When the Swallows Return . . .

Our tour guide, Jim, talks about Fr. Junipero Serra, who founded the Mission

Last weekend my sister and brother-in-law came to visit SoCal, to stay with his grandparents in Laguna Niguel (about 30 mi south of Long Beach). I got to see them on saturday, and the three of us went down to San Juan Capistrano to tour the Mission. If that names rings a bell, you're probabaly thinking, "Isn't there a bird or something . . ." Yep. San Juan Capistrano is famous for the huge migration of swallows there every year. In mid-March, the swallows arrive from South America, thousands of them nesting all around the city. Then, in early to mid-October, they migrate back. But, most people wouldn't even know about that if not for the Mission.

The Mission was founded back in the 1700's by Fr. Serra, who basically walked there from Mexico. Priests were hardcore back then. The Spanish wanted to establish a foothold in the territory before somebody moved in to take it from them, and instead of sending a bunch of soldiers, they sent priests. Turns out this wasn't as cracked as it sounds; the missions those priests founded are still around today. Fr. Serra walked until he got to what would become San Juan Capistrano, met the natives that were living there, the Acjachemen, and set about building the mission and converting them. Within about a generation, the Acjachemen had become the Juanenos, and the Mission at San Juan Capistrano stood in the middle of the wilderness.

In the early 1900's, the Mission was in really bad shape, and Fr. O'Sullivan swept down on it and started to rebuild. He's the source of the Swallow Myth; he decided to get the Mission some press by calling up a radio station and telling them about the migration each year, getting them to come down with a reporter and turn it into a national event. Most people probably wouldn't have heard of the Mission, and it wouldn't be standing today, if not for Fr. O'Sullivan.

Swallow nests!

There's a graveyard near the back, and everyone buried there, with the exception of Fr. O'Sullivan, is Juaneno. There are thousands of bodies there in a relatively small area; they used to stack bodies vertically in those days.

The Stone Church is little more than ruins now, and has a tragic history: just a few years after its completion, a terrible earthquake levelled it in 1812. Unfortunately, the earthquake hit during mass, and on a feast day. 40 people died under the rubble, and they could not rebuild afterwards. Each year, on the anniversary, the Juaneno people come out to the ruins of the church and hold a memorial service at dawn.

It was a beautiful tour and an awesome day. If I ever get the chance, I'm definitely going back.

Fada an lá go sámh . . .

I'm having a pretty rough summer so far, missing my faeries.

I knew it would be hard to give up Bristol and the Fantastickals, but you never really know how hard something will be until you're in it. I've dealt with the loneliness of missing friends and family out here (and am still dealing with it everyday), but the particular loneliness of missing Faire is something separate.

Nine years ago, when I started doing Bristol, I had no friends. I have never been a person who makes friends easily; I keep to myself and don't let many people in. I'm not naturally gregarious or outgoing, and I don't really enjoy many social settings. When I started Bristol, I was enveloped in this nurturing environment and suddenly developed this huge circle of people around me. I was a part of something big, and I was loved and accepted.

Becoming a faery was a huge journey for me, as I've written extensively about on this blog. It was more than a physical transformation, much more, and setting it aside to come to California was difficult. But, I don't think I fully appreciated how difficult until now. Seeing the pictures starting to pop up on Facebook and the web cuts like a knife in a very deep part of me, and I feel divided from something that fulfilled me. A lot of people would say that I'm on to bigger and better things, but it doesn't really feel like that right now: it feels like being out in a huge place all alone, unhappy, treading water and waiting for things to get better.

I knew I would reach this point around now; it's been six months, and I warned my BFF B that when I got to this place and said "I shouldn't have come out here, I want to come home", that he was supposed to tell me no. I know I need to stick it out and hold on for better times. But I wake up each Monday with a stone in my heart, wondering why I'm here when the threads of my life are somewhere else.

I remember Sunday afternoons at Bristol. There was a quiet time some weekends, just before the joust ended. The Faery Glen was uncrowded, and you could sit against a tree, lean your head back against the bark, and just let the world wash over you. Yes, it could be sticky and hot and tiring; some patrons were rude, some days it was so crowded you could barely move and hardly think. But, I remember now the incredible moments of silence and grace, the wonderful children and moving experiences. The friends.

This weekend I sat inside, watching DVDs and writing. But mostly, I was wishing I was somewhere else.

Extra credit: the title is Gaelic: "Long is the peaceful day".

Legal!

I went to the DMV yesterday, and I am officially legal to drive around California now;) Technically, I was perfectly legal before; my IL Driver's License was still completely valid. But, it feels nice to know I'll be getting my California license in a few weeks.

I do need to say something about what I've learned from the experience:

1. Make an appointment. I'm not kidding. I was in and out in under 2 hours. People who hadn't made appointments had been sitting there when I arrrived, and some were still sitting there when I left.

2. Study the goddamned Rules of the Road book. Seriously. When I took the written test, everyone, with the exception of one other person ahead of me, failed the test. Everyone. It is not hard, people. I only got one question wrong, because I READ THE BOOK.

3. Don't overdo it on makeup and hair before you take your picture, or the DMV ladies behind the glass will roll their eyes and laugh at you. There was a girl before me who looked like she was going straight to a club after she left the DMV, and I could tell the women were not impressed. She also tried to give them a glamour shot, tilting her head and smiling in a "come hither" kinda way. To which the state employee, who had been sitting in her chair for probably six hours and was done with girls like this, snapped, "Look straight at the camera, lips together." She took two more shots before she was satisfied that the girl was following directions.

4. Follow directions. One kid was failed for checking his cell phone while he was waiting in line to have his test graded, since there are signs saying "no electronic devices" posted everywhere. The guy behind the window busted him, and made him take the test again.

All in all, I had a pretty smooth time of it, and I'm on to the next step: buying a car.

Dum, da dum dummmmmm.

By Any Other Name . . .

I went to the Southern California Renaissance Faire for the first time on Sunday. I was lucky enough to get invited by my friend, the Bristol costumer, who had gotten free tickets (score!). I had been warned by many, many people not to expect much, but I went into it opened minded. Every faire deserves the chance to prove itself;)

There were definite differences. The shape of the faire, for one, was a bit strange: I'm used to doing a circuit and having multiple little streets that lead off in various directions, whereas this faire is a long snake. The road could be cramped at times, and the paved roads were a little jarring (I found myself unconsciously keeping to the grass). The  "buildings" are all temporary structures, tents and plywood. A lot of the stage areas had hay bales for benches. It was also sectioned: if you were looking for food, it was all in a massive food court; clothing shops were grouped together, armouries, and so forth.

There were a lot of things that felt familiar, though. The stage shows. The parade through town in the middle of the day. Catching a court dance set (in a very small space!). Passing by their version of the Duck. And, the patrons were the same; you could have transplanted the whole group to Wisconsin without any alterations;)

I wouldn't say that SoCal was in any way better than Bristol. But, it wasn't worse. It was different and familiar, I guess. Bristol will always be home, I suppose, and I will always hold it dear to my heart, but SoCal was interesting, and I can see myself going back.

*As for the assertion that it would be impossible to have a Fantastickal troupe there: not true. I saw a lot of places you could plant faeries, and it is not as bereft of greenery as I had been led to believe. I think Fantastickals would do fine there;)

So Let Go . . .

That's a line from one of my favorite songs, from one of my favorite artists: Imogen Heap. In case you were wondering.

If you're new to this blog and don't read on a daily basis, or if you tend to skip over stuff that isn't crafty, then you've probably missed that the move out here was ridiculously hard. From planning to execution to the now day-to-day living in a strange place and doing things I've never had to do before, this has been a pretty big trial. Some days feel easier than others; the sun shines, things go right, and I sail through the day unscathed. Other days . . .

It's sort of like my car. I start her up and she fights each acceleration, each gear shift. She shakes and trembles and kinda hates it here. Some days just feel like a fight from the moment I get out of bed, pushing through each hour, counting them and hoping the day will soon be over, but feeling a bit like I've cheated myself to spend a day like this. I know I've only been here a few months, but there's a part of me that feels like I'm wasting time because I'm not doing what I came out here to do. Like I'm letting myself down.

This is one of those days when I want a fairy godmother. She would pop into existence, wave her wand, and magically I would find myself in the perfect place in my life, safe, loved, and secure. It's silly and not very enlightened, especially for someone who's fought so hard to be independent and prove she can make it on her own. But, on days like today, I just want to be pampered and cared for and not have to keep forcing my life to shift into the next gear.

I think I need some more Imogen Heap and a little iced chai.

A Place in the Sun . . .

So, this weekend saw several advances in my little world; none earth-shattering, but still exciting for me. My tax return came through, which means two things:

1. I can get a car to replace my ailing Serenity, so she can retire to that nice farm.

2. I can take care of a few small things around the apartment.

I'll be car shopping the weekend of the 23-24th, so I'm sure I'll blog more about that then. It promises to be an interesting experience.

As for the apartment: I now have a chair, which means that when people come over, they no longer have to stand around awkwardly. Yay! I'll be slipcovering it just as soon as I narrow the fabric choices down from about eleventy-billion. I also have a kitchen garbage can with a lid now, which disappoints Viola, as climbing into the garbage is one of her favorite pasttimes. I made a shower curtain and a kitchen curtain from some stuff I had lying around, and fabric is on the way for my living room curtains. I'm also close to having what I need to make my new bedding, so I won't look so much like a sad college student with no coverlet;)

I know these don't seem like momentous things, but for me, they're little steps towards making my place a home, the first home that's ever really been mine. It feels pretty nice;)

In the Dark . . .

via here

So last night I had my first real paranoid freak-out about being here alone. A series of probably unconnected events: strangers who knew my name calling out to me from a car, an SUV that seemed like it was slowly following me down the street, some random guy staring at me, all came together in my brain and nearly put me into full-blown panic. I got home, locked my doors and put the chain on, and sat in my little hallway, shaking and picturing someone climbing over my fence and busting through my window in the middle of the night.

I did the smart thing: I called my BFF, B, and he talked me down. I've always been cautious and aware of being a single woman, vulnerable to attack. When I walk after dark I keep my eyes open; I try to notice strangers who hang around a lot and I try to vary my routines. I know bad things can happen. But, I don't live with crushing panic all the time, no one could. Still, last night it was just the perfect storm of little things that blew up in my brain to make me afraid, and I hated it.

I will go home tonight and lock my doors again, and I will try not to feel afraid. But, I will feel better knowing I have a knife under my mattress now, even if I could not imagine ever using it.

The High Cost of the Freeway . . .

I'm learning a lot about the people in California from my commute with them everyday.

For those who live here, that probably just made you shudder. When I tell anyone here that I live in Long beach but I work in LA, they look at me like I'm crazy. I hit the 405 at 5:45am, and head home around 3:30, and it still takes close to two hours to get there. But, I'm finding it an interesting study in psychology.

For myself, I've become a bit of a crazy person, having conversations (or, rater, monologues) with Serenity as we go 15 miles an hour for 10 miles or so at a stretch. I'm glad people in other cars can't tell for certain that I don't have a Bluetooth in my ear; I could just be on the phone, right?

Then, there are the other drivers. I admit, I didn't drive a lot in Chicago; I was usually a passenger. Still, drivers back there aren't nearly as assertive/aggressive as they are here, and with good reason: they don't need to be. Take the logic of the 405: constantly narrowing and widening, if you don't pay attention, you may suddenly be forced to cross three lanes to get to where you need to be, and when it's slow-moving bumper-to-bumper traffic, that can get interesting. But, those people are only one type of driver out there, and probably the minority. There are plenty of others:

- there are the lane-hoppers, who are obsessed with going just a little bit faster, who will get in one lane, then change, then go back, all because one lane appears to be moving just that crucial bit more swiftly than the others.

-there are the just-plain-lazy: the "I need to get off, but I'm going to wait until the absolute last minute to do it" people that with butt into a lane literally feet before it ends.

-there are the "nervous tappers": people who will ride the bumper of the car in front and apply their brakes, at minimum, every three seconds.

-And there are the utter bastards who will start to let you change lanes, leave plenty of room as your turn signal blinks away, and then suddenly speed up to cut you off, forcing you to swerve back into your lane as they zoom past you.

I wish Serenity had a horn that worked; I've tried to use it a few times, but a feeble, tiny beep comes out and it just doesn't seem worth it. Some of these people really deserve something robust.

In a few months I will try to find an apartment in LA; maybe Santa Monica or Culver City, something much closer to my job, and to everything else in general. Until then, I'll keep compiling my research for my psychological paper entitled: "The Care and Feeding of California Freeways, or How the Real Pollution Comes from the Drivers".

Keep on Truckin' . . .

via We Heart It

So, I had planned to do a post this morning about the Victorian Ball I went to on Saturday. I was going to tell anecdotes about people I met, dresses I saw, and dances I danced. Instead, I spent the entire weekend inside, watching dvd's and staying dry (mostly), on account of Serenity, my car.

It's tough to describe the relationship I have with Serenity. Yes, she is named for the beat-up, broken down ship in Joss Whedon's Firefly, so if you're at all familiar with that seies, you already kow something about my car. For those who don't: Serenity is a '95 Chevy Cavalier with rust, a missing rearview mirror, 130,000 miles, and a constantly-on brake light. She's supposed to have automatic transmission, but I can feel her shifting at regular intervals. Her engine nearly overheats every single day on the 405. She does not like to go over 65, and she rattles and shakes at nearly any speed. She cost more to ship to California than she is probably worth.

The flip-side of that is that without her I go nowhere. She seems to listen to me when I give her pep talks: when her temperature gage is nearly at the H and we still have 7 more miles in stop-and-go traffic, I give her praise and encouragement, and watch the needle creep down a little. I can feel her moods in the pedals under my feet, and try to respond accordingly. I never yell at her, and tell her I'm going to retire her to that nice farm where cars go after they've lived a long life, to frolic with other cars.

I know that next month, much sooner than I intended, I will be shopping for a new (used) car. Serenity simply won't last much longer. I hope to find a nice dependable Corrola or a Beetle, that will run forever and not be rusting and peeling. But, there is a part of me that will miss Serenity, with her dinosaurs on the dashboard and constantly blinking floodlight indicator. Even when she makes me miss events I want to be at, she's got more soul than most cars, and she is my first. They say you never forget that.

The Lonelies . . .

The last few months here in California have been too stressful for me to notice any homesickness: between money woes, car woes, and job woes, I just didn't have any extra energy to think all tat hard about how far away I was from everyone I know. Now that I've started the new job (read: yay!), I am finally starting to realize just how lonely it is being 2000 miles away from everyone who loves you.

I've always been a person who enjoys solitude. I'm usually most myself when I'm alone, and I find moments of grace in the quiet afternoon sitting alone in a park or reading on a porch. I like setting my own schedule for things, saying at 3:00 in the afternoon on a Saturday that I'm going to go to the drug store, or for a walk, or showering at 2 in the afternoon. I like not having to consult a committee before making plans.

At the same time, I'm realizing just how seldom I really have been alone in my life, truly alone. One of the only periods I lived alone was my sophomore year in college, and that didn't have such great consequences for me. I guess I've wanted a life of solitude as a kind of exercise in the idea of it, while the practice has me sitting at home most nights watching DVD's on my laptop and going to bed at 8:30.

I really do miss being able to travel 40 minutes to see people, hopping on a bus or train or in a car and going to see friends, having plans every weekend, or just going to the mall with my sister. Now, if I'm shopping, there's no one to turn to and point out something funny, or tragic, or interesting. I can choose whatever movies I want to see, but there's no one to discuss them with on the ride home. I've never been much of a hugger, but I haven't been hugged by anyone in close to three months, and that's given me a whole new appreciation of them.

I know eventually I'll start making friends out here, but truthfully, I've never made friends easily. I think it'll be a long time before I have people to go places with, so I'm going to have to adjust my thinking and get used to the solitude.

It's not really a bad thing, it's just not all it's cracked up to be.

No Lost Slippers Here . . .

Next Saturday I'll be heading to the Social Daunce Irregulars Spring Victorian Ball, and yesterday I nearly finished a ballgown bodice to go along with my Money Dress skirts. I'm terribly excited to take pictures and show you all; this weekend I'll finish the bodice and probably dress the hairpiece, and if I get ambitious I'll dress up in the whole ensemble and take pics to post. Otherwise, you can be sure I'll be taking pictures at the ball next weekend!

Things are finally starting to look up! I have a new (stable!) job, I'm starting to settle into California, and I'm finally starting to get out and explore! I know I haven't been able to update the blog as often as I'd like, but I hope that'll be changing now that I'm back at a computer five days a week;)

Thoughts for Today . . .

 

I think that pretty much sums it up.

It's Our War Too!

I'll be attending the Great Los Angeles Air Raid of 1942 at Fort MacArthur on Saturday, and rather than go in one of my 40's dresses and hats, I decided to give myself a little challenge: go as a WAC.

Now, most of you reading probably have never heard of WAC's, and if you have, you may not know much about them. By the end of WWII, there were only around 95,000 WAC's, which represented a small percentage of those serving in the Army as a whole. But, there had never before been a Women's Army Corps, and every battle fought was a battle won.

The idea of women in the war was first introduced by Congresswoman Edith Nourse Rogers in 1941. It was largely ignored, and she reintroduced the bill in 1942, to scorn, anger, and ridicule. Her amendment suggesting military status for women serving faced especially harsh criticism from a mostly male Congress. They just couldn't conceive of women wanting to serve in the military.

However, it was soon realized that the Army needed women to relieve men who were going to fight overseas. In spite of all the many objections, the Women's Army Auxiliary Corps was formed in May of 1942. The WAAC received its own auxiliary military grade and their regulations were patterned after those of the army. But there were almost immediate problems with the lack of any real military status. WAAC's were paid less than half what their Army counterparts made and drew no overseas pay, and they had no protections if they became sick or were injured or captured. It took until July of '43 for the WAAC to be brought fully under Army jurisdiction, and that came at still more criticism and outcry. Still, on July 3 1943, the WAAC became the Women's Army Corps, or WAC. Auxiliary ranks were transferred to Army ranks, with the restriction that no WAC could ever rise above the rank of colonel, or have men under her command.

There were lots of restrictions and quite a bit of persecution for the WAC during the war. Uniforms were poorly designed and often ill-fitting, and new requisitions slow to come with women wearing the wrong size shoes or jackets often for months. Women could not, under any circumstances, serve in combat, and could not display any combat insignia on their uniforms. On top of this, a smear campaign was started in 1943 suggesting that WAC's were of low or questionable moral character, and this was picked up by the civilian arena and the collective consciousness. A WAC was up against quite a lot in order to serve in "This Man's Army".

In spite of difficulties, however, WAC's served and served well. By the end of the war, WAC Director Oveta Culp Hobby received the Distinguished Service Medal. Sixty-two WACs received the Legion of Merit, awarded for exceptionally meritorious conduct in the performance of duty.Three WACs received the Air Medal, including Sgt. Henrietta Williams, assigned to an aerial reconnaissance mapping team in the China-Burma-India theater. Ten women received the Soldier's Medal for heroic actions (not involving combat). One such incident occurred at Port Moresby, New Guinea, when an oil stove in the women's barracks caught fire and three WACs brought the fire under control by smothering it, sustaining severe burns in the process. Sixteen women received the Purple Heart, awarded during World War II to soldiers injured due to enemy action. The Bronze Star was awarded to 565 women for meritorious service overseas. A total of 657 WACs received medals and citations.


I look forward to portraying a Second Lieutenant on Saturday, and I intend to keep researching the WAC. Do your own research here:
Blitzkrieg Baby
History of the WAC

Miss Kitty Fantastico

I'm almost positive she belongs to someone in my neighborhood, but this kitty has taken to following me home and meowing plaintively for attention (which, of course, I give). She's very well-groomed and not skinny, so I know she's no stray, but she seems to have adopted me a bit. Every time she sees me now, she mews and runs over for love, following me along the fences leading up to my building, and into my yard.

Sigh. I wonder if Viola would tolerate a cat companion better than a rabbit? I dunno. But, I'm starting to think she's getting a little neurotic on her own, and needs someone else besides me to keep her company. We'll see. . .

My Sanctum Sanctorum. . .

Since everyone has been asking for it, here is a little tour of my new place. It's like the Batcave . . . only without any of the cool stuff, or Christian Bale. Seriously, though, it would be longer, but I would need a bigger place for that;)

Vlogging arrives!

Vlogging is finally here! I had to walk down to my local Starbucks to upload these (grr, T-Mobile, grr, grr!)but I was finally able to post them! They are not Shakespeare; they're not even particularly engrossing. But, this is me, this is my neighborhood, and these are my ramblings;) Enjoy!

A Spring kind of Winter . . .

Winter has always been tough for me: the cloudy days, the cold, the snow and ice, the relentless wind and wearing layers upon layers and yet still chattering my teeth. But, being out here, I feel like my core is unfolding like a lotus and I'm just smiley for absolutely no reason. The sun is shining everyday. You never need more than a light jacket.

I always knew I hated the cold, but I never realized how much I belonged here. I guess I'm really lucky I realized it now, and not after more frozen winters . . .

Fashioning Fashion . . .

I cannot tell you how excited I was to see that LACMA has this exhibit going on until the end of March. Roadtrip, y'all.

Color Me Happy . . .

 I just got some good news: I'm allowed to paint my place! In my mind, the possibilities are endless, and all that remains is choosing what colors I want. Should I choose a deep teal? It is my favorite color!

 Maybe a more mellow sky blue. Great for a beach place!

 There's always super-drama! I can totally see myself going for a bright pink or orange . . .

 . . . or even black. Still, I'd keep this as an accent wall, if anything.

  And, for the kitchen, I'm thinking red, orange, or yellow. I have blue tiles on the sink already, so I want something to coordinate with that.

I'm obviously very excited! Now, I just have to wait until I have money to buy paint . . . ;)

What do you think, dear readers? What colors should I choose?