Moby-Dick

I entered a library. A perfect one. It was dark and had a church-like atmosphere, as if it was some chapel used by historical nobility. All the books were old and dusty.

There was this guy named Ishmael there. He asked me if I had time to discover some of the secrets of the sea, and when I said I wasn't sure, he sat me down and told me he'd tell me everything he'd ever found, because I honestly didn't want to miss this.

He opened a leather-bound folder filled with yellow pages. Maps, diagrams, wax seals and inky sketches.

And yeah, he told me everything I'd ever need to know about whales.

And a few stories about this crazy adventure he went on when he was young. But mostly about whales. Because, obviously, whales are far more interesting than an insane ship's captain who bears a terrible grudge against a pale, haunting sea spectre who is rumoured to be more than just a fish.

Why would you want to know what happened to Captain Ahab and his crew, when you can learn about how whale oil is made? Sheesh. Oh, you'd like to hear what circumstances led to the Peaquod sinking forever beneath the waves now?

"You can't even spare a minute to hear me rant about how scary the colour white is? I shall teach you patience," Ishmael says. "Priorities, people."

And now, if I ever feel like going back in time to a whaling vessel, I will know exactly what to do. Well, kind of. I never did get how that whole harpooning deal went, despite Ishmael's up-in-your-face descriptions and Shakespearean soliloquies. 

I guess I'll just know to listen to the guy who got a coffee shop named after him, instead of chasing the creature who chomped off my limbs.

To Fangirl (verb. To have strong reactions to certain awesome things. Usually exhibited in teenage females).

If I need a reason for this post, here it is. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s7ya9pQzIcQ

So, I know I'm not a great blogger, but I'm kind of just doing this for fun, so whatever. I guess I'll just spew what's on my mind.

Apologies. I'm new here.

(If anyone has tips, I'm all ears. In fact, if you have tips, I'll take you to a planet where everyone is all ears.)

Anyway … I'm feeling really nostalgic right now, because I watched some Harry Potter fan-videos on YouTube. I'm so glad God gave us stories. And England.

Abandon ship. I'm swimming over the pond. I will use my psychic paper to get a passport. I will jump in the TARDIS to investigate a mysterious murder in Hogsmeade.

I've been feeling like this for a few days. Just desperate to get back to London.

Oh, what England has done for us.

Harry Potter! The atmosphere of it, the believability of every character, the twists, the turns, the surprises. The joy of everyday life with the golden trio, those heartwrenching, weep-like-a-baby times. Like when Harry announced he wasn't going back to Hogwarts for book seven, and your/our/my childhood gasped in shock.

Lord of the Rings. Fantasy at not only its best, but it seems, its truest. Pick up any fantasy book, and you'll find something from this trilogy. Right? It seems like it almost defines the genre. The scale, the detail, the epicness.

Doctor Who! Okay, so I'm a little bit abnormal to enjoy it so much. But I honestly think that if someone finds absolutely nothing that they love about this show, all that's happened is that they've seen the wrong episodes. Of course, that theory is pretty much defeated by my parents, who were even able to scoff at 'Blink' … but anyway…

Sherlock. You know what - just, the BBC. They're amazing. Steven Moffat. Mark Gatiss.

If you're not convinced, take a look at your bookshelf. Narnia. James Herriot. Shakespeare. 

Not to say that North Americans can't write and dream: Earnest Hemingway is my personal favourite storyteller. But the British have got something going on.

Take me away to that damp little island.

In the Rain

Now that my dad, like the proud parent he is, has shared my blog on Facebook, and I have become an internet-wide sensation -

Haha, yeah, right, me and my three followers.

No, I'm completely content.

It's hard not to be content when our backyard looks the way it does. Well, truth is it's always easy to be discontent about something. But the colours.

I profess to dislike spring, for a few reasons. It's such an in-between-y season, and adds more dreariness after the dull of winter. I mean, I like rain, but seriously. And - I don't know. So many people gush poetry about spring, that, like kittens, maybe it's something that I actually appreciate at my core, but that I've rejected because of how often people share pictures of it. And put watercolour paintings of it on cards, over some shallow, vaguely happy sentiment written in flowing cursive.

But, in the end, I will pet a kitten, and I will watch the spring colours in the rain.

And they're absolutley gorgeous.

(Not kittens.)

Because all of the trees around our yard are waking up under the clouds. And the birds are singing.

I noticed all this because Jon, my baby brother, likes watching the outside world, so I was holding him up to the open window. It cost us a sock of his, which took a daring tumble down the roof and is now in doomed to spend the rest of its days in the gutter, but I think the rainy view was worth it. And the sock is in good company. It has my beaded TARDIS and a kitchen spoon for friends.

The backyard really is a lot more amazing than you'd think, if you know our backyard. It's just a patch of moss. No, I'm serious. But the neighbours provide the vegetation, hanging over the fences - the family on the left has given us the gorgeous tree that recently snowed pink blossoms outside my window, and the family directly opposite has contributed two vivid green, spindly plants, as well as the bushy patch of purple leaves - a Red Maple, I think - popping up over the corner of the fence. And then there's the sky. People don't think about the sky much, but really, it's amazing. Especially at night.

Even though my favourite stars (the constellation of Orion, aka the Bowtie stars) left me a long time ago. They headed west. *Cue "Return of the King" ending scenes soundtrack*

Not the most entertaining of posts, but, uh ...
Okay, I'll go out with a bang.
A bang for nerds.
I'm getting a sonic screwdriver this evening - God willing, of course.
I'm so excited!

Parmesan Cheese

If it's Maggie's turn to set the table, it's usually obvious. You come down to dinner, and, instead of having the opportunity to nab a prime, bench-end seat, your place is assigned to you already. There's a napkin covering your plate, with your name and a heart scrawled in vivid marker across it. In a place that is decidedly not beside dad. Because the place beside dad is the seat to fight for, and the Youngers can't just go giving it away to Olders. Because the Olders - or this Older, at least - barely care where they eat, as long as there's elbow room.

Sometimes it's more subtle, though. I didn't really register the fact that Maggie was the architect of tonight's dinner layout until -

Well, there were crumbly parmesan cheese bits smeared on the tablecloth beside me. And beside Tim. And beside Nathanael. We started to dust them off, and somebody made a comment about the 'mess'. And mum explained (while Maggie glowed beside her) that Maggie had spilled cheese in one place, and wanted to make a pattern around the table.

Sure enough, there it was, beside every plate. Who needs plastic food for decoration? We've got the real thing.

Oh, and I made a blog today. Which is odd, and I'm still working out the technicalities of it. I have this weird little tic which makes me nervous about things I'm not entirely familiar with, or that I feel intimidated by, but happily it isn't bothering me right now. Also, something strange about this blog that I'm not sure who the audience I'm writing to is. Online friends? (In which case, should I have a separate blog for people I only know online? For privacy's sake and all the et ceteras of that?) People who already know me?
Or is nobody reading? Am I just typing into empty space?

Problems to be solved later on.