things my mind throws up as roadblocks are depression and anxiety lies; the other half are things that might be true but I'll never, ever know if I don't try.

My fiddle teacher told me something a few lessons ago that changed the way I look at these things. She said, the performers who have no shame, who just let the bow fly over the strings and what happens, happens, and it all sounds glorious? Look at their body language. They're not hunching. Their chest is open, their head is up, and no matter how much they may be moving with the music, they're grounded in it. It may be an innate quality and not something I can learn - but I can learn to fake it by mimicking the body language.

I've broken out of a lot of comfort zones this year. I don't plan to stop, because for all that I piss and moan about doing it, for all that I swear at the people who are back there shoving me out into the limelight, I love it. I like myself a lot better now than I did three months ago. I like the direction my life is going. I could never have predicted any of this would happen, and I never would have done any of it if I hadn't stared my fears in the face, pulled my chin up and my shoulders back, and said a hearty fuck you.

What Do You Say?

[Note: follows directly from this.]

Ash started without Eve, who slipped inside and took up position in the corner. The latest subject hadn't been on the persons of interest watchlist; he'd come in to demand his father back. All bluster and swagger and no backup. Alan'd confirmed that hours ago. Meantime, the subject cooled off in one of their conference rooms, rather than an interrogation room proper. It befitted his pretensions at being a respectable businessman, and he didn't need to know that they considered him more of a loose cannon than his predecessor. Ash shoved a hand through short red hair, not incidentally exposing the tips of pointed ears.

The blond man's eyes widened. "You're -"

She smirked across the table at him. "I am." Folding her arms, she leaned back. "What gives you the idea you can waltz in here and make demands?"

"Do you have any idea who I am?" He leaned forward, trying to get into her space, beefy forearms pressed into the particleboard. The boss hadn't said to give him one of the good conference rooms.

It was a good thing they were used to the hard plastic chairs. Ash didn't shift a muscle on hers, suppressing even the eyeroll that was her natural inclination. Eve stepped forward to lay the subject's dossier on the table. Redacted, but sufficient for their purposes. "We know all about you."

"We know you cheated on your wife. We know about the children. We know about the bar fights, the murders, the animal abuse, would you like me to go on?"

The man stood, trying for intimidation by sheer bulk. "I was within my rights! They were prepared to harm -"

Neither woman flinched, though Eve tensed, ready to move if the idiot reached out.

"Sit. Down." Ash lost all her cool amusement, letting her hands fall into her lap. The man sat, slowly, eyes narrowing in reassessment. Too little, too late. "Your father didn't give us anything, but you could still help his case if you gave us a name." No, he couldn't; if Eve was in here then the interrogation downstairs was a lost cause. The son didn't catch the lie. His father would have, were he still alive to catch anybody's lies.

"We're not asking for much, here." Eve came around to the side table and poured them all water into clear plastic cups. "Just one piece of information." Her turn to smile, all teeth and false cheer.

One meaty hand knocked the cup onto the floor. "I will give you nothing until I see my father."

Ash shrugged, unbuttoning the cuff on her left sleeve. "That can be arranged." She reached across the table, as if to beckon or lead the subject out.

"Good. I demand to see him in -"

The ouroboros tattooed around the elf's wrist stopped devouring its tail, shifted under her skin and became three-dimensional as it sank its fangs into the blond's hand.

The sisters-in-law watched the poison take full effect. Eve muttered something under her breath in Russian; the older woman's reply sounded amused. Gross motor function ceased in a matter of minutes, though death would take some hours yet.

"Lunch?"

"Love to."

To: Sam Connor <sconnor@[redacted]>

CC: Peter Torkarov <ptorkar@[redacted]>, Thomas Marlowe <tmarlow@[redacted]>, Daifyn Ifans <difans@[redacted]>, Alan Donnelly <adonnel@[redacted]>

Date: 3/28/2013

Re: Threat eliminated

Subject's attempt at rescue/revenge forestalled. Subject did not indicate any knowledge of his father's dealings, and current data reveals connection to be unlikely, though entire family's preference for Nordic-based aliases is noted and filed for future reference. Recommend precautionary measures be taken in the event either subject's known associates attempt similar action. Time of death: 23:55 Thurs March 28.

AD, EM

Week Two: The Cock and the Hen

Also known as, the week I got hit by bots. Betcha anything. No, I'm not making these titles up. Yes, half of them are like this. ENJOY. And know that I have either heard or made all the jokes already.

So first off we have the revisit to Battering Ram, and then we have this week's tune, as in the post title. One of these weeks I'll get to the point where recording doesn't scare me shitless, but that's not this week either. In the meantime I will apparently be blogging about doing things that scare you and meantime doing those things, because the last four days have been weird. Intense and awesome and exhilarating and terrifying all at once, and that's not even counting the Great Big Sea concert which was, in fact, all I said it would be.

The short version, and there will be a long version here sometime next week, is that I'm going to Swannanoa Gathering this year for Celtic week. I am also admittedly going because it involves getting to see my braintwin and co-blogger for a good chunk of time before/after the music festival, and it'll have been over three years at that point and we're due. But I cannot contain my bouncing over MARTIN HAYES and LIZ KNOWLES and LIZ CARROLL and holy hell, you guys, I can take CLASSES from one of them. Plus Irish myth and folklore. Plus some kind of vocal class, or possibly tinwhistle, I haven't settled on that one yet. But, y'know. Long version. Later, when I've done all my organization.

For now, you'll have to make do with these recordings.

Manning the Workshop

Most of you who read me have probably already read this post on punching our fears in the face. In a more literal mental sense than perhaps most people think of. So, alright, I'm one of those people for whom running subroutines with names and faces and particular skillsets of their own also helps. As if you couldn't have guessed.

The other thing I (we) do, which is a lot more foundational for me, is having a mindscape. Some people call it a memory palace, other people call it your power focus or your center or what-the-fuck-ever. I like mindscape, because I grew up on a steady diet of mythology and folklore, and what it is, essentially, is me playing Fisher Queen. I have a manor house, because I imprinted on Narnia and L'Engle and Weyrs and other such sprawling complexes which may or may not bear any resemblance to architectural feasibility. (Kitty has a Tower, a White Tower against a certain someone else's Dark Tower, because she imprinted on King.) Then there's the lands around, because when I was a little girl I wanted a lot of land, both from the horse-crazy phase (which I grew out of) and the sheer pleasure of being in the relative middle of nowhere (which I did not). Also I gave myself fire lizards, because fuck you MY mindscape, that's why.

(It probably says several things about me that I went for the empathic carnivores that are more intimidating than they look. I leave parsing the subject as an exercise for the reader.)

So, then, let's play with the land of metaphor! The lands are mostly there to amuse me, though there's a set of burial mounds (look, I grew up within spitting distance of a set of Late Woodland mounds, I imprinted on those heavily) which serve as the mental place I keep bad memories. Not quite like having a nightmare realm, more of a place where I can shut things away unless I'm needing to bring them out for some reason or another. Then we get into the manor house itself for interesting bits of metaphor - there is, as you would expect, a massive fucking library. Because I need my reference material, and you didn't think I kept all those pop culture allusions sorted without some kind of help, did you? Especially around Yuletide, when I have to haul out my reference material and edit however many stories Kitty ends up pinch-hitting this year.

Up on the top floor, though, is my Workshop, which gets a capital letter because tradition. (Also known as its origins have been lost to the dim dark haze of memory.) It has turret guns with which I and whichever subroutines are running can shoot down brainweasels and other distractions. Like the urge I'm having right now to tab over to Twitter and find out who said what this time. (Bang!) The Workshop's also sectioned off into smaller chunks; I keep the editing workshop separate from the music workshop because they require very, very different forms of attention for me. The editing workshop, as you might expect, has all my grammar and narrative tools laid out; there's the mallet of Wrong POV and the chisel of Clarify Your Action and the brush of Let Me Just Polish Up That Typo For You. Among other things, of course, but that does for a sampling of recently used tools. I grew up with family members who did woodworking, imprinted on archaeology early and often, and only came to fiber crafts later on. Besides which, in a lot of respects editing is like an archaeological expedition, to find the bones of a writer's story and help to fix up the rest of the structure so that it looks like a story ought. Sometimes that means you learn that the story's bones look like a whole different animal once you get it excavated, but usually it's putting the vertebrae in their proper order and fixing the reversed phalanges. I did mention the archaeological imprinting, right?

You may have noticed I think a lot in metaphor, or at least I'm less shy about saying so than a lot of people. (I may be less shy about a lot than a lot of people. This continues to boggle me. If you guessed I was the shy kid at school, you are 100% right.) At any rate, the music workshop is even more metaphorical and, I would say, close to synaesthetic in nature, at least as compared to the editing workshop. Moreover, parts of it are relatively new in conception. I've always played music, but I've never approached it in as structured a manner as I am now. The muscle memory section is old, and is hard to put into words even metaphorically - you know how you know your way around your home, right up until you (or somebody else) moves a chair? Like that, applied to technique. Those of you who play an instrument, dance, do martial arts, or anything else that requires a specific form of body awareness know how hard this can be to describe to laypeople. Then there's the repertoire section, aka that part where I learn other people's music. This also has some archeological tools in place; getting to the bones of a tune is a crucial part of learning a primarily aural (and oral) tradition. The sight-reading module looks like nothing so much as a microscope, whereas the ear training module is a pair of giant noise-canceling headphones - I hate wearing them IRL but I appreciate the increased focus the metaphor demands. And the newest part, the songwriting part, is one part writing toolkit to one part raw emotional core to one part music theory. Theory falls under the same very general kind of pattern recognition that narrative and grammar patterns do, which I find alternately helpful and frustrating. Most of this takes the form of blobs of color, often but not always yarn-based; sometimes when I have a particular image in mind it's worked more in cross stitch where every piece is slow and laborious to come together, but it makes a glorious final image. As I do more songwriting, no doubt this part of the workshop will firm up its metaphors and imagery.

I do a lot of work in my head, due to my various preferred forms of expression. It's only fair to me that I keep a tidy - if not logical - workplace. This isn't the only tool in my kit; I'm as likely to use fiddle practice as a form of meditation and to-do lists as a form of structure as anything more internal, but it's a damn powerful one. And now that I have straightened out my headspace for the afternoon by writing this post, I get to go make dinner! This is actually a fairly common thing for me, the internal sorting intentionally combined with external action, so that I'm neither too stuck in my head nor too prone to acting without thinking. While I cook dinner, no doubt my subroutines will be working on sorting out the lyrics I finished drafting two days ago, assimilating the version of this week's tune I solidified earlier today, and arranging my weekend schedule. And whether it's this evening or a few days from now, I will inevitably be astonished at how much I get done by sheer virtue of having a well-tended mindscape.

Week One: The Battering Ram

Let it never be said that I didn't do the shit I promised. I got a working sound system up and running on Thursday, and I recorded and wrote this on Friday. You, of course, are seeing it Sunday, because I'm out of town and I love being able to schedule shit ahead of time. I have no shame about giving myself the extra couple days to work on the tune for the week, either, since I am going to be out of town.

Great Big Sea is the band that got me back into playing music, and specifically into playing fiddle. And they've been together for twenty years, and they're doing a tour for the first time in several of those years, so it's time and more than time for me to go see them live. (Again.) If they do a meet-and-greet after, you bet I'll be telling them what they've done for me.

In the meantime, and without further dithering: The Battering Ram. Look, I managed not to swear! It was a jig, that's why, that's my story and I'm sticking to it.