The Curious Adventures of Inkhat

Hi SPACE friends!

2012-01-30T18:03:00.000-08:00

If you're coming here from the link next to The Adventure of Dirk Turbine you should totally check out my new webcomic, which is where I pour all the time I used to give this blog.

Victoria's Secret Super Hero Show Spot On...Sadly

2011-11-16T19:09:00.000-08:00

i09 did a review of the Victoria's Secret 'superhero' fashion show. I think they were actually a little harsh. A lot of those really did look like super hero costumes. In fact, that's kind of the problem.

Hey comic book industry, there may be a problem when your readers have trouble distinquishing between lingerie and the costumes for your heroes, who you know, are supposed to be fighting crime.

It's okay. You're probably just high from all that body adhesive to keep your clothes on.

A New Direction

2011-11-05T21:10:00.000-07:00

So, I've been doing a lot of ranting lately, mostly to specific people like my poor boyfriend. Mostly I want to be angry about feminism. Mostly I want to be angry about feminism in the nerd community. Like I've mentioned in previous posts I've been there and seen it. Maybe I just want a place to collect all my links. We'll see!

Oh Look...That Thing I was Talking About

2011-07-27T22:17:00.000-07:00

What was it? Oh right Sexism.

(By the way sorry for the radio silence. I am preparing to move to Seattle to start my new job and things are hectic).

Anyway, have you head about the LAN party that dealt with misogyny by not allowing women? Awesome. If some guys are causing problems why not just kick them out?

Thoughts on Women In Video Games

2011-06-12T12:56:00.000-07:00

Surveys have shown that up to 40% of women in American play video games and 25% of the online gaming community is female. So why are women in video games still dressed like strippers, even when we’re the hero? I tweeted the short version of this question and got several fascinating responses. They went something like this:

You Feminists are too sensitive! Heaven forbid a female should be comfortable with her sexuality.

Of course I’ve heard things like this before. I’ve heard a lot of arguments defending the hyper-sexualized female video game characters. After all I worked at a video game store for 4 or 5 years and it was my favorite talking point. Sexism was just part of my day at this job. Not only was it hung up on the walls, but it was fairly common for a customer to ask for a male employee because he had a hard question. Often he was sent right back to me because I knew the answer.

In addition, we were regularly trained on how to sell to female customers (Quick! Take her to the WII section or she will be frightened!) and featured several Games For Girls sections. Usually these contained cooking games or games about ponies. I like ponies. I do. I also like Call of Duty.

But that is neither here nor there. The fact is that women are marginalized in all aspects of the video game industry, and I don’t get why. So let me take a moment to address some of the arguments I’ve heard. If I am missing some please let me know and I will amend the list.

1) That’s not true / I don’t know what you’re talking about

A few people have told me that, while there are some egregious examples, an actual pattern of hyper-sexualized-objectified female characters doesn’t exist.

To disprove this, let’s look at some random female characters from a random selection of games. To make it sporting I will only use images released for games coming out in 2012. I am certain, however, that you all know where this is going.

Dragon’s Crown (WHAT I DON’T EVEN)

I could not find any titles with a fully clothed female protagonist…or antagonist.

For History’s sake, let’s not forget our old friends Lara, Bayonetta, Nariko, Ivy Valentine, Mass Effect’s Jack and Miranda, Everything in Dead or Alive, Every female in Tekken…and Street Fighter…I’m sorry I can’t do this list…. It will take forever. I am sure this surprises no one. It’s a well-known pattern.

2) It doesn’t cause any harm

This argument assumes that alienating and objectifying an entire group of people is fine so long as it does not cause any harm. In the same way calling your mom a slut is not harmful because there is no measurable damage. Like racial slurs don’t do anything.

This is actually a false arguement. Even if it does not do actual physical harm it is an example of lazy writing/craft/artistry that brings the entire industry down. It’s cheap and needs to be called out simply because it’s tacky. Well done! You made Female Character A. She wears a bikini and talks tough and flirts with the main character. Or Female Character B who is shy and has to be saved from a tower-dragon-dungeon. We are all terribly impressed. Also bored.

The problem is not that I feel that I have to be a sex object because Lara is…though I’m sick of being asked to cosplay as her…. The problem is that, in video games, these sexy, big-busted women are what women ARE. Women are like chairs or guard dogs or Natzis. We are stock, nearly naked and in charge of our bodies only by revealing them.

The problem is not that women do not like the characters the gaming industry has created, but that they are not characters. Not real, round, unique, and complex characters like their male counterparts. Even if it doesn’t alienate and frustrate women and men alike, it’s sloppy.

Not to mention the fact that a problem doesn’t need to be fixed only if it is actively making someone bleed.

3) Majority Rules

This argument generally states that female gamers are a minority and the needs and wants of the majority should overrule that of the minority. After all, this is America.

There’s actually a bunch of things wrong with this argument.

While it is true that the majority rules in matters of voting another tenant of America is that the minority still have rights and privileges. They also get to speak out about perceived injustice and don’t have to shut up because someone points out there aren’t that many of them. That’s why the civil rights movement worked, and women’s suffrage. That’s why America is awesome. Also, while it makes sense, economically, to sell to the largest group, it is also ill-advised to alienate a portion of your audience – especially a growing portion.

What is implied by this argument is that all men want in games is sex appeal. This seems enormously unfair to all men everywhere. While I assume they exist, I’ve never met a man who purchased games for the boobies, not even the ass-holes who wanted to speak to my manager because I had one too man X chromosomes. Actually they usually wanted fighters.

It’s also wrong. If it were true Dead or Alive would be on top of the list of best selling 360 games instead of Call of Duty, Halo, Gears of War, Fable, etc. Why are these at the top? Because they are #$#!$ing solid, clean, well made games that know their genre. Their lack of breasts and thighs don’t seem to deter the apparently sexually insatiable gamers.

At the end of the day, game play is what is most important for everyone. For instance, even though it’s one of my examples, I am going to play Arkham City because the first one was a fluid, beautiful, action filled, joy-ride of extreme extremeness. Also Batman. Still, I will hurt a little inside every time Harley or Catwoman are on screen. Really? We had to make Harley sexier? She wore full-body spandex!

4) Men are objectified too

This argument is generally used to point out the trend of traditionally masculine, muscle-bound hero, which sets an unrealistic standard for men.

… like Mario.

Or Link, Ico, Megaman, Cloud Strife, Markus Fenix, Nathan Drake, Gordon Freeman…

While the stereotypical male ideals of strength are important to some of these characters, few are concerned with sexual potency or women in general, (as opposed to females who are often defined by their sexuality). They are generally driven by such unbelievable concepts as doing the right thing. Their strength comes from their morality, intelligence, ingenuity, courage, etc etc. Even Master Chief’s strength came from discipline, training, and an awesome power suit. We never even got to see his actual physique.

In other words, they are actual, 3-dimensional characters. In this case it’s sort of a mixed message. If I may look backwards a moment to the “majority rules” argument, I suppose we are to believe that real life guys only want to see boobies and that game designers should appease them, while their in-game heroes are actually interested in complex problems in their world. Also truth and justice and stuff.

The fact is that it’s safe to bet that a girl in a video game fits one mold, while that is not true of male characters.

There’s also the fact that, by and large, men get to be clothed. Usually they are dressed in a way that makes some sort of sense for their job/adventure/role. Women, on the other hand, are generally in something revealing and un-safe, with all sorts of slits and openings to invite critical hits. I cannot conceive of a positive reason for this.

5) These women are actually in charge of their sexuality

While it is awesome to allow a character to draw strength from their sexuality, the derth of sexualized female characters suggests a belief that women can only draw strength from their sexuality.

Master Chief didn’t draw his strength from sexuality. He drew it from intelligence, strength, character and training. These made him a complex character. He didn’t also need to be sexy. Most female heroes are inherently sexy and then have other characteristics tacked on. Oh also she has a smart mouth. And likes shotguns…or whatever.

This seems to imply that sexuality is an innate quality of a woman, like noses or ears. These characters are not in control of her sexuality because they must either deny it completely or use it as a weapon. There is no middleground, unlike male characters who can even have sex in game (I’m looking at you Grand Theft Auto) and yet not be sexualized. Their physicality is only an element of their experience rather than a defining characteristic.

What I want to make clear is that mentioning a woman and sex in the same instance is not sexist. In fact, a complex, strong female character could have sex RIGHT THERE IN THE GAME and it doesn’t become magically sexist, or even objectify her.

The problem occurs with bad writing and character design, when her sex, her body, and her relations to the gaze of the viewer define the character. If the only way you can think to make a female character strong is to make her sexy and proud of it, you are a bad writer. Also an idiot.

6) Other people did it first

A lot of media sucks as far as sexism goes. Music, movies, and comic books all objectify women.

Well, if Sucker Punch jumps off a bridge are you going to do it too? Seriously, comparing yourself to other failures in civil rights doesn’t help your case.

Not to mention the fact that there are other things in these media. Even comic books, which have a terrible history of portraying women in Barbie doll proportions. The thing is, there are other genres under these larger umbrellas. There are huge portions of movies, music, and comics that avoid sexism completely!

That is not really the case with video games. If I want to play a first person shooter I will probably be playing a guy, or a girl in a tube top. If I want to play a fighting game…well I’m just screwed. The point is, if I want to play video games, I just have to digest this version of women. I can’t go to another artist or director.

7) There are some good girls!

I do have girl heroes! But I actually had to think really hard to come up with them, unlike male heroes, which took me all of half a second. I spent a lot of time growing up pretending that Link or Ash were girls regardless of the male pronouns. I am thrilled whenever a new rpg allows me to make a female character! Here are a few of my favorites:

Yuna is surprisingly one of my heroes. Although she is shy and soft spoken she is totally calling the shots in that party. This actually makes her even more complex. Even the main male character is just following her around. She is set up to sacrifice her life for the planet and she faces it with poise and courage, if a few tears.

Portal Girl is awesome. She escapes the grips of a torturous robot through her own ingenuity. Of course this is one of those cases where you are playing behind a disembodied gun, but still. It’s a she, and she rocks.

Faith: Mirror’s Edge. She was tough and capable in very unique and interesting ways, including the ability to jump between roofs and fistfight machine gun-toting baddies. She also wore clothes!

However, the fact that these examples exist does not negate the overall pattern of sexism within the industry. I don’t think it’s absurd to ask for good writing or to be acknowledged as a member of the gender stuffed in chain mail bikinis with our hips akimbo. I am a girl gamer, dammit, and there are more where I come from!

Inkhat Got All Official!

2011-03-28T17:06:00.001-07:00

New Website!

Inkhat Is Working On It!

2011-03-22T15:50:00.000-07:00

If you pre-ordered White Out at SPACE, you will be pleased to know that the reprints were ordered and are on their way. Of course printing takes for-freaking-ever, so it will be about 4 weeks before I will have your order on its way to you. On the upside, I decided to upgrade them to paperbacks because they look/read better. Thanks for your patience, guys!

Inkhat Welcomes You!

2011-03-20T09:41:00.000-07:00

A special hello to everyone who is coming here from SPACE! It was wonderful meeting you. I had a marvelous time...and there's still 4 hours to go! Turns out I printed too few of my new White Out book and completely sold out. I'm making a special order, though! I am also working on the new website which will be up soon (like a week or something). Also maybe paypall will help me sell you guys some books online. Stay posted inkhatians! Adventure's on the horizon!

Inkhat Has a New Book!

2011-03-05T13:51:00.000-08:00

SPACE is fast approaching, much to my surprise. I could have sworn it was in April this year! Well I guess I promised I would go, so I had to get some books together. Inkat will be for sale, as well as a space adventure I wrote and Beth Sparks illustrated. I haven't actually seen the final of that comic yet, but Beth is an amazing artist. I'm very excited! In addition, I will have a collection of two of my painted comics: Gray Horses and Napping of the Deeps. They are collected into one book: White Out. Here's the cover:

Hope to see some of you at SPACE! It should be OUT OF THIS WORLD. Heheheh

Inkhat is Working on Something New!

2011-02-25T18:33:00.000-08:00

My goal is finish inking it tonight. We'll see how that goes.

Edit: the comic is now available here: http://www.lesliejanderson.com/?page_id=278

Inkhat Takes Pictures!

2011-01-19T20:33:00.001-08:00

Just posted the last picture on my Photo-A-Day Blog. A whole Year! Whoa!

Inkhat Hates Narration!

2011-01-09T14:04:00.000-08:00

Supposedly the nice thing about art and literature and music is that you don’t have to defend your opinions. There are, of course, social expectations as well as expectations of contemporaries that limit expression, but we should be okay with girls liking Twilight if it really moves them so powerfully.

I go back and forth on this. Sure I can tell bad poetry when I see it, but I really want to be able to enjoy things without stigma. For instance, in an ideal universe no one would demand a defense of my intense addiction to Disturbed’s “Down With The Sickness.” However, that world doesn’t exist. Worse yet, if you live in the strange magical universe of Academia it is suddenly unthinkable that you would have an opinion or taste that you cannot support. The result is that I have trained myself to constantly question my opinions. I’m sure this is good for me or something. I’m sure it will make me a more intellectual or well rounded person or some shit, but mostly I find it exhausting and irritating.

Whatever, that’s not the point. The point is I’ve figured out why I have a problem with too much narration in comics. If you don’t know what I mean, take a look at Lynda Barry’s 100 Demons, which I think is the worst example I have ever seen. (Let me be clear that I'm not saying the whole comic is terrible, just this specific element).

I’m not sure what makes this a comic and not an illustrated book? I mean, look at it. I’m sure those pictures are very nice, but I can’t see them! The only place in which illustration is used to assist the text is in the final page when the boyfriend transforms into the mother.

As Johanna Drucker mentions in her article, “What is Graphic about Graphic Novels,” “In Western culture, the differences of word and image are freighted with value judgements that map onto reductive binaries of spirit/flesh, pure/sullied, ‘truthful/deceptive....” In other words, media must fall into one or the other. This is a fight that graphic artists have been familiar with for a long time.

The point is, Drucker also explains that artistic innovation both reflects and eventually rejects previous standards. An example of this might be in early printing when printed books were done in the style of handwritten manuscripts, even though there was no reason to do so. In this case the comic is imitating a traditional autobiography, heavily narrated. It’s basically an illustrated book. The proportion of words to images is heavily skewed toward words and the balance that is so essential to good comics is lost.

I can understand why many autobiographical novels give in to the temptation to rely on heavy narration. It eliminates the shaky barrier between artist and narrator and allows them to speak directly to the audience. This is always a tricky question in all writing. We never know where the speaker and writer diverge. It becomes more so in graphic novels where we are doubly aware of the presence of both a set of characters and a writer/artist. The autobiographical comic collapses this distinction. This collapse may make narration an obvious choice.

However, it leads to sloppy storytelling. It requires very little innovation or decision making. A movie going audience would never put up with a voice over in every scene. It would be considered sloppy and amateur, perhaps limited only to an immature or young audience. The same is true for comics. It is hard to tell a story through image and dialogue. I get it. I’ve been there. However, every writing teacher I have ever had has drilled “show don’t tell,” into my head. Narration comes between the audience and the characters. A narrator must intervene with a logical interpretation which undermines both the emotional and artistic.

There are instances in which this may be used to enhance the piece, but, as with any creative element, it must be used intentionally and carefully. Though I can understand the temptation to use the traditional forms of story telling, especially since they have already been tried and tested, but I must urge my fellow artists to innovate and defy convention. Especially if it is dangerous. In closing:

Oooowahahaha!

Inkhat Loves Batgirl!

2011-01-02T22:39:00.001-08:00

So she made a batgirl wallpaper.

Inkhat Has Been Delinquent!

2010-11-24T21:48:00.000-08:00

Yes. Yes. I know. But I have been doing important things! Working on a masters and applying for PHDs. There has been little news to report.

News to report: Inkhat 1 still on sale at Donkey Coffee in Athens.

Dirk Turbine comic in the works. Should be done in March (?) by the wonderful artist Beth Sparks of Yeti Comics.

The Adventures Of Little Cthulhu being prepared for a trip to be published. Maybe on fancy black glossy paper! Ooo!

In the meantime, work continues on various other projects. Please stayed tuned. As penance for my absence, have this piece of my high school memories. We watched this a lot. Should explain some things...or not.

Inkhat Agrees!

2010-09-24T15:13:00.001-07:00

‎"I may realize I might never be on the level of a Michelangelo, but we are of the same family. We are in the same tradition. There is no separation between the arts. No separation between literature and comics.... Everybody has access to genius." -Jean "Moebius" Giraud

Inkhat Hopes!

2010-09-22T10:29:00.000-07:00

Maybe the internet is getting smarter!

Maybe not....

Inkhat Does Strange Things When She Is Bored!

2010-09-20T19:08:00.001-07:00

My crew at Ohio University. Our office number is 8 in Ellis Hall. Used the Scott Pilgrim avatar generator to make the initial characters, but I had to do some photoshop reconstruction where the generator nicked a hip or a side. I also changed some outfits, took straps off shoes, changed some colors, etc. Overall, looks pretty sharp I think!

Inkhat Is A Local Hero Now Or Something!

2010-09-20T07:39:00.000-07:00

I was super excited that the local coffee house, (Donkey Coffee), which appears in much of the first Inkhat, agreed to sell the comics at their register. I also put some free mini comics out, but they seem to be gone already. Hooray! A special welcome to anyone coming here from Donkey!

Inkhat Is Not Done With Her Revenge!

2010-09-07T15:41:00.000-07:00

Nope. Not done whining. He was really quite evil. Also this actually happened:

Inkhat Has a Confession and a Doodle!

2010-09-02T12:39:00.000-07:00

Look guys, it's just not working out. The posting every Tuesday thing. Turns out when I ignore it I want to post more. So my plan is: more posts, no schedule! Expect more word-based posts as well. For being so patient I give you this: the nerdiest thing I have ever drawn.

That's right, folks. It's Hellboy fighting Cthuhlu on the Deathstar

Inkhat Discusses the Words 'Gay' and 'Waitress!'

2010-08-28T12:18:00.001-07:00

I need to write more on this. Yeah. Anyway, what I want to talk about today is words. Specifically the words ‘gay’ and ‘waitress.’ This is, of course, part of a larger story. ‘Waitress’ is the title of a popular argument between my mother and me. It usually begins like this:

Inkhat: I wonder where the waitress is.

Motherhat: Don’t say waitress. It’s sexist. Say ‘waitstaff.’

Inkhat: But she’s a waitress. She is a female wait-human. You don’t call a lioness a lion-animal. It’s a female lion. It has a word.

Motherhat: That’s not what I mean. It has sexist implications that cannot be separated from the word. Traditionally female roles are separated as unique. Stewardess, actress, waitress.”

Inkhat: So the solution is to delete words from the English language?

Motherhat: It’s a start!

This usually spirals around until the waitress-staff comes back with coffee and we sip it grumpily under furrowy brows. Eventually, after a dozen plays of this super fun game, I realized that my problem is not that I fundamentally disagree about the existence of gendered language, (I don’t. It’s lame), but that I dislike the Newspeak-a-tizing of my language. That’s my art, after all. I do not agree that the solution is to streamline the language.

I was considering this recently as I was considering the problem of same sex marriage. Which is really a problem for the same reason. There is one word and everyone wants it. In this case my mother’s argument works both ways. Marriage is a word with connotations already built into it, and perhaps, instead of fighting those connotations or changing the word, we simply should avoid insult.

Or maybe we should delete it from the vocab all together, as it is causing problems. Maybe we should split it in half, Solomon-wise, and offer each group half. On the other hand, in this case, the connotations are positive. In that case, anyone should have access to it, as they would ‘wait-staff.’

Our problem is categories. This is why ‘gay’ and ‘transexual’ is such a problem. They required new words and new categories and made everyone itchy. They are only a problem because we have already created categories they sit outside of. We are rather mired in the anglo-Christian expectations of culture. Much like Asimov’s “Nightfall,” if we have never considered the stars, we would be terrified by our first sight of them.

But that is not to be used as an excuse. One of the greatest thing my father every gave me was the fact that some cultures had words and roles and expectations for more than two genders - many genders! Why, this allowed a young girl to consider that the problem was not the individuals that would not fit in categories, but the categories themselves. Why not add a dozen words for genders! Why not mix n match! Books of new words every year!

But that ignores the real problem. The real problem is that there are too few words, one actually, and it only belongs to some. The real problem is that some people are trying to keep other people away from a happiness. As with gendered language, women could only act as actresses. They could only serve as waitress. Gay’s can only marry as _____. But, Inkhat, you may say, all this is just arguing in a giant circle that language categories are bad.

Yeah. Exactly. While I hate word-removal and appreciate adding new words by the hundred-full, but my mother is right and I am also right. Words are powerful and their use should be respected. Also, people should just stop being dicks.

Inkhat Has Her Revenge!

2010-08-24T12:17:00.000-07:00

This professor and I butted heads quite a bit last quarter, which is putting it nicely. He probably wasn't actually a soulless vampire. (You can't prove he wasn't).

Inkhat is Handling It!

2010-08-17T21:22:00.001-07:00

Inkhat is Late Again and Sorry Again!

2010-08-12T17:50:00.001-07:00

Inkhat Is Late and Is Sorry!

2010-08-06T08:05:00.000-07:00

Moving is hard guys. Internet is not up yet. The good news is, work has just begun on Inkhat 2! Maybe I can have it done in time to arrange a Mid Ohio Comic Con spot.... Maybe.

Inkhat Thinks This Might Be Her Favorite Bonus Art!

2010-07-27T07:29:00.000-07:00

Inkhat Isn't Very Reassured!

2010-07-20T12:21:00.001-07:00

Inkhat Has A Surprise For You!

2010-07-13T12:30:00.000-07:00

It's a bonus comic! I recently did a 24 hour comic at East Lansing's 21st Century Games and Comics. A 24 hour comic is a creative lock in where artists attempt to create 24 sketched, inked, and lettered pages in 24 hours. No scripting is allowed ahead of time so the result is pretty crazy sometimes. It was a blast!

HERE is the result. That's right! You get the whole thing. You can use the button in the top right to see the next page.

Here's a preview:

Inkhat Has A Confession to Make!

2010-07-13T09:28:00.000-07:00

Inkhat Has Some Trouble Concentrating!

2010-07-06T08:56:00.001-07:00

Inkhat Has A Heart!

2010-06-29T09:38:00.000-07:00

Inkhat Has Bonus Art!

2010-06-22T12:58:00.001-07:00

Inkhat Meets Her Mortal Enemy!

2010-06-15T11:14:00.001-07:00

Inkhat Forgot to Update and is Sorry!

2010-06-10T19:46:00.001-07:00

I am attempting to pack and grade and finish essays and somehow this was lost in the shuffle. Never fear, though, Ryan has me on track! Thanks again, Ryan! Next week I'll be better. I promise...once I unpack my scanner.

Inkhat Explodes into Images!

2010-06-01T10:34:00.001-07:00

Inkhat Gets An Obvious Question!

2010-05-25T18:00:00.001-07:00

Thanks again to Ryan! Still no word on Laptop. Should be in one piece soon. Stay tuned, Inkhatgonauts!

Inkhat Has Had A Bad Week!

2010-05-18T11:09:00.001-07:00

Hey guys. So this week has been pretty terrible. There will probably be a full post about it when I get my head on right. Most notably my computer was stolen with all of Inkhat inside it. In the mean time Ryan over at DoubleClicked has been kind enough to scan a bunch of pages for me so updates will continue as scheduled.

Inkhat Gets Icecream!

2010-05-12T18:42:00.001-07:00

The following is the cliff-notes version of the conversation that just occurred in the office:

Me: I would like to go to the bar, but my car is here and that makes maneuvering difficult. Instead, I will go and get icecream! It is basically the same thing!

Grad Students: We concur! This is superior maneuver!

Later....

Grad Student 1: My goodness! This is like drinking except I am not drunk!

Me: And you can drive!

Grad Student 2: And make better decisions!

(Actually those last three were direct quotes)

Inkhat Loves Coffee!

2010-05-10T20:27:00.001-07:00

Inkhat Finds Moving to a New Place Can Be Intimidating!

2010-05-03T21:18:00.000-07:00

Inkhat Has a Surprise For You!

2010-04-30T20:10:00.000-07:00

Here's the deal, Inkhatians. Because there is no way for me to get the first episode of Curious Adventures out to all of you I will be posting it here, one page a week. It will start this coming Tuesday and then every Tuesday after. Why Tuesday? Well, none of my favorite webcomics update on Tuesday. Now this one does! I will also post little extras and bonus comics that don't necessarily fit into the next book. That's right, I've already started on CAoI 2, tentatively titled The Worst Week Ever. Stay Tuned! Keep your hat on your head!

Inkhat Rants About Conventions!

2010-04-26T12:37:00.001-07:00

Let me try to explain this. I have been to two conventions in three weeks and have been left with a strange assortment of emotions about them. They include, but are not limited to: frustration, joy, excitement, anger, contempt, cynicism, and inspiration. For AWP, I was expecting this.

But it didn’t happen. On the contrary, I had a wonderful time at AWP. I even had a friend pull me aside and explain exactly why I should be immovably depressed, but all I could feel was a general sort of enthusiastic curiosity and the gentle feeling of adrenaline that comes from riding the very edge of a wave, or watching a natural disaster from a safe distance.

At SPACE I felt increasingly frustrated with the state of things around the room. I saw the things my friend had warned me about at AWP. For every intelligent conversation I had 10 banal ones. Those who were producing the old slop, (short skirts, tight shirts, super heroes, zombies, cliché dialogue, and shallow themes), were doing great, while people with genuinely brilliant ideas testing the edge of the genre were ignored.

I had one experience where I was holding a book about three big-busted girls who fought crime from a convertible in LA. They were apparently cheerleaders. They held pistols. The writer was making a valiant attempt to sell me the idea and, I assume, my unbridled rage must have begun to show on my face because his artist chimed in, “But there’s also a love story for you!”

Oh Snap. Them's fightin words.

The two experiences were different for a very simple reason. At SPACE, I was involved. I am an amateur poet at best. I am wallowing in obscurity. No one cares about me or what I have done and I am certainly no where near ready to join their ranks. I could play the happy observer. I could make popcorn and sit back and take notes. Someday soon I will be desperately filtering through the crowds for publications and jobs, but not yet.

On the other hand, at SPACE, I had a stack of things to sell. People were walking away from my table with my work in their hands. I wanted it to be good. I wanted everyone to be good. I didn’t feel so powerless to change the ebb and flow of the genre. There! There was my input on that flow. It was bound with three staples and was 25 pages long. I was really gorram proud of it.

Let me try to explain this, mostly to my fellow comic artists. When you spread your tablecloths over the folding tables, when you set up your printed books, when people stop by and buy them, (Even ten people. Even five), when people stop by and say offhandedly that they rather liked your last work, when someone stops by and says they hate it, when you are compared to the person sitting next to you, when you joke about it, when you are recognized if even by the one person who bought your book last time you have reached what will be the zenith of my career as a poet.

No. Really. My friend was right. There is no job in this. You have to love it. You have to want to do something good with it. Not just good, but –if you can manage it at all- beautiful. That is the only thing to strive for.

It pisses me off when a lot of artist/writers screw around instead.

In the end I find myself with a sort of battered determination and four hours of sleep. I bought a lot of books. I met some truly fantastic people. There was a hot tub and muffins and truly talented artists and writers sharing their time with me. I came home excited to get started again, which is pretty much the best place to be.

(PS: I didn't punch the guy. It was close, though)

Inkhat Gives A Small Update!

2010-04-19T15:51:00.000-07:00

Hello Inkhatians!

I just printed out an enormous pile of comics! Yai! Tonight I will be making covers and tomorrow I am bribing my office mates with a bottle of wine to help fold. It's looking like I might actually make the deadline for space. Now it's time to go turn in my essay and go to class. Very little sleeping this week, methinks. Stay tuned!

Inkhat is Sans a Cat!

2010-04-10T21:44:00.001-07:00

Cat has been found (thanks to a Craige's list ad of call things)!

I had a whole report typed up about AWP and how fascinating and mentally devastating it was, but I came home to discover my cat ran away in my absence. So, I am using the power of the internet. Please send this around. I've been through three states, four houses and two universities with this little girl, and I miss her already.

Those in Athens, Ohio: She is a gray short hair, declawed. Friendly. There is a $50 reward for her return. Contact me through the site.

Inkhat Explains How To Eat the Food You Have!

2010-04-06T07:48:00.000-07:00

Sometimes we are stuck with the food we have, instead of the food we deserve. Especially as a student and a space cadet, I often find myself limited by income, time, and tiny tiny attention span. Often I find myself with a loaf of bread, spinach, and a paper that cannot be ignored any longer. Personally I think I deserve sushi more often, or at all really. I also deserve to be taken out and treated like a lady once in awhile!

But that is beside the point. The point is I have bagels and bacon bits left and half an hour to get to class.

Step 1) Lie in bed and forget that you didn’t go shopping yet.

This necessitates the sort of post REM sleep that creates a state of –if not complete confusion – at least happy disorientation. At this point your mind, perhaps in a desperate attempt to protect your fragile psyche from realizing the situation you, yourself, have placed your body in, will produce a wide range of things that might be eaten. It will include amazing things, pulled from every day of your life: the eggs your mom made, the fruit you bought at the market on your summer vacation, the toast you picked at on that first date that sadly (perhaps devastatingly) went nowhere.

You will, in your mind, walk around the kitchen and gather these things. You will imagine how warming and refreshing this breakfast will be; how it will prepare you for the hard day ahead. Indeed, nothing else could.

Step 2) Realize you have nothing in your fridge

But, of course, once you get out of bed you begin to wonder what you have been thinking. You haven’t been to the store. You have kidney beans and ramen noodles left. At this point it is traditional to stomp around your domicile cursing your life and situation. Profanity is acceptable here, as is knocking over difficult to break objects and glaring out windows into the street.

Although the goal of these steps is to help you come to terms with your food related grief, this is a perfectly acceptable response. The hope is that, by becoming aware of this step and learning to control the destructive tendencies it inspires, you will achieve a grace and serenity in your foodlessness and move on with your life.

Step 3) Collect what you do have

This step should be easy. There shouldn’t be much, and the combination will likely be odd. Get it all together. Try to make some logical combination.

Step 4) imagine eating it

This one is best done in another room, or while completing another chore. Maybe while showering or reviewing your work for the day. Imagine the things you like about those elements. Repeat commercials in your head. Remember that Cheerios are good for your heart! There isn’t anything wrong with your heart, but it certainly couldn’t hurt.

Remember that you always wanted to have cookies for breakfast as a kid. Isn’t it, really, sort of decadent to eat these things now, alone in your apartment? Isn’t it sort of wonderfully self indulgent? And romantic as well, in that starving artist, bohemian sense. Realize you have become a beautiful character from a movie or book, the kind with the amazing mind who dwells so much in and of themselves that they cannot be bothered with mortal concerns like food.

Step 5) Eat it

Just…just eat it already. You have shit to do today.

Step 6) Find this hilarious

I can’t believe you ate that.

Step 7) Tell someone about it

This is the fun part. Likely if you are living in this situation you know someone else who is as well. Swap breakfasts like trading cards. Mountain Dew and a chocolate bunny! That completely trumps Triscuits and rice! At this moment you can enjoy grossing out the upstanding members of your circle, those who have not scrounged. (It is highly likely that this group has, in fact, completed this same exercise, but will never, ever admit it). You may also encounter the older person who has ‘totally been there.’ This person can only enhance the shared experience game, though they will win every time.

Step 8) Reach totally and complete understanding

and go to the store.

Inkhat Makes A Guest Appearance!

2010-04-01T22:08:00.000-07:00

I gave a little help over at Double Clicked Comics.

For a given value of "help."

Inkhat Has a New Scanner!

2010-03-28T13:20:00.000-07:00

To celebrate - a self portrait in white:

Click for larger view, which looks nicer) Detail is frustratingly hard with this style, so a portrait was tricky, but I'm building up more confidence with it.

But I had a bunch of white left, so I painted a cowgirl on a dragon.

Because, I dunno...awesome.

Inkhat Missed You All So Much!

2010-03-27T12:04:00.001-07:00

My dear readers,

Have you missed me too? I am sorry I abandoned you to the cold and hard world. It turns out, as I have mentioned on multiple occasions, grad school is hard. However, I will try to update every week from here on out, even if it is just to cry quietly into the negative space.

Anyway, it turns out that Eliot was right. April is the cruelest month. Here is the plan for the coming weeks:

Monday I begin teaching again.

April 8th to the 11th I will be in Denver for AWP.

April 24th and 25th I will be in Columbus for SPACE.

Meanwhile I will attempt to print all my comics, continue to send poetry submissions for publication, teach, and not fail my own classes.

Who's excited? These people.

But that's redundant.

Links are fun.

Until next time, keep your hat on your head!

Inkhat Meets Her Evil Twin!

2010-02-04T22:43:00.000-08:00

Today I was walking to class. That is to say, the one I teach. I was wearing black boots, jeans, a gray wool coat, black scarf and black hat. Going up the escalator of the Baker Center I looked to my left at the descending set and what should I see but a girl with my hair cut, except that her hair was not blonde but black. She wore a cream coat, white boots, white hat, and white scarves. We were our evil twins. At that moment she looked at me and we watched each other all the way down/up the stairs. Then I walked to class, knowing I had orbited a powerful karmic moment.

This was the most important part of my day.

Inkhat Gives a Eulogy.

2010-02-03T14:45:00.001-08:00

Before I begin, know that this is not about Tristin, but begins with him.

The night before I called my mother to inform her that I had decided to send Tristin back to her. I felt very good about the decision. It felt logical and adult.

I have been feeling logical and adult lately, which is always a mistake. Be careful of the world when you start feeling logical and adult.

It started when someone offered me a puppy. Well, actually, someone offered Katherine a puppy. She tried desperately to find a way to keep it, holding the soft yellow baby to her shoulder, calling her roommate, but to no avail. She handed the puppy back. I didn’t, don’t, want a puppy. But, I realized, I want a dog. I have a cat, true, but I have always had a cat. The dogs have always been my mother’s.

I wanted a dog, which I would have to care for, look after, speak to. After all the difficult decisions, standing in front of a room of students, having my work reviewed by peers and professionals, speaking unabashed to writers whose work I had read and respected, this realization was the first to make me feel, well, old.

Not old in that, oh god I’ve lived for forever and ever old. That, oh I understand the world a little more-old.

What’s more, the decision to purchase or procure one was mine alone. I would care for it, name it, feed it, be responsible for its life and its death. Who could tell me I couldn’t have a dog? I decided I didn’t need one just now, but I held onto that strange feeling. I thought I’d take it out of my pocket and look at it more closely when I had a spare moment. Maybe during office hours.

I woke up 45 minutes after my alarm this morning and rushed to leave. Claudette was playing with the strays outside. I could hear her paws against the window panes. Clack! Clack! She had recently been making friends with them, but would look up at me with wide eyes if I caught her at it. I felt like a parent walking in on their teenager with a girl. I didn’t mind. At least I knew they were keeping warm and well fed in this weather. I swallowed a Cliff bar and left.

On the sidewalk a black bag was stuck to the curb, but when I walked by it was actually a cat, a black and white tuxedo and it was dead. It was on its back. Its eyes were half open. Between its paws was a sticky note that started, “I’m sorry I hit your cat.” But I couldn’t read the rest. It was Xena.

I tried to explain this to my colleagues smoking outside. “I don’t know,” I said, “Why it won’t leave me alone. She wasn’t even my goddam cat.”

“Well, you named her.” Someone said.

That was probably it. When I walked home she was gone. Someone took her away with her useless letter. I hope it made the driver feel a little better. She was no one’s cat.

But I'll miss her.

Inkhat Revels Blogs Within Blogs!

2010-01-23T15:27:00.001-08:00

I just wanted to let everyone know that I am not part of a new blog. It is not a photo-a-day project between me and two of my good friends from back home. Do not check it out.

Inkhat Considers the Rebel Without A Cause Effect!

2010-01-22T09:28:00.000-08:00

Recently another grad student, raising his eyebrow accusingly, asked, “You’re not one of those girls that likes bad boys, are you?” No! I answered immediately. Of course not. I will always go for the nice guys. But then, as is often my problem, I started thinking about it. I thought of my romantic heroes: V, Bruce Wayne, Athos, Gambit, Spike, Han Solo, Thomas Raith…. all heroes, to be sure, but certainly not nice guys, and definitely not for the women in their lives.

But that’s fiction, not real life. Yet, I can see it. Not necessarily the men I dated, but all the way back to Chris in kindergarten, the only 6 year old bad enough to wear a leather jacket I have, in fact, liked the bad boys.

Shit.

Okay, don’t panic. There has to be a reasonable explanation for this. I am a smart young woman. There must be a reason I am attracted to jerks. Evolutionarily speaking it makes sense. I would want someone who could take of himself, me, and our tiny offspring. But that seems reductive. I would like to think I am a little more than the random sparks of instinct from a long dead jungle. So it must be something else.

So why do I do it? What attracts me about my heroes? They’re all passionate men, each so focused on their goals that they are oblivious to the outside needs and wants of humanity, or, in some cases, so in tune with those needs that they are completely unable to focus on themselves. Passion is sexy, as talent is. This is a fact. I’m not talking here about hobbies or likes, but when your significant other has something that makes them really, truly big-stupid-grin happy, it has a similar effect on you. The fact that, in this case, those passions tend to be semi self-destructive is, while worrying, no less impressive.

But what about the women? Abandoned, tortured, longing, left again and again, they certainly aren’t treated like princesses. But, and I think this is the heart of the matter, they are treated like the only thing of notice in the world. They are, in fact, the only thing that could make these characters focus on something other than their own goals. They are what every girl secretly wants to be: the only woman in the world. It’s classic Rebel Without a Cause Effect.

It’s a stereotype of women that we want to change men, and maybe in some sense this is true, but maybe not because we want to ‘fix’ them. Perhaps it is only because we want to be the thing that improves them, that motivates them, that turns them from their path if even for a second. And I don’t think it’s just women. I’ve seen dozens of relationships flare up between a ‘nice ____’ and a known heartbreaker. We all want to be the One, and this is easier to measure when the other person doesn’t seem to care for anyone else.

So, do I want a bad boy? Heavens, no. So you can all relax your eyebrows. You too. You know who you are. But I do want to feel like that. I don’t think that’s so odd.

Inkhat Can't Sleep!

2010-01-20T15:49:00.000-08:00

I’ve had trouble sleeping lately, which is a very new development. Of all the stress induced physical effects I’ve encountered, sleep loss has rarely been one of them. Headaches, soreness, back trouble, and disturbingly detailed dreams I’m familiar with. I’ve also lost sleep before, but simply lying awake staring at the walls for hours at a time has never been an issue before. I know that it is a result of the exponential increase in the complexity of my life, (both personal and academically - the material I am approaching). I try to explain this to friends. Grad school is not harder it is just more. It is not another language, but a tone and cadence and vocabulary that you have, you think, maybe encountered once before, but no one ever expected you to know it or write in it or speak it.

When I was younger I used to have the same trouble with sleep, I recall, but that was 10 years ago. I was 12 or 13, teetering on the verge of highschool, a transition that seemed, at the time, completely terrifying, insurmountable, impossible for my mind and body to adjust to. During that time I could sooth myself to sleep by engineering. I spent the school day sweeping my eyes across the classroom and taking note of objects or tools, the function of which I did not understand. I made lists of these on the last page of my notebook. (I have always kept the last page of my notebook blank for personal use, even today). At night I would try to reconstruct their innards in my mind. It worked best if I started with the question, “Okay I need an object that does _____. How would I go about doing that?”

For example, I had no idea how a spray bottle works. Think about it. You use them all the time, but could you really explain, to a child for example, the mechanisms that make the transfer of liquid possible? I doubt it. So I thought, how would I make such a thing. Well, I would need to create a vacuum, though not exactly. I would need suction, like trying to get too much shampoo back in the bottle. So if I had a tiny shampoo bottle inside the head of a squirt bottle I would need some way to squeeze and release it, thus moving the liquid into the shampoo bottle and out again. That would be the trigger. Of course there would need to be a sort of trap door over the bottom bit which was released when the shampoo bottle contracted. By this time I was asleep.

The next day, during lunch, I snuck into the coat closet and coaxed the spray bottle apart with a pair of scissors and a pencil and, sure enough, everything was where I planned it would go. Success! The next night I began on the mechanism that raised and lowered our desks.

I had to avoid complex mechanism, like projectors. Here difficulties arose. I would have to assume the entire piece of machinery that provided electricity, and I had no idea how the magnification or focus took place. What I discovered was that there were actually very few moderately complex items in our lives, like the squirt bottle. Most things were simple, a desk, a pen, a chair, a black board, hinges, stairs. The rest were highly complex. Very few things could be solved out in a single sleepless night.

Of course I realize now that I should have approached each larger machine through the subsets of its smaller ones. Electricity is not so terribly difficult. The problem of the me as a child was not that I lacked insight, but that I lacked the patience to focus it.

Or perhaps that is not the problem at all. Lately, as I mentioned before, I find myself staring at the wall, holding the dissected pieces of a poem in my mind, raging, “How!? How does it work!? Where does the light come from?”

Inkhat Takes Detailed Notes!

2010-01-15T18:48:00.001-08:00

This is what I do in Eng 570:

Inkhat Is Really Awesome Busy, but Doesn't Want You To Forget She Loves You!

2010-01-10T11:17:00.000-08:00

So I offer you this update on comic progress. Here is the official Curious Adventures Title:

Inkhat Meditates on Atheism (But Mostly Just Ends Up Telling A Story)!

2010-01-03T15:23:00.000-08:00

Classes start Monday and I have spent the day drowning my nerves in drawing, writing, and reading random blog posts on the interwebs. I came across PZ Myers, who is, apparently, famous and who I have never heard of. I guess he’s an atheist or something.

Recently a friend came out atheist. It never occurred to me that this was something one would have to ‘come out’ about. It amused me for a moment to turn the meaning on its head and imagine him as a budding debutant, a new atheist grown into maturity. I imagined pomp and circumstance, the other adults of the atheist community asking the newly emerged young person meditative questions under a crystalline chandelier nibbling on finger sandwiches. There would be lace and comber buns and courtesies.

Focus, Leslie.

Anyway, my friend pointed out that atheism in America really is still held in a negative light. Like many things, my childhood assumptions that people’s faith, or disbelief was their own personal issue, turned out to be wrong. He pointed out that, while there were protections, both legal and social, for religious groups and beliefs, the equal did not exist for atheism. Separation between Church and State is the Pegasus of our legal system. Because it’s a myth. Get it? Not cause it’s a winged horse who sprang from Thomas Jefferson’s blood.

I can understand, however, his feelings of abandonment and betrayal by his religion. I found many parts of his story mirrored my own. (The main part where we diverged was his questioning creation vs science. I never had a problem with this. Looking back this seems odd, and I can attribute only to my weird ability to believe two seemingly contradictory things at the same time (I do this with due dates to finish papers early), or my early introduction to literature and art. I could see the Bible as True to the author’s intent as a poem or painting is Truth. This was a very long aside).

When I was young I lived a life of almost absolute seclusion in my catholic school. I found solace in reading, drawing, and religion. I was attracted to religion by the sense of inclusion, of course. It does not take a stretch of the imagination to see why the promise of an everlasting place of belonging where the meek would be not only included but lauded would appeal to a lonely child. But it wasn’t just that. The church protected literature and art. It was a fountainhead for artistic expression for hundreds of years. Being born with art appreciation literally ingrained in my genetic code, this was something I could love. Naturally, I wanted to stay there forever.

One afternoon one of the priests came across the street (our church was literally across from the school) to speak to us about the priesthood. This, of course, was a normal part of his job. The church always needs more priests. He described what made a good priest. Humility, love, creativity, sympathy for your fellow man, enjoying speaking, creating, writing, reading, interest in hard study over your whole life. Me! I wanted to yell. Me! Me! I can do all these things. I would love to do all these things. I still remember how excited I was that day, having finally found my profession. I felt, (I was so sure) that I had been called to do this thing. I held it as the torch of my life.

It never occurred to me that he wasn’t speaking to me. It never occurred to me that I was excluded. How could anyone exclude me? How could religion exclude anyone?

For those who do not know, Roman Catholicism does not allow women to join the priesthood. That is gentle wording, of course. In truth, we are actively barred. (The reason I was given for this, when I asked, was that only men followed Jesus and were told to go preach. I guess Mary Magdalene and the rest of the women didn't count. Kay).

Even after I learned that I was not called to do anything, (but isn’t that cute), I still huddled in Catholicism for warmth. Surely they would come around eventually. I even thought, for a short period, that I could change their minds. The slow death of my warm, fuzzy inclusion in Catholicism started on a school trip my sophomore year of high school.

It was on the beach. The sun was going down and I wandered into a conversation between two of the other students on the trip. One, who I knew, was a self proclaimed atheist and intellectual. I had always been jealous of his sureness in this position; of how grounded he seemed without a death grip on belief. He was talking to a girl I did not know, whose name I have forgotten. Let’s call her Sarah.

Sarah had, she told us, led a hard life. She had been saved by religion. She was arguing with my friend about heaven, or, more specifically, about judgment. It has become a familiar argument. I am sure everyone has encountered it, and I feel no need to reenact the entire thing, though I remember it almost word for word. It was the ending that got me. It was the last thing she said to me, smiling.

“It makes me sad sometimes, that my friends are going to hell.”

“Well what if they’re good people?” I countered, thinking of all my lovely, sweet, non-religious high school friends who adopted the rather damaged me and loved me instantly. Surely for that one act of kindness – like the single acts of kindness in parables – they would be saved?

“Oh yes. They can’t go to heaven unless they’re saved. I know it’s hard.” She added, sympathetically.

“I think God would forgive them.” I countered.

“Isn’t that a sort of selfish way to look at God?” She asked, still smiling.

That question bored its self into my brain, and I often reflect on it, even now. I am convinced, even more now, that she was wrong. It is, in fact, the other way around. It is a selfless thought. I am not special. God does not love me more. Everyone is going. This was my first interaction with the two differing definitions of 'saved.' One meant, safe, removed from danger. The other meant 'one of us.' Religion should be a roof, not a gate, and I certainly want nothing to do with a heaven that is not more forgiving than the humans it supposedly created. It took a few more years, but that night I began to realize I wanted nothing to do with the whole mess.

So what am I now? I’ve been asked this question as if I am a new species, asked to please classify myself so that I fit easily into the biology books. I have no answer for them. I cannot completely dismiss a higher power, nor do I disbelieve the clear logic of the scientific process. Usually I shrug the question off, a practice I plan to continue. I can say that I do not believe in _______ism, even the ‘Athe’ variety. It is, after all, another form of that angry exclusion of ‘we’re right and you’re wrong.’

Though it is difficult to believe, I find comfort in not knowing. It’s probably the same part of me that can believe that my essay is due Monday and also tomorrow. I enjoy the debate and I don’t know. Absolutely anything is possible. Isn’t that kind of fantastic?

Inkhat Falls Off A Horse!

2009-12-23T09:51:00.000-08:00

First, I apologize for radio silence. Holidays are exciting.

A few days ago I took a fall off a lovely brown thoroughbred. The actual fall was fairly dramatic. Coming to a gymnastic, the gauntlet of the jump course, when my pony, due not to animosity but a sudden loss of confidence, swerved right. This was not a big deal. I lost my balance and slipped to the side, but, determined not to fall off, I began straining back in the saddle. I had one leg half way back over, the other in the stirrup, and my hands around her neck. I had a good shot. Then I heard a high squeal.

I looked up to a very close look at the rear end of another of the horses in the familiar, tensed position which proceeds a kick. From my position on the side of my horse, I was directly between them. After 15 years of riding, I knew enough to be certain that if the hooves connected with any part of me, I would give. Human bodies simply do not win that fight. Instead, my horse used this convenient rear end to literally scrape me off. Taking the hint, and not wanting to be stuck between the two balls of hooves and muscle, I let go and slid to a stop 3 feet away on my knees, looking up at two bewildered horses.

And then I got up, brushed myself off, hopped back on, and did the jumps correctly. I iced the logical areas, and woke up with a small collection of scrapes and bruises. It wasn’t really a thing.

Except I forgot that not everyone falls off a horse multiple times in their lifetime. For that matter, not everyone loses track of how many times they have fallen off. Some people hoped that I wouldn’t die. I never felt close to death. Grave injury? Casts? Sure, but I was fairly in control, even of my own choice to dismount. I attempted to explain this to Amanda from Nimble Toad, but she seemed dubious. She urged me to write a reflective piece on the fall, but it wasn’t a moment of revelation, mostly of impact and, later, dull pain. It did make me think of a fall I had a few years ago, which was revelatory. I wrote a short mediation on it my sophomore year of college. You can have that, instead.

Just off Michigan State University’s campus is a kinetic statue of silver sheet metal called Balanced Soul. It sits just behind the first line of down town buildings, in an alley I often walked through to get coffee on the way to class. I gave a lot of thought to it, especially on the day I had to limp past while it spun delicately and gracefully above me. I had fallen off my horse. I had, indeed, lost my balance.

A balanced soul. It’s a noble goal, given a million names in a million religions. It is the universal cosmic objective. How odd, that we should all strive for the same thing, only with different words. I remember thinking the same thing the summer before, sweating in the Indian heat, reading about Mahatma Gandhi in his own city, knowing the sea he picked salt out of was only a car ride away. The ceiling dripped silently onto the cement behind me. Above me, a fan, knocked off its center, spun sideways. It made a sorrowful groaning noise.

I stared into his family portrait, at the Great Soul as a child. Somewhere under the carefully cropped hair and meticulously arranged suit was there a secret of the universe, or did he discover it somewhere in the African savanna or the great universities of Europe or the mud huts of his own home? Are we born with our future planted inside us? Do we grow into it like shoes? Is the balance simply our movement through life?

That morning my life seemed rather petty. I had never found myself to be good at any one thing, but mediocre at many things. Never a great artist, a great writer, a great scholar. I had average intelligence, fairly pretty, an okay rider. I recall watching a talk show with my mother. They were speaking about child prodigies, explaining the scientific theory of the working of their brains while the children sat, hands folded, staring at the camera, feet swinging below the seats. My mother, shaking her head at the screen, mumbled about how amazing it was; how much she wished she’d been born like that. It took me months to learn to hold a pen correctly, while my peers scribbled away in their notebooks. In riding, I was always in classes with students younger than me, my peers moving to higher and higher levels above me. I failed my first driving test, something I had sworn I would pass the first time simply because my mother hadn’t. I scored average on ACTs. I gradated high school with a solid B. The horse I bought was medium height and of an uninteresting pedigree. He too was cute, if not actually lovely. We never did spectacular, but no one could say we had failed. I finished off my last riding season before college almost completely in the center of the Michigan Hunter Jumper Association’s rankings.

I decided that if I couldn’t be the best at jumping, neither in speed nor style, I would simply concentrate on being a solid rider. Quiet, strong, difficult to remove from the horse’s back. It meant I would rarely place high, but I was at least versatile. When I joined the polo team in college they soon learned that, while I was neither the most aggressive nor the best at connecting with the ball (if I could at all), I could stay on any horse. I would often be just beside the action, spinning in circles on a wound up horse, but at least not on the ground, and at least near play. I was beginning to find my place in the world.

So it was a bit of a surprise when I fell off. It was on my own horse as well; a horse whose temperament had always been calm and steady, not inclined to break or take off. For three years I made the hour drive back home to ride him, carefully harmonizing school, work, and my sport. He seemed calm at the beginning, completely normal, his neck bent in and his back powering forward. His power was concentrated below my legs. At a turn in the fence whatever complaint he had with the world suddenly exploded. I had about a moment to feel his back tense underneath me, and just enough time to feel bitter against my own brain. I was neither strong or fast enough to stop what was about to happen. Then my left hip and shoulder slammed against the sand.

So, what is the worth of a balanced soul, when destiny can come along and mess everything up? Is the worth of fighting something so much stronger than your human body? Of course. I remember the seven year old Ghandi, the great soul standing behind glass in a museum, as unaware of his destiny as this girl, or the perfectly perched sheets of silver. Where is the perfection of the structure? Certainly not still. The artists created the thing to balance in motion, just as the Great Soul was contained, not in the photograph of the little boy, but in the journey to the ocean, the closure of thin fingers around a ball of salt. Holding it to the sun, balanced in his palm.

That's all for today. I'm heading back out to the stable.

Inkhat Is Occasionally Ridiculous!

2009-12-07T21:53:00.000-08:00

This has nothing to do with the final book, but I needed a just-for-fun cooldown drawing. It's important not to go to bed angry. It started with this image. No matter what you think of the show, you have to admit Afro Samurai is dripping with style. Here's my go:

Much fun was had by all.

Inkhat Begins to See a Plotline!

2009-12-06T20:01:00.000-08:00

And it thickens!

Inkhat Presents A Preview!

2009-12-05T16:13:00.000-08:00

So, it's official. I have decided not to go to Rolex Kentucky this year, and, instead, am attempting to get a book together for SPACE. I dunno if I can make it, but we're gonna give it the old college try. Here's a preview of my work:

I'll keep you posted on progress here, and maybe put up a page or two as they're done.

Inkhat Lists Interesting Ways To Get Arrested!

2009-12-01T21:16:00.000-08:00

A fellow graduate student and writer, Corrine Rizzo, was wondering if she wanted to pursue a PHD. No, she thought. Not really. This, naturally, led to interesting ways to get herself arrested. I decided to help.

1) Be Annoying. In my hometown it is actually against the law to be annoying. Yes, we were in the national papers, a sterling example of the extent to which small areas are able to dissect the US constitution without their sleepy, middle class populations stirring. Of course the law does stipulate that it’s a repeated offense, but we all know it’s an excuse to stop those damn hippies from hanging out in the park after dark. As one of those damn hippies, I plan to spend a good deal of my winter break making a nuisance of myself in exciting ways. Actually, I was informed you can't get arrested for this. There is no punishment. Ah well. Let's try something else.

2) Perform petty theft while wearing a ridiculous outfit. Like an animal suit. Or a full Joker costume. Or no outfit. I really can’t elaborate on this suggestion. I think it’s pretty self explanatory.

3)Get a fish drunk. No really. It’s illegal in Ohio. Let’s go fish us up some catfish. We’ll carry them into a bar and set them on a table and talk about their ex-girlfriends and buy them shots. I’m not entirely sure how you tell when a fish is intoxicated. Perhaps they flop more awkwardly. Maybe they start sobbing about their long lost minnow love. For that matter, just how high is a fish’s alcohol tolerance? There is really only one way to find out.

4) Whaling. Let’s grab some pirate hats and a row boat and sail the Hocking River. We’ll drink and sing and battle the ancient Leviathan who have haunted the dreams of humanity since they built boats and wandered back to the sea. We’ll carve harpoons from swivel straws and paperclips. I’m excited.

5) Breaking windows. Hey Corinne, wanna grab some rocks and break some windows? I dunno. Cause it’s awesome.

6) Punch someone on the face. No not me! Go find a jerk. It’s a college campus. They’re a dime a dozen. Go find someone who’s said something terrible to his girlfriend, or a girl who is plotting the destruction of her sorority-mate. Punch them. You may want to practice on a pillow. Don’t run away afterwards. Simply stare at them. Offer no explanation. Give suggestions during the 911 call. Await police arrival. Done and done.

7) Bait Car. Go find a bait car. There are completely legal totally not entrapment tools that the police park on street corners with the keys in the ignition. Hang out in one. Have a beer. For extra effect, read through a copy of the Communist Manifesto. If you don’t own one, steal a copy from your local Borders on the way. When the cops show up, be certain to call them fascists, or capitalistic pigs, or a politically oriented insult of your choice. [May be combined with 2]

I hope this helps, Corinne! Good luck.

Inkhat Meets Another Ghost Dog!

2009-11-20T12:29:00.001-08:00

This weekend I drove home, a six hour trip through mostly flat farmlands with intermittent shopping malls looming like bandits over medieval back roads. I was shocked how easy it was for me. Perhaps a sign of growing up, not the Truth of the World growing up, but the type of simply maturity that allows me to leave the highway without the fear that I will never find my way back on. A weird and simple bravery that allows me to step off the path once in awhile. It was rather encouraging.

After hour 4 I realized that I felt no sense of importance in this journey. I had lived on my own for awhile, but had never gone this long without seeing my parents. It should feel important. It felt routine. How strange, I thought, that something so new felt simply like part of my day. It wasn’t until I passed over the Hudson Creek Bridge, half an hour from my parent’s house, the familiar dip after the pylon bouncing my car, that I finally found the expected nostalgia.

It doubled as I turned off the highway, snarling silently at a minivan with a Novi sticker who wobbled uncertainly across the two turning lanes. I had the right to complain. I was a local. I knew how to navigate the awkward intersection. I passed the corner where I wasted late nights and early mornings in the one 24 hour diner, which was now a Starbucks. I passed the ski hill, a tiny dirt hump the city was obnoxiously proud of.

(In the parking lot was a small dirt hill with a few charred stumps sticking out. It turns out, I would learn later, that someone had decided it was a wonderful idea to remake Red Dawn, a decision which I believe immediately qualifies them for extreme psychological help, and possibly incarceration).

I noted, with some amusement, that they had also smoothed the railroad crossing, but had done nothing to the pockmarked corner save erect a yellow sign reading, “Rough Road Ahead.” Lovely.

The wedding I returned for was beautiful, but I felt an almost awkward sense of normalcy as I walked around town, visited friends, even as I wandered over to MSU and walked the campus. Nothing at all. I ran into a professor. She shrugged my sudden appearance off. It was very nice to see me. A state away I had worshiped her and used her confidence in me as guidance through my most stressful days, and she had moved onto other students. Why did it bother me so much that everything had moved on? Did I really want to say a small hole in Michigan where I once was? Yes, dammit. That would have been nice.

That’s selfish, I admonished myself. People move on. They have their lives. You have yours…sort of. You know, that bit of time between writing and grading papers and homework. Yeah, that bit right there. You shouldn’t care what happens to your old stomping ground.

But I do! I do! I want them to need me the way I need them. I think about my professors and friends, my cafes and bookstores. I miss the places like the people. I missed the memory of location like an inside joke; a reference only a few understand. Yes. I wanted that to be reflected in my world. But it wasn’t. I drove back to Ohio.

I went out the night I came home. I couldn’t stand in the empty house alone. I glanced down the dark, brick lined alleys off State Street on my way uptown, and stopped when I noticed something looking back. It was half way up the hill, thick and furry. I could see the reflection off its eyes, though they didn’t glow like a cat. A dog, then. A tail wagged slowly, carefully behind him. Instinctively, I clucked, an encouraging noise for horses. The dog turned and wandered into the bushes in response. His tail wagged lazily behind him. Honest to God. These things happen to me.

Alright then Ghost Dog. Tell your friends I’ve come home.

Inkhat Discusses Poetry as Poetry!

2009-11-08T07:33:00.000-08:00

So, as a forward, publishers of poetry are really touchy about seeing the poem anywhere else. They hate simultaneous submissions, and rarely will you see something published more than one place, or a magazine that would even accept previously published things. In order to avoid anyone getting crabby, I don't make a habit of posting poetry online. However, this enormous poem was already published in a tiny tiny online magazine. It's so long, I don't think I'll have a chance to publish it anywhere else, and the editor of said magazine is totally cool with republication. So, now you can see the sort of thing I work on.

Eight Poems for Polo

In the beginning there were horses

and the worlds were devised

by their bodies alone;

a ground so they could gallop,

the sky to silhouette their manes.

Between was only the churning

of the planets around their flanks,

sucked in through flared nostrils

and out.

Of course they knew of the ball,

more solid than them and white,

like teeth, or the sharp crescent of a straining eye,

but they never chased it.

They ran because their friends were running.

II.

Sundays,

women sway on gray horses,

leaning forward like poplars

over a still algae pond,

slim with fluttering hair

and gazing eyes.

In a rich garden with no snakes,

And no birds,

And no trees either.

Only a wide field where their men flit

Like white winged water bugs.

They wait for them to come,

Galloping,

All in white cotton and amber leather.

Later these women strip the long, red polo wraps

From the horse’s legs,

And wrap them into small soft balls;

hand them to their men, drinking,

Changed now, into darker clothes.

III.

Everyone has played polo.

Your ancestors played polo.

If they did not physically swing the bamboo;

hear the crack of the willow root,

they felt, because everyone does

what it is to sit atop force and beauty,

and never absolutely have control.

They hurtled at a target

they could not be certain would remain

or they would be able to hit.

Your children will play polo.

There is nothing you can do to stop this.

Teach them to swing,

even cocksure, wide and wild,

striking the ground into explosion.

IV.

In Manipuri there is a polo god

Born in the waves of timeless hooves,

a tiny planetary body

rocketing through space.

There was chaos then

as the fancy grew into war;

a fountain of flesh and hair,

swinging arms and sharp feet,

momentous and dangerously free.

Then one pony turned

and saw in the ball what the people saw,

perhaps what it wanted,

to be perfect, balanced, and brightly colored.

A borrowed groom,

I cannot make the unfamiliar, freckled horse,

quit orbiting me, tireless and proud.

Try as I might to stand still,

I sway with the motion.

When his rider comes,

Our horses meet,

Leaping like startled water birds

From a green pond,

And the mallets bend like cattails

And clatter.

He and his rider are gone again,

and I am holding a new, used horse,

Sopping and panting,

Already turning circles around me

even as I drag her from the tide.

VI.

Intellectually perhaps

we understood how ancient the game was,

but it meant so much less than

hanging the steaming blankets,

reds, yellows, blues like a drawn sunset;

dipping frosted hands into buckets,

the ice already crawling across the puddles.

Silence, except for the swish of thin horse tails;

the dust hanging like wind chimes,

Perhaps there is perfection in the end,

In the antique art of cleaning leather,

sponges in slow circles of preservation,

rebirth;

reverence.

VII.

The bit was a surprise,

the saddle, with its wooden spine,

spider webs of leather,

beneath and between their legs

over, around their neck,

their fluttering ears

thick, flat foreheads.

Their tail was braided and taped.

Their legs were wrapped in red cloth,

and buckled rubber sheets.

It all seemed like so much fuss

to do what they were made for,

to fling one hoof before the other,

to carry that strange and careful being

who knew what to do.

VIII.

In the hollow pavilion

after the crowds and professionals,

even the ice cream vendors,

have gone to their personal comforts

we remain, we grooms and trainers,

we cleaners and carriers.

We run silently round and round the ring

Playing in sandals and ruined boots and barefoot,

falling to our hands and knees,

driving the pounded sand into our skin,

with sticks, a soccer ball,

and speechless joy.

The horses, even, are sleeping.

The ball arches over our heads

and hands and mallets,

disappears over the wall

with a soft echo of conclusion.

Inkhat Discusses Comics as Poetry!

2009-11-03T17:05:00.000-08:00

While I consider posting my poetry here, let me ruminate on the concept for a moment. I have heard several professional comic artists compare poetry and sequential art. The relationship is not difficult to see. Both deal with a restriction of space. Both need to express a massive amount of information in a short period of time and very few words. So, if the relationship involves production, does it also extend to product? Why, yes. It does.

Comics, like poetry or music, has a set of clichés and expectations which must be broken down if any progress can be made. In order to do this criticism should be focused more on language; on the choice of every word in every panel. To that end, I have chosen a group of bad examples, just at random, off the internet. It took me about 10 minutes to find a dozen terrible pages. Let’s take a look.

This won't save large enough.

Okay…let’s ignore the larger problem with the theme here. I don’t really care about Superman being…un…re…dead. Let’s look at the language as poetry. “As well as anyone,” seems a fairly useless idea, as does “to make sense of it all.” It’s not necessarily cliché, but it is trite, as is ‘mirroring’ death. ‘Mirroring’ is a fairly overly used concept, especially in dark, psychological concepts. I have a hard time buying someone actually saying this conversationally. There’s a lot of repeated terms as well. Death. Science. I got it. Overall, this whole thing should be more conversational. I can’t imagine these two having this conversation, or anyone not attempting to explain the concept of undeath. This is a hard example since the actual theme of the conversation is so…stupid.

Okay this one suffers from the same thing as a lot of Wonder Woman monologues. It’s dark, but falsely so. It calls on the gothic language without doing anything original or honest with it, so it falls flat. War calling to blood is shallow. I would like to have some actual imagery built up. In poetry we often say we want to ‘see’ what the author is talking about. That may seem like a redundant movement in a comic, but I think it’s needed. The point is not to replace a picture, but to create a sense of synesthesia. Something that gives us the sense of the brutality of the moment. “What have you done?” may have had force the first or 50^th time it was used, but now it’s just a filler. Same thing with “Nightmare Future.” Is this really the best you can come up with?

Oh Deadpool, you just keep doing what you do.

Okay, death scenes. No one yells “Nooooo!” It never happens. People try to fix things. They act as if the person is injured. They are panicked and confused. The real sorrow of seeing another human die is from the inability to act; the not knowing. It comes from the fear that the next choice will be the wrong one. When we see really convincing death scenes the actual passing away of the person is not mentioned. It is the loss that shakes us. It is the people who are still alive. They do not yell ‘No.’ By using this cliché; this easy dialogue, the scene is immediately and completely cheapened.

Okay this one is different. In this one it’s the sound of the language that bothers me. The multiple ‘r’ sound one after the other just seems awkward. Try saying it outloud. I don’t think anyone would even say it that way. It simply won’t roll off the tongue.

This is a rather quick overview of the comics as poetry idea. If I happen across a few more I will discuss those as well. I will keep my eyes out for particularly good examples, as well. The basic idea, however, is that more attention needs to be paid to the intricacies of thought, language, and communication. I believe my professor, Mr Ryan Claytor, once expressed an indifference to theme in deference to interpersonal relationships. I have to agree with him. I would like to suggest, however, that these relationships exist in the dialogue and word choice. This is as important as the position of a hand, a word bubble; a frame.

I hear ya, buddy. I hear ya.

Inkhat's List of New/Intensified Habits!

2009-11-02T11:14:00.000-08:00

1) Coffee

My enjoyment of coffee has exploded into a complete and infinitely nuanced addiction. I plan my morning around its acquisition. I need at least one cup a day to keep going, and often need two or three. Just as I was writing this Rich wandered into the office with a giant cup of coffee and offered me half. It crossed my mind, momentarily, to decline, but as he held the half full cup of that warm, earthy drink that makes me imagine sipping the color of sun on fall leaves I found myself energetically offering my open hand and gulping it down.

It is my second cup of coffee today, and my second free one. This morning the man in front of me, with graying flyaway hair in a red plaid jacket, stuck his thumb back at me and added my coffee to his tab. I felt stupid and blinked at him silently. Who is so kind so early? Why did it mean so much to me? I choked out a Thank You, and hoped it expressed how I felt.

2) Crushes

I have always been the sort of person who falls in and out of those brief, obsessive love affairs with my assumptions about someone. Usually it is not with people I see on the street. I base very little on appearances alone. I will acknowledge that someone is lovely. I can look at them and think, yes, that person is, in fact, the most beautiful person I have seen walking down a street. But it’s only an impression. It passes in the same way as my thoughts on a particularly bright fall tree.

No, my inappropriate attachments come from brief encounters, short conversations, a hello, the way he inclines his head on the ‘o,’ or his smile at the passing squirrel. Smiles get me more than anything. What follows is a short, lucid affair in my head. I spend time in the place where I saw him. If I encounter him again I act as if nothing at all has changed between us. In public, we pretend we are strangers.

3) Doodling

I like to doodle. Sometimes I post it here.

4) Drinking

I never drank before graduate school. Well, not never. I drank occasionally. I still dislike the taste of alcohol and can only stand it when it is hidden beneath a great deal of sugar and synthetic flavor. I still don’t enjoy drinking, but it seems to make people nervous if someone is at a bar or party and not consuming alcohol. There’s a certain social breach about it. No one is sure why they feel uncomfortable, or if they should, which only adds to the discomfort. For the sake of easing this, and attempting to socialize so as not to lose my mind (and also to temporarily alleviate number the fifth) I have decided that I will simply, for the time being, become dramatically more susceptible to peer pressure than usual.

5) Debilitating Self Doubt

This seems to be a common element of higher education. It happens anytime you stuff a large number of enormously intelligent, talented people in a box. Self confidence and excellent personal images were never traits writers were overburdened with in the first place. Every-other day I find myself looking at the people I am with, or, worse, the PHD candidates that occasionally wander into our ranks, and wonder how the hell I thought I had any business being there. Name dropping being the national sport of our tiny, well read principality, anyone wandering into our midst would be immediately inundated with knowledge. The office constantly buzzes with obscure knowledge, like a perpetual arcane incantation. More often than not, I have no idea who is being mentioned, or if I do, I have the lightest recollection of who they are.

Only in my workshop do I feel a sense of achievement. In writing and interpreting I feel myself grow in every class period. Still a short interaction with a second year or a PHD candidate can immediate reintroduce my humility. Yesterday, while looking at Facebook, I realized with a flash of pride that I have a college degree. I own one. I earned one. I have a perpetual symbol of my accomplishments. I am constantly educated in intellectual euphoria and modesty.

Inkhat Reviews Protomen: Act II, Father of Death!

2009-10-19T21:48:00.000-07:00

For those of you who do not know who the Protomen are, well, you should fix that. The Protomen are a small, indie band out of Tennessee inspired by Megaman. Yes, Megaman; the video game. They write highly overdramatic songs based on the character and story around their favorite video game. The CDs tend to be much like operas, or the soundtrack to a musical. Each song can be listened to on its own or as part of the larger whole.

I was completely in love with the first album. I’ll admit it. Itunes reports that I have listened to the CD more than 50 times from my laptop alone. The songs explored the theme of bravery, sacrifice, and revolution. The basic question raised was, could a robot rescue humanity or was it both the destiny and responsibility of humankind to correct their own mistakes? At what point was Megaman no longer responsible for the good of mankind? Was it truly heroic for the robots to fight and die for a freedom they could not take part in? Did a humanity that did not demand freedom deserve it? The music was a strange blend of folky-western, musical, and rock opera. I was in love.

When the second CD came out I was excited, but I had my suspicions. I had been burned before. (I’m looking at you here, Muse). However, more and more reports came in of how fantastic it was; just as good. No! Better! So, finally, I bought it. I have to say, they’re half right, but I was hardly disappointed.

A quick overview of this CD. Instead of taking place after the first collection, Act II Father of Death, takes place long before and tells the story of Megaman’s father, Dr Light. It begins with an Intermission, a lovely instrumental piece. Songs 2 through 6 (“The Good Doctor,” “Father of Death,” “The Hounds,” “The State Vs. Thomas Light,” and “Give Us the Rope”), tell the story of Dr Light’s imprisonment and the eventual fall of the world to darkness. As far as I know, the back-story they constructed for Light is completely their own. At least, I had never heard of it. In this version Light approaches machines and robots as a way to better humanity until he is framed for the murder of his love, Emily. He is tried and shipped off to build robots for Wiley, and Wiley, in turn, uses them to take over the world.

In another turn of brilliance the Protomen create a new character, Joe. I developed a special fondness for Joe immediately. He is a freedom fighter seeking to define that idea for himself. In an entire world of submission, his songs are full of unease at his own questions. He suspects the status quo is off, and cannot entirely understand why or how to change it. The songs become increasing violent until Joe makes an attack on Wiley’s fortress and, well, I won’t give away the end. Yes. It’s a CD with an end. How cool is that?

That said, though the story they had invented was interesting, engaging, and the music is, as always beautiful, I was slightly disappointed. I found the beginning slow and too concerned with narrative. At the end of the song list, after Joe has left, Light once again gives us a long monologue to Emily, who answers with her own. (As an aside, I originally meant to complain about the female vocalist’s slightly whiney voice, but I found it grew on me. Nevermind. Moving on). Overall, I was far more interested in Joe’s vague references to his confusing world or his nameless girl. The abstraction with which Joe approaches his city has a beauty that the concrete terms of the early songs lacks. That said, these same songs made me actively wish my name was Emily, and that Thomas was singing to me. But I digress.

I got tired of Emily and Thomas Light rather quickly. Especially in The State Vs Thomas Light, where the chorus sings “Not guilty,” against Light’s “Guilty!” which is such a transparent and trite affirmation that it makes me flinch physically every time it comes up in the song. And then they repeat it. The flinching continues. They did this to me in their last CD with the people’s line, “We are the dead,” but that at least was a fairly original and interesting sentiment. I can’t really do anything interesting with not/guilty.

As usual, there was a variety of styles explored in the CD, though the main focus was Jazz. The Hounds, perhaps my favorite song on the CD, sounds like something out of a more exciting version of Guys and Dolls, including breaks for chorus to yell to Wiley, who replies with cocky one liners.

I think the main point is that, try as I might to tear apart this CD for its pedantic narrative, or the moments where a chorus line seems cheesy or cliché, I have to love it. It’s fun and exciting and written with a great deal of heart. The Protomen grasped the theme and went over the top with a grace and imagination rarely seen in modern music. You don’t have to play the game to enjoy it. Go buy it. Four stars.

Inkhat Presents Her Rhet-Comp Article Presentation!

2009-10-11T14:10:00.000-07:00

I was assigned a summary of Sommer's article "Revision Strategies of Student Writers and Experienced Adult Writers," for my 591 class. Never one to do anything normal, I created a series of short panels to summarize the article and arranged them in a power point. Now I will share them with you, dear readers.

Sommers describes the linear concept of writing. First there are ideas, which are transformed by words and through a rather mysterious, nebulous concept of revision, finally become the essay.

Sommers describes student's emphasis on writing as they speak instead of as a separate form of communication. She differentiates the two in that speech, unlike writing...

cannot be revised.

Sommers had her inexperienced writers write three essays and then revise each twice, for a total of 9 products. (Think about it for a second. It does actually work out to 9. It threw me the first time too).

She then tallied each type of revision they made, breaking them down into categories. She never brings this up again, but apparently it was important at some point.

More interesting is her interviews with the students, in which she noted their revision strategies were shallow, word or sentence level. Often they were weary of admitting it was revision, calling it something else such as 'scratching out and doing over.'

She also found that the inexperienced writers stressed the ease of writing when they were inspired by something.

However, this inspiration could lead them to become too attached to their topic and ignore more...ahem...global problems with their paper.

Enter the Experienced Writer. Unlike the Inexperienced Writer, he is not easily influenced or over-enthused by his own writing.

What it really comes down to is outlook.

The inexperienced student has a short term goal which, when accomplished, gives him a feeling of success. For the experienced writer, revision is an endless process.

Sommers attributes this to motivation. While the inexperienced writer is being told to accomplish a short term goal, the experienced writer is attempting to please an immense, nameless "Readership." The trick, therefor, is to develop a language which impresses the importance of revision on a student, even without this larger form of motivation.

So, there you have it. This is where all my time has gone in the past few days. Now it is time to write poetry, which is a good time.

Inkhat Assures You She Is Not Dead!

2009-10-07T17:42:00.000-07:00

Have you thought I abandoned you, dear readers? No chance. Do you remember someone informing you, perhaps when you were younger, that graduate school is hard? Well, they were not lying. They were not even engaging in colorful hyperbole. No. It turns out that graduate school is both the hardest continuous effort of my life and the most exciting adventure I have ever toppled into. I spend my day teetering between crushing self doubt and euphoric intellectual epiphany.

As a side note, I always want to capitalize Hyperbole. It just seems better that way.

But, dear readers, I must disappoint you again. After a frustrating day of un-writing, (that being the state of staring at the screen with nothing happening), I have been called out to the bar for karaoke. This would be part of the euphoric intellectualism. Or something. More later. Stay tuned!

For the record, before you ask, the answers are Yes and Cowboy Take Me Away by the Dixie Chicks.

Inkhat Presents a Short Meditation on Hugs!

2009-09-28T13:33:00.001-07:00

Ohio is getting colder, which is redundant, as most of the continental US is cooling at this time of year. The real point of this is that my cat has taken to sleeping on my bed at night, curled up in whatever bay she can find; behind my knees, against my stomach, in the crook of my arm. I am aware that she is only doing it for warmth, but it has made me realize how starved for physical contact I have become in the last few months.

This is the longest I’ve been away from my parents. It’s strange to think of it that way. I’ve been more or less independent for years, but I have always seen them at least once every few months. We’re a very physically loving family, or at least we have become one in the last few years. I don’t remember us always being so close, but perhaps I was too young to take note. My close friends, too, have always hugged, elbowed, shouldered, poked, high fived to excess. During the last few months, with the exception of one slightly drunken hug and a few high fives, I have rarely come in contact with another human being. I’m not referring to romantic touch here, but the basic human need for contact. How strange it is to lose it. How strange that the absence can be an almost palpable presence in my life.

There have been moments where another grad student will begin a familiar gesture. A hand will extend toward my shoulder or elbow or hand, and then they will pause. The hand will hover for only a moment, and the gesture will be finished as something pithy and falsely lackadaisical. A gesticulation, a pass, a wave. I, not noticing the first attempt at camaraderie; cognizant only of the moment of question, and failure, watch the hand drop to their side, and am aware, painfully, that something wonderfully possible has been lost. An inflation, maybe, but more a demonstration of a suspicion growing into a feeling.

What I am saying, in more depth than necessary, and possibly ad nauseam, is that sometimes I really need a hug.

Inkhat Paints Ninjas in Her Spare Time!

2009-09-20T14:00:00.000-07:00

I often think about the relationships around heroes and villains. Who makes dinner? Who pays bills? Who waits at home for them? This was going to be a larger comic, but the world does not need more super heroes.

Inkhat Talks About Teaching Again!

2009-09-16T13:45:00.000-07:00

I scribbled this post in my notebook during class. Yes, it was the class I have already complained about. Last period we discussed the importance of broad, sweeping education; lectures bound only to the most vast, exploratory concepts. We were to blow the minds and spirits of our students to scintillating smithereens. These lectures should ignore pedestrian concerns like ‘grammar’ or ‘correctness.’ This will break the students free from the fetters of convention and improve their reading ten fold. Today we are learning lecture strategies on sentence structure and grammar. I didn’t get it.

Teaching is becoming easier, and, better yet, fun. I still cannot shake my nerves before I open the door. I spend the first few minutes babbling nervously before I find my rhythm again. Yesterday I led a discussion for almost a straight hour. Near the end a girl who had not spoken since the first day of school suddenly thrust her hand in the air, glaring forward, as if daring anyone else to speak. Naturally, I called on her. She erupted in opinions. She spoke for almost 10 minutes. All of it was intelligent. Much of it was what I wanted to say myself, but was holding back so as to not to stifle discussion. When she was done, she folded her arms. I decided it was a good time for a break. For the rest of the hour she remained quiet again, smiling. Sometimes things just need to be said.

I like this job. I like that I’m being paid to do this. Yesterday, standing in the line at the deli, I realized that I would never have to be on the other side of that counter again. Working at Meijer deli, (washing day old ham out of boxes, scraping burnt chicken wings off the burners), was by far the worst job I have ever had. However, I always kept it before me; a possible though last ditch answer to the perpetual question, “How do I eat today; tomorrow?” However, I realized that I no longer held it before me in my mind like a lifeline. I was infinitely more secure. I understand that this position is temporary, and offers no guarantee for my future, but…well…shut up. I’m in my happy place right now.

I guess what I’m learning from all this is that I’m not done learning. Thank god.

Inkhat Heeds the Writing on the Wall!

2009-09-13T14:43:00.000-07:00

And just like that the first week of teaching had come and gone. I felt, at the same time, more and less overwhelmed. Over the phone I would tell my mother that I was surprised only at the sense of the vertiginous. That is to say, I did not expect to feel as if the world around me had suddenly given a great start and jump and forgotten to take me along. I do find it wonderfully encouraging that everyone around me is feeling roughly the same way. Though I know it’s difficult to admit, I felt reinforced by every personal testimony of confusion and exhaustion. I find I wanted to push those who were confident and thrilled in a very deep well. Nicely, you understand.

I also found that was more worried about teaching after I was done. During the class time I could keep things moving and engaging, but afterwards I would analyze every single moment; everything I said which might be taken the wrong way. It was the damn textbooks that did it. All the assignments for our Teaching English course analyzed in pains-taking detail everything that could possibly go wrong. It had elaborate stories of how simple attempts to reach a class could spiral wildly out of proportion, leading to chaos and the eventual downfall of humanity. As I did those readings I would find things I had actually done and panic. It had worked perfectly well when I tried it.

Of course, this is the problem with focusing on Teaching Theory. In the end it’s very much like lecturing on the physics of baseball then unceremoniously throwing a player on the field with a glove and yelling “Good Luck,” while scurrying away. On an intellectual level, he may understand the game better than anyone else in that stadium, but he probably won’t catch that ball.

But I digress. Let’s digress in this direction: Last night I went to Tony’s, or was it the night before? Night before. I remember. Anyway, I went to Tony’s, (a place which seeks, by its very existence, to define 'Hole in the Wall'), and, in the bathroom, was surprised to see the walls as covered with writing as the English building and coffee shops. There seems to be, in the city of Athens, a drive to write anything and everything; to carve it into table tops, to sharpie it on bathroom walls, to pencil in comments and addendum. It is not unusual to find black boards in bathrooms, a last act of defense by the management to save their walls. Certainly, not all of it is poetry, but a writer can’t help but love a town obsessed; driven to put its self into words. Also, the comics are coming along nicely.

Inkhat Does Not Actually Own a Corded Telephone!

2009-09-07T12:53:00.001-07:00

This is the last of the Orientation sketches. It also is probably the last one to be posted in-blog. I will start making a backlog for a new for-realz webcomic. Stay tuned!

Inkhat Considers the Topography of Memory!

2009-09-06T13:57:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I took a trip to Columbus with my roommate Dania, and another graduate student, Ryan. I’m not sure why I decided that this was important, but I was sure I needed a day off. I was fascinated by Columbus, in a way that my two companions probably were not. At one point I stopped them and pointed to an ornate building. The red stone work curled like flowers and parchment around the top and over the corners, but did not extend all the way around the building.

“Look at that!” I said. “It’s so, when they build another large building next door it will look like the design goes all the way around.”

They nodded politely, insisting that, no really, that was very interesting. I smiled appreciatively. I’m weird. I get it. But I think that it was important, that building. We were, in a matter of days, about to attempt the same sort of chameleon act. We would have to stand in front of the class and put on our best, professional face, saying, “Pay no attention to the lack of depth; the cheat of time and experience. Pay no attention to the fact that we are new and untested. We have been made in the old style, and have skyscrapers at our backs.”

We attended the Greek Festival, which was unfortunately small, but lovely. There were overpriced tourist items, and a vast variety of food, and awkward kindergarteners forced to dance around in a circle in tiny, colorful costumes. Occasionally a parent swept in to scoop up

one in tears. The problem, I told the other two, was that Greek dancing was not made for performance. It was made for celebration. Dania theorized that this is why they danced in a circle, but it was never closed. In this way, people could always join. A few moments passed in silence. The children shuffled off the stage and were replaced by adults, more colorfully dressed, jumping spinning. It was interesting that, unlike American dancing, the movements were not necessarily on a beat, but seemed to be contained within them. For instance, sometimes in a chord there would be three movements, sometimes two, sometimes only one. Being used to movements directly coordinating with a sound, I found this beautiful.

“I’m glad we did this.” Dania said, “It’s important to build a geographical memory of a place.” I thought about this sentence the rest of the day. It was a wonderful thought. I imagined standing on the street years in the future, remembering me imagining me.

Wandering through the stalls, I came to a printmaker who worked in an iconic style used extensively in the church where I grew up. The images were familiar, and I wasn’t sure I could buy a print along that vein, though I loved the style. “Fine,” I said to myself, “Look through her

work, and if she has something different and affordable, buy that one.” So I started looking, and chatting with the artist and her husband, who, predictably, were lovely people. Finally I looked down at the print I had picked up. It was three women, placed among gears. Smoke stacks rose in the past. They looked strong, somber, and brave, staring off into the sky, just beyond the edge of the paper. They reminded me, forcefully, of Diego Rivera’s work in the DIA, another cathedral of my youth. It reminded me of Flint; the battles they had fought and I had left behind. I remembered standing in my mother’s studio, looking over the heads of the stone lions to the etched line of the Flint River. We had moved her paintings up and down stairs all day. It reminded me of home.

“That,” she interrupted my thoughts, “was my first one. I’ve always liked it. You can have it for 20. The corner’s bent.”

I nodded. I’d take it.

Inkhat Doodles During Orientation!

2009-09-02T16:33:00.000-07:00

This one was for Yesterday, but I fell asleep before I got it up. They really are enormous.

Inkhat Makes Some Things!

2009-08-31T19:33:00.000-07:00

Today, to blow off a little tension, I did some art in my old acrylic on construction paper. I missed it. Anyway, the first one is for my friend Ryan at http://doubleclickedcomics.com/. Tomorrow maybe I'll actually write something about stuff.

Inkhat Finally Gets it Over With And Reviews District 9!

2009-08-29T22:44:00.000-07:00

There are spoilers. If you don’t want to read me rant, skip this one, dear readers.

A lot of things happened this week. Many of them were good. Most of them involved people I was very happy to see. A small portion involved watching Avatar and The Great Mouse Detective with my new grad school friends, because that is very adult and sophisticated. Honestly, I find myself going back to the animated movies I loved when I was younger often. It’s interesting to see how much I missed when I was younger. I wonder that I ever understood what was happening; that there were actually nuances at work. This makes me very very excited.

You have to understand a little bit about how a English Major’s mind works, or at least, how it functions if operating properly and switched on. I cannot stop analyzing language, stories, symbolism, etc. The fact that I minored (a class and a half away from double majored) in art history means that I am literally doing this constantly. All. The. Goddam. Time. That Bob Evan’s sigh? That Champion Car Wash commercial? That encouraging billboard? I am already tearing it apart. If you’re lucky, I’ll keep my mouth shut. I can turn it off sometimes, if I talk myself through it. For instance, I turned it off for GI Joe, and had a great deal of fun with it. Don’t tell me it didn’t follow the ‘feel’ of GI Joe. Go watch the old movies again. There’s an example of something not as nuanced as I thought back then.

I did not turn it off for District 9, not knowing what to expect. I walked out of the theater thinking, more or less, “Well, that was a terrible movie. I would rather like my money back. Well, it’ll bomb out in a few days.”

But it didn’t. No! Worse than that, people flocked to it. Not the first time a large group of people saw a terrible movie. I was over it, but then I read the reviews. Apparently people found it moving, inspirational, a treatise on humanity. “What?” I said to myself. “In that mess of a movie? And on top of that, did anyone miss the racism? The massive, terrible racist overtones? No, not overtones so much as an enormous neon sign that said, ‘STERYOTYPE AHOY’.” Oh no. actually, they caught those, and defended them. Apparently the director, being from Africa, is exempt from racism. More than that, it’s creative. Apparently.

It bothered me. A little. I’ve ranted about it to anyone who will listen…or who won’t listen but will nod as if they are. I’ve lost sleep. I’ve lay awake at night and thought, “Why? Why does it bother me so much?” So, after that enormous introduction, here is why. No seriously, you don’t have to read this if you don’t want to.

I was going to pick apart plot holes and shallow characters, but let’s let that be. That is simply what makes this movie a bad movie, and not what makes it actively insulting. No, let’s talk just about that. Let’s talk about the Nigerians. Now, the fact that they are the Nigerians is important. They are not the “So and So Gang,” or a group of Nigerians, or anything like that. No. They are The Nigerians. If a movie used The Americans, we would assume that would be a group representing, in some small part, America. So, let’s look at how these Nigerians are portrayed. They are violent, involved in interspecies prostitution, and, my personal favorite, cannibalistic. Oh no, it’s okay. There’s a reason. It’s Voodoo. So, not only has the director insulted a culture, but also a religion.

Fun fact, Voodoo, actually comes from a word meaning, basically, ‘things which do things’. It involves the release of energy from a powerful object by putting a nail or piece of metal into it. It’s usually used to seal promises, very much like swearing on a bible. It actually originates from slaves in the Caribbean via the Congo. That is not, in fact, Nigeria. Oh also, it doesn’t involve cannibalism. Plus 10 points for style but minus several billion for sloppy writing, am I right?

Is it racist to assume that one of group of people believe and practice the same thing as another simply because they live in the same area and may look alike Yes. I think that’s the definition. Right there.

But culture is hard. It is difficult to fabricate complex characters in a system they inherited through birth, especially, in the case of a sci fi, when you have to invent one. This movie proves this. In the same way that the newest Star Wars movies co-opted a great deal of African Art to fill in the background, this movie used stereotypes in the place of plot and characters. The villains were white and Euro-American. The female lead was white, blonde, and in distress. Johannesburg was basically a blank slate, where people were devoid of all personality or expression save anger. The aliens were completely cultureless. They are aggressive, stupid, and violent, save Christopher.

I was aware, vaguely, that I was supposed to see Christopher as the undoing of this stereotype. However, I found it difficult as he was the only character shown in that way. Even in the last scene, when Wikkas is rescued, the aliens are savage and frightening. Even when Christopher speaks of them, they are ‘his people,’ a group of nameless stand ins for the downtrodden of the world. I understand, also, that we were supposed to be aware of a bias because of the documentary style. However, the style was dropped so often, that excuse is no longer valid.

This was presented as a movie about the escalation of violence resulting from cultural tension, and there was no culture. There was only violence. Violence as reason, plot point, and solution. It was also a film about humanity; about equal treatment and understanding. Yet the director saw fit to slander and insult vast swatches of the real world.

The sin of this movie is not that it was vapid, or silly, or full of explosions. The offense is in the lie of it. It presented itself as something intelligent and introspective; a real commentary on humanity. And it was, but probably not in the way everyone believes. It showed exactly what humanity will swallow, enthusiastically, so long as it follows our own view of the world.

This movies asks you to think, gives you an hour of swill, and allows you to leave the movie thinking you have. Yet, it’s still full of all the flash and emptiness of any Hollywood blockbuster. You were tricked. You were bamboozled. I know you were aware of it too. Most people have told me those scenes make them feel uncomfortable. There’s a reason, people! Don’t ignore that feeling! You like the thinking feeling! Now keep doing it!

Inkhat Meets The Ghost Dogs!

2009-08-24T21:44:00.001-07:00

Today I drove to nearby Lancaster, a good-sized town about an hour away. My GPS said there was a Borders there. My GPS lied. As every other major book store was an hour and a half to two hours away. It was one of the places in my life I went to just be, to wander; to look and make lists in my head of all I wanted to read, do, go; see. I used to go there late at night because it was the only place in Brighton that was open late. I held a period of mourning in my car. It was like leaving another old friend.

Yesterday I pulled into the stable and there, by one of the bends in the drive way, was a dog. He was black with brown accents around his face and chest. He was obviously a lab mix, but only about knee height. He moved in long, fluid strides that brought up visions of a dressage pony. I got out carefully, and presented my hand. He licked it, and I figured that was about the best greeting I could imagine. He followed me to the pasture to retrieve Tristin. He followed me to the ring where I let my horse wander around and I sat down to read. He sat next to me. From time to time he would get up and wander away; jogging across the field to touch base with the trees, or startle a flock of birds into flight. I tried all sorts of names for him, Boris, Constantine, Bingo, Fido. Nothing at all worked. So, I called him Random Dog, which he actually responded to. “Whatcha doin, Random Dog?” I’d ask, and he’d loll his head back at me and smile.

Finally, without warning, Random Dog jumped off and jogged across the pasture. When I looked up, he was gone. 15 minutes later I became curious. Where had Random Dog gone? I watched a small red tailed hawk circle the field. Had Random Dog been content to make friends with me than abandon me to lick the hand of someone else? Was I so much chopped liver? I felt entirely cheated upon. So, I slipped under the fence, carful not to bump the electric wire. I set off through the wet grass, following my canine guide.

I was glad to see that, among the more familiar daisies and Queen Anne’s Lace, a few Amaranth stretched their purple heads out of the grass. If I had to name a favorite flower, it would probably be Amaranth. They’re a strange flower. They’re rather fluffy, either in a cone shaper or a ball. Usually they’re ignored for their own beauty and used as edging; almost never in bouquets. They symbolize the immortality of love. I’ve always found them charming.

At the edge of the field there was a line of thin trees against the wire fence. On the other side, a dog watched me, but not my dog. This dog stood in the endless field beyond, a beautiful painting perfect bird dog in brindle and white. Beyond him, a charcoal black gray hound looked into the distance. The bird dog looked at me steadily, as an aristocrat meeting an equal. It was becoming clear to me that Ohio had decided that all my stories would be animal stories. It was also clear to me that I would not name these dogs. If I was to name every ghost animal that the Ohio wilderness offered me, I would never be done. I took a few steps, losing the dogs behind a tree. When I could see the field again, they were gone, no doubt called back into the sky, or sucked into the grass.

As I climbed back up the hill, I caught another glimpse of Random Dog, running along the lake. He slipped through a bush, and was gone. Maybe this is the land’s way of meeting me, in these tiny agents. Maybe this is her way of saying, “I do not have the things you left behind. I do not have book stores or tea shops. I have these flowers that last forever. I have the ghost of cats and dogs and birds with red tails, that guard me, that watch for me; that like you.”

Inkhat Attempts Art!

2009-08-23T17:26:00.000-07:00

I have a longer post planned out, but this is good too. I tried a bit of Art Nouveau, as it's a style I enjoy. Then I made a very silly sketch with a Gryph-a-mantacore! For some reason Blogger insists the sketch come first. There's a lot of things about them I don't like, but I'll get better!

Inkhat Fights a Headache!

2009-08-22T19:47:00.001-07:00

Yesterday I moved a glass top table between rooms. Actually I moved a glass top table from the back room to the outside patio. It was not a terribly difficult maneuver; requiring only direct application of strength, and the tiniest bit of ingenuity at the door jam. I was watched, carefully, by several new cats. They have been named as follows: silver and white polka dot: Darcy, Black with white socks: Wellington, Long haired black and white: Remi. They seemed to think I did a nice enough job with it and quickly went back to chasing cicadas. They are very forgiving taskmasters.

Last night I went to a show at Donkey with a few of the other grad students to see a band called Ukulele Typewriter. I had heard rumors about them before, and they appear to all be completely true. They consisted entirely of two men singing and playing, respectively, the Ukulele and percussion on a typewriter. They did various covers which were all, frankly, hilarious, in this new form. The night was actually cold and I felt inspired by the laughter wandering into the streets out of bars. My new friends seemed wonderfully free and confident. I wanted to stay out all night with no plans at all. I wanted to say to someone, “Let’s see how far we can walk then walk before we collapse! Let’s go find a body of water and jump in, fully clothed!” Really, I wanted to say, “Let’s do something!” And someone to answer, “Yes!” And leave it at that. I wanted to give birth to plans. I wanted to fall in love with everyone I passed on the street. I have no idea why. It was probably the caffeine. I wanted to run and join every party in the streets. But I didn’t. Euphoria or not, I returned to my house. That’s just me, I guess.

As soon as I sat down in the living room, my head exploded with pain. It wasn’t a normal, throbbing headache, but straight, shredding hurt. I tried to sleep, the best cure for a headache by far, but nothing would come. Around 3 am I finally got up, dizzy and furious with my body. Lying down only intensified the pain. Moving made it worse. Drinking made my entire skull throb. I scoured the house until I found something , anything that listed ‘headache’ as a treatable symptom. I took it and sat in the dark of the study and waited for the nails to fade. My cat, of course, had followed me downstairs. At the end of the study, the huge, windowed doors I had moved a table through were closed, now. Behind them I could see Zelda and her kittens lying on the chairs I had set up earlier. Claudette saw them too.

I had worried about what she might think of seeing outside cats. She had been abandoned as a kitten, and since then had no interest at all in outside. In fact, she would avoid any open door once she realized where it led. I kept her completely as an indoor cat. I didn’t want her to think that she was stuck; that she was trapped. It was quickly obvious that she didn’t feel that way at all. She sat, ladylike, in front of the doors, watching the kittens with mild interest. I realized that I was looking at a tiny, fluffy version of myself. She was an observer, separate from the community she was studying. It didn’t bother her. She was composed, collected, and vaguely curious. It was strangely peaceful. I passed her quietly. She jumped up to follow me. She was happy enough to just go to bed. When I woke today, she was curled against my shoulder. I felt fragile but painfree. I drove to the stable and rode for two hours, burying the frailty under sweat and dust and bruises and sore muscles. I went home feeling completely, and perfectly healthy.

Tonight I walked home from the cafe, alone. I felt, as any girl does in this position, vulnerable. I often wonder if guys feel like this, or is it only us? Someone yelled from a porch, “Hey baby, you’re lost. The party’s right here!” I laughed at the line, strangely braver for it. I found myself hoping that I would find that boy in one of my classes; the tables turned, the power tipped. These are the sudden transitions between strength and frailty that define our lives; moving objects through space, facing our pain in hand to hand combat, winning, walking alone in the dark, finding home.

Inkhat Meets Mr Smoke Alarm

2009-08-20T19:23:00.000-07:00

Today's post is a comic. Enjoy!

Inkhat Contemplates Space Travel

2009-08-19T09:14:00.000-07:00

New black and white cat this morning. I’ve dubbed her Xena. I scared the tail off her by opening the blinds when she was leaning against the window. I felt mildly bad about it. But enough about kittens.

Let’s talk about something else. Let’s talk about space. Spending a great portion of my day unpacking has given me of time to think. That is to say, I usually think far too much about things without consequence. However, having no one else in the house to stop me, and nothing to do but move objects the distance between their box and their new shelf, I have thought a lot. A moment to comment on another kind of space. The only major problem I have encountered is that while the house has a great deal of floor space it has very little practical storage space, or at least none where I need it. For instance, the garage is almost entirely composed of shelves, but I need more room for my clothes and books. It is an interesting predicament, needing space where I have so much.

During this period of object in motion, being able to turn off my decision making centers, my mind has actually traveled the entire distance of the arcs of mad thought to the strange and colorful land beyond. It’s a strange place. There are teaparties of the mind. The sewn from pulsing neurons in the weird unlight . Also, unicorns, which are surprisingly not of the mind at all, but of the right elbow, precisely where I banged it against the kitchen counter yesterday. They were rather in a bad mood about it.

Where was I?

Oh right. Space. Two days ago, again in my ramblings to find internet I came across a queer and magical land called Donkey Coffee. It turns out that in this place they make one hell of a delicious mocha latte, and also have a bohemian and snobbish air about the rooms that borders on perfection. At the counter there were a variety of CDs priced from 5 to 10 dollars. I picked up one called Flyaway Saturn. On the back, song number 2 I believe, was entitled Hello Han Solo.

“Well,” thought I to myself, “I am certainly more than willing to spend 5 dollars to find out what that song is about.”

“Other than Han Solo, of course.” I reminded myself.

“Of course.” I agreed.

It turns out that the entire CD is amazing. I’ve listened to it on loop in the car or while unpacking for the past few days. Most of it focuses on space travel, which, some of you may know, is a personal favorite trope of mine. I recall a conversation with Max over coffee in which he expressed trepidation over the concept of space, while I felt mostly excitement. Perhaps, I hypothesized, to me space is proof of the presence of a God, and not only a God, but a God who wants us to go out to find him; has made an effort to illustrate that possibility. Think about it for a moment. We are, essentially, in a box, but a permeable one, granted with some effort. If you will, a box with air holes punched in. It is possible that we could have been created in a box with no holes at all. As it is, we can see the light through the lid. Actually, perhaps a better analogy would be a mason jar. That too, is flawed because we can leave, if we really want to, and make the effort.

Alright so, what we really are is a butterfly in an open mason jar on an island in the middle of an endless, rolling, briny sea. There is no way, no possible way, that butterfly will stay in that jar, or even on that island. There is no proof that there is anything in an direction but the silent, rolling waves. Yet, what are the chances the butterfly, or it’s butterchildren, will remain on that stretch of sand? That, I say, is the nature of space and space travel.

This is, essentially, where I am now. Stay with me here. It’s easy to stay in my house, while everywhere around me the unknown exists without my interference. It is easy to think I am alone, and to ignore the possible existence of other butter-folk, or moths, or heck, I’d take a wasp. Last night I got a call from the other grad students, and I met them at the bar. I think Flyaway Saturn put it best in “Taking a Turn.”

“We need a rocket ship right now.”

Inkhat Meets the Chocolate Poets!

2009-08-18T09:56:00.001-07:00

In my constant quest to find internet over the past few days I’ve spent probably more time than I should at café’s and book stores. The intelligent, responsible thing to do would be to go home and unpack. Instead I am wasting time at a book store which has, charmingly, named all its drinks after famous writers. I am currently half way through Sappho, who is apparently a cherry mocha. Have I mentioned love this town?

If I were being honest with myself I might see clearly that the real reason is simply that I feel sequestered and confined in the big house. Neither of my roommates plan to show before September, and a trip to visit the only two people in town only served to heighten my sense of otherness. Not that they weren’t lovely people. Actually, I hope we can become friends, but they, being married, had formed that sort of comfortable cocoon of intimate life. I am fairly familiar with this, having lived with couples before. Usually it’s charming and adorable. At this particular moment it served to remind me that the closest friend I have has whiskers and enjoys playing with a sock.

Not that my cat isn’t a good companion. I do worry, however, what she will think when she discovers the multiple strays living outside our house. I see them mostly at night and in the morning, when it’s cool. It’s a silver and white mother, and at lest two kittens. I saw her this morning looking for them. She was sitting on my back stairs calling. It seemed silent to me, behind a glass window, but I could imagine the sound she made. She looked very much like my cat, only opposite. She had silver wherever Claudette had white, and visa versa. Finally, a tiny stripped and spotted kitten erupted from the bushes and collided with her, full of that ecstatic adoration of family. The two wandered away together, rubbing heads and shoulders.

I decided that they each need names, if only so I can talk about them at length and annoy all the non-animal folk of the world. The tiny stripped and spotted kitten needs something dignified, to temper that wildness, and to adjust for a life begun in the dirt. Reginald I think. The mother, being a tough, lanky lion of a cat, needs something strong. After much deliberation, I decided on Zelda. I do not have proof of the other kittens, so I will name them as they come. I hope I am getting genders right, but I suppose I can be forgiven for some discrepancy.

And now, having completed all my excuses for leaching the internet, and Sappho having been drained of all her cherry/chocolate goodness, I have no more excuses but to walk back home.

Inkhat takes you to the Land of Yesterday!

2009-08-17T08:22:00.000-07:00

This is actually the post I wrote yesterday. I got up early to post it from an Internet café. Nothing of consequence has happened today. Stay tuned. Updates will be spotty until the Internet returns radiance and glory to my home.

Sunday:

And so, it begins. This morning I woke up to a phone call from my parents, who had helped with the final move the night before and now were staying in a nearby hotel. They wanted to have breakfast before they left. That was hours ago, so I imagine they are almost home by now and I am beginning to face the looming realization that there was no one in a radius of hundreds of miles who felt, even legally, responsible for me. No one who cares at all. This feeling was heightened by the fact that I discovered my new roommate had failed to keep up on the TV and the internet. It is remarkably upsetting. I feel horribly cut off from the world. I cannot stop imagining all the terrible things that could happen in my absence from information and how I would never know. I imagine finally turning on the TV and finding endless pictures of charred and smoking craters. I can’t even check the weather.

The weather, by the way, is hot. Hot. Hot. Hot. Hot. It is so hot Ryan Reynolds melted. What? I’m a girl. Shut up.

I find, however, despite the foreboding distance I have placed between myself and everything I have ever known, I like this place. I like the small, adorable town. I like that people smile back at me. I like that there are just as many small foreign cars as gargantuan trucks. I like that my cat seems to approve of her new home, playing on the stairs, running into the room to slide across the wood floor; giving me a heart attack by climbing in and out of the stair case railings, disappearing completely behind the whitewashed wood and reappearing with an unapologetic purr. I like that last night I feel asleep to the strange susurrus of Athens, a maddening combination of hundreds of cicadas and endless car tires over brick streets. Time and time again I woke as this noise reached a faint crescendo, convinced that someone was talking to me. It would fade and I would drift back through the uncomfortable midnight warmth, to sleep.

I spent the day unpacking, the details of which I will spare you. Suffice to say that my sense of hopeless banishment was only heightened by the heat of the day and the endless, endless pile of boxes.

I knew, eventually, when the temperature dropped to an acceptable level, I had to see my horse. I dragged him all the way down here, and I do not want him to feel abandoned.

I feel the need to defend the decision to bring a horse to grad school, as most people, especially those who do not own horses, will find it remarkably self centered and proof that I am completely spoiled rotten. Let me be clear, first of all, that I am ruling neither of these possibilities out. However, the facts of the matter are that my family has always accepted a lifetime responsibility for any pet we adopt. That means if we bring a cat, dog, mouse, snake, hamster, (and we have had all of these), or a horse into our fold, we have made a bond that the animal will have a home forever. So, we couldn’t very well abandon my best furry friend of 6 years.

I pushed for the decision to move him down with me because I was concerned that he would not be ridden enough. While I was an undergraduate, despite my urging everyone with paddock boots to jump on him any time, no one did. It may, and this is pure speculation, have to do with the fact that he is uncomfortable, slightly uncoordinated, bull headed, and overall difficult to ride, but I digress. Finally, I felt very certain that if I, myself, went two years without riding, I would die. I have ridden horses longer than I have done any other activity, save go to school. It’s as much a part of me as writing, as blue eyes, as an inclination to eat and breathe. Without it, that’s it. Me. Dead.

Of course, the super secret reason was that I was afraid of losing him. He is a 19 years old, Thoroughbred, designed to run and run and run, and then fall apart. I find myself sympathizing with Etain, from Karen Traviss’ Triple Zero, knowing that, inevitably, it will be me who loses him, and this loss is simply the design of the universe. Yes, that was a Star Wars reference. What? I am also a nerd. Shut up.

In any case, my mother reasoned that she could be paying board either way, and this way was probably best for both of us. So, here I am, in graduate school, with a horse. Not spoiled rotten. I swear.

Are you still there, dear readers? I am almost to the end of my day. Bear with me a little longer. Because, you see, this is the important part. Around 7 I pulled on a pair of boots and dripped to my car. It was still about 90, but it felt very cool. This should tell you just how hot it was. I pulled up to Pinnacle Farms, a lovely stable in Albany, about 10 minutes away from my house. My horse seemed agitated, but neither frightened or angry. He simply seemed upset that he could not be outside with the other horses on the farm. I’m afraid I insisted on this, since he is not used to being on grass all day. The last thing I needed was a sick horse. I brought him out and, in jumps and starts, managed to get him groomed and tacked. I found myself clumsy and lost in the new surroundings. I lost things, dropped them, knocked them over. I tried to stay calm, but I had about had it with feeling out of place. Finally, I climbed on and walked him outside.

A quick word is required on the geography of Southern Ohio. It is nothing like the north of the state. Here I am in the foothills of the mountains to the west. The land is dramatic; high and deep. Pinnacle Farms has an arena built on a high plateau and from here I watched the sun set behind the knotted forests. My horse moved as he had always moved, and I found myself adjusting to the familiar mobile of riding. Heels down. Shoulders back. His neck and ears up. His tail back and forth in the easy motion of flies. The sun sank and pulled the light off our shoulders. I felt the amazing calm of a human who knows what she is doing. This. I thought, is easy. I can do this. I can always do this. And just like that, I was invincible again.