The fish!

The fish in question

Ever since I was little, I have loved fish.  They were my first pet, the first non-human living thing I loved.  My mother to this day tells stories of planting my bawling infant self in front of the fish tank to finally get some peace and quiet (I was a notoriously cranky child) as I watched the lovely shubunkins and Black Moors waft their way through the water, silky fins flowing in the current.

And now, I have a goldfish all my own.  He is, admittedly, not my first fish, but he is the first fish that requires serious upkeep I have ever owned.  Up till this point I’ve only had Siamese fighting fish, which are considerably less than high maintenance creatures, capable of living in tiny bowls with virtually no care whatsoever, besides feeding and making sure their water doesn’t dry up.  My new goldfish, however, is a step up the care chain.  I have to filter and/or change his water and, at present, am also searching to find him some tankmates before the lonely little thing loses his mind.

As for himself, my goldfish has been subjected to some interesting naming debacles.  Owing to the fact that when I first tried to get him into his tank he swam right back into the emptying plastic bag I was trying to get him out of, my sister named him Stupid.  Initially, I wanted to call him Grell, and name his tank mates after Sebastian and another Black Butler character (probably Agni or Claude) but then other names were suggested and I now find myself in a bit of a pickle.  As such, I’m happy to take suggestions from the peanut gallery.  Be serious, be silly, just toss out ideas.  Post them in the comments or on my twitter.

The Innsmouth Entry, at long last

Innsmouth by day

The week before the Expo, my mother and I drove to Innsmouth to open our family’s summer home, as well as that of my grandmother, and the various work that entailed was dull and, on occasion, profoundly annoying, but had to be done anyway (one must be careful lest eldritch horrors start nesting in the attic.)  The process has also resulted in some interesting events, such as my nearly getting skewered on a curtain rod, which has at least provided me with some good stories to tell.

As for itself, Innsmouth is a lovely place.  The restaurants out here are some of the best, as is the beer and the wine.  Indeed, during our trip I had to recover from a vicious hangover, courtesy of four glasses of Innsmouth cider that I downed the night before in a fit of bravado.  The people are also great, gills aside.  If you know them and they know you and know that you aren’t going to climb out a window and try to convince people in Newbury Port to drop dynamite in Innsmouth waters, they’ll show you a good time, help you out in a neighborly fashion, and invite you to Esoteric Order of Dagon meetings (go at your own risk).  They also run absolutely awesome stores, which include some of my favorite jewelry boutiques and sources for antiquities. 

Outside of the town itself, the fields and forests in the area are of a vastly different stripe from Dunwich land.  The terrain is often unwelcoming, and it is chock full of mosquitoes who all seem to want to take a bite out of ME (aristocrats apparently taste better than plebeians).  There is one upshot, however:  the woods are home to morel mushrooms, which I, as an intrepid mycophage, pursue with a zeal bordering on the suicidal.  During our time there I spent hours scrambling up hill and down dale, basket in hand, pursuing my elusive quarry.  I also had to fend off the aforementioned bugs, dodge poison ivy, and even face off against other mushroom hunters.  A word to the wise:  If there is one person who you do not want to cross, it is the mushroom hunter.  We HATE other people infringing on what we view as our territory, and though the meeting I had was relatively cordial, all things considered, neither party involved could fully conceal their distrust and abject dislike of the other. 

All good things had to come to an end, however, and I soon had beat a hasty path to the door of the Expo, which I’ve written/am going to write about on my other blog (link forthcoming).  Go have a look!

Welcome to Dunwich

I’m currently perched in my favorite chair at home, which is upholstered in tapestry fabric with dragon heads carved as the finials on the arms, my laptop balanced on one knee and a teacup balanced on the other, and to say that I am happy to be home is the understatement of the damned century. My home town, Dunwich, is a gorgeous place at this time of year. When I came home to visit during the winter, the trees were unwelcoming skeletons. Now they’re fully clad in leaves so green it makes the mind spin and the mouth water. This is the place where I grew up for the most part, and just the smell of sun warmed chlorophyll sends my mind rocketing back to a childhood spent playing in and amongst the estates and the mysteries that dot Dunwich.

It’s a place with more than its fair share of eldritch secrets. Wandering in the woods can and will lead the intrepid into the amazing and the bizarre. There is the sensation that one has walked out of reality and into some parallel dimension, like the realm Ofelia supposedly hails from in Pan’s Labyrinth. Old manor houses, beautiful gardens, statues abandoned in the darkness of the woods, all can be found if one knows the way in and knows where to look. And like Ofelia or the girl from Arthur Machen’s The White People, I know the way in and have known since my childhood. Running wild in those woods provided me with a plethora of strange stories. None of them are fantastic or beyond the bounds of reality, but when you grow up with what amounts to a fairy tale world for your backyard it can be taken for granted that you will come out with some odd tales. And from those weird experiences grew the roots of my interests in so many areas, from my desire to become a museum curate to my obsession with Mycenaean Greece and the Minoan Empire.

And with that, I welcome you to Dunwich. I hope you enjoy your stay.

Next week I’m going to Innsmouth for several days before heading to the World Steam Expo. Hopefully I’ll be able to continue posting, but Innsmouth internet access can be a tad unpredictable, so don’t be surprised if there’s a brief lull in activity.

The last push for freedom

The Miskatonic school year is almost done, and I’m already starting to tear my room apart in an effort to be ready to get the hell out of dodge. Ironically enough, however, this is the one time of year when attending Miskatonic is actually really pleasant, at least in terms of climate. Spring/summer has hit like a ton of bricks, and with it comes flowers, and grass, and frogs singing at night. This place, which is such hell to live in during the winter, did a quick change into heaven in a matter of days, just in time for everyone to go home. I, for one, am not amused by the irony.

In the meantime, when I’m not packing or admiring the fine weather, I oscillate between studying diligently and watching the freakiest horror films I can get my hands on. Why horror you ask? Mostly because the jump scares and general terror in the films wears me out, providing me with an adrenaline rush that fades and leaves me thoroughly knackered. Without that exhaustion I sleep fitfully at best, and usually not at all, winding up staring at the ceiling, my brain roiling with thoughts of exams and all the information I’ve been studying. 

And in other news, I was recently deliberately not invited to a party by one of the graduating seniors. This same senior, who I will refer to as Hatsumomo, for the purposes of anonymity, was the old president of Miskatonic Film Society. She also apparently has had something against me for quite awhile according to various sources, though what exactly that something is remains rather vague. From my own perspective, I was initially very fond of her and sought her approval. This fondness quickly faded as all my attempts to build bridges met with wintry disdain on her end. Now, apparently, she has opted to exercise her waning power by snubbing me in various ways. And while I won’t say I’m not angry about it, I’m refraining from a response. If I was Maleficent, I would have the option of cursing her first born with a spindle-induced coma. If I was Iago, I could arrange a Shakespearian plot. But I am neither of those fictional characters, and I find my best weapon is just not paying it any mind. After all, she’ll be gone soon. Why waste the effort?

Finally, my exams themselves, thus far, have been some of the better ones I’ve ever taken. A student’s life is made so much easier when professors are clear in their instructions on the final and stick to these guidelines. The subject matter itself hasn’t been easy, mind you, but knowing what to study has eased a lot of the exam anxiety I usually suffer from.

So, how does anyone like the new blog? Have I made a good choice in separating my day-to-day life from my Steampunk info blog? Tell me what you think!