Christina Bauer's Blog, page 92

Athena, the ultimate badass

I collect different female-centric myths. Athena’s one of my favorites, right up there with Isis and Ash Maiden (aka the original-slash-awesome Cinderella.)
Athena embodies female warrior energy. Her father Zeus is her opposite, male warrior energy. According to Carl Jung, male or female energy can inform the lives of men and women alike. I’m totally with Carl on this point, BTW.

A Verbal Detour on Zeus

Before understanding Athena, it may help to examine daddy-Zeus (it may not help too, but I’m doing it, anyway ) Although Zeus is a two thousand year-old god, he’s still a modern ideal of what it is to be male, arguably THE modern ideal.

Hold on, you say. No way is some old dude in a toga ANYone’s ideal for ANYthing.

But get this, I’d say. Zeus has the ultimate set-up. He wields the most powerful weapon in the universe–the thunderbolt–which he uses for his sole benefit. No nasty conscience to worry about or other people to take into consideration. He’s immortal, handsome, strong, and gets laid. A lot. If some chick doesn’t want to be his partner, he’ll disguise himself as a shower of gold, a bull, or her husband and…Mischief managed! (Can’t say the same for the unlucky girls; his wife Hera always hunts them and their kids down.) Call me crazy, but that might be a modern life-goal: get rich, powerful, and laid. I dunno.

I also follow Jung’s thinking that each archtetype (in this case, Zeus for male warrior energy) has both a positive and negative form. Overall, I really struggled with this concept until I started putting faces on those forms. For positive-Zeus, I like to picture the WWII General George S. Patton. Aggressive, loud, potty mouth. Incredibly inspiring and effective. Loyal to his wife, larger than life. In his negative form? Donald Trump. You know, the guy who yells ‘you’re fired’ whenever he chooses, without any seeming consequences. Who still runs a television show even though his stock price is in the toilet. A dude who lives the mask without any pretense of using his privilege for the greater good. Unfortunately, it’s this negative form that’s often over-celebrated today, IMHO.

PERSONAL NOTE: Apologies, Trump fans. What can I say? The guy’s public image bugs me. He’s probably really nice once you get to know him

Back to Athena

My favorite Athena-story tells how she got Athens named after her. Athens was (and is) a huge deal. It made ancient Greece, and ancient Greece arguably made modern culture. Here’s how things worked back then. Humans would start up a city, and then ask Olympus for a show of power so they could decide who to worship in their new town. For Athens, it came down to Athena and Poseidon. The showdown began.

Poseidon went first. Taking out his mighty triton, he struck down a giant mountain, cleaving it in two. A massive geyser of sea water erupted from the break in the rock. At this point, the citizens were pretty amazed, and were likely about to call the town Poseidon-ville.

After that, Athena took her turn. She stepped up to the now-geyserless cleft in the ground, dropped in a tiny seed, and from that spot grew a new kind of tree…The olive tree, which gave Greece the oil that made its trading fortune; the wood to make its famous sailing ships; and the only freaking shade in many parts of down. Athena won, hands down.

Now here’s the cool thing about Athena. She’s the only god or goddess who’s strong enough to wield Zeus’s thunderbolt (besides Zeus, of course) so she could easily have out-smashed Poseidon. But she didn’t. Instead, she went with a ‘screw you’ move that sealed the deal while showing what a smarty pants she was. Athena’s favorite hero, Odysseus, fought the same way: brains and brawn.

To me, Athena in her positive form is personified in real-life by Robert E. Lee. Say what you want about him, the guy is a gentleman, through and through. And the way he fought? All brains plus brawn. He divided his forces, broke the rules. Confounded an enemy many times more powerful than he was, again and again. And he did it all while looking fabulous in his fancy-pants uniform on his grey horse Traveller. Feared, loved, badass. But that’s reality. In the realm of storytelling, the positive Athena archetype is none other than Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV version), end of story. Insert long and loving ode to Buffy here. Oooooh, yeah.

How about the negative side of Athena? That’s easy peasy. Look at virtually every scheming woman baddie in any movie, comic book, or television show, ever. I’ll pick on Disney to make things simple. Mellificent. Cruella DeVille. Snow White’s nasty step-mom. All clever, ruthless, strong, evil. You know where I’m going with this, and since we’ve all been there too many times to count, I’ll stop the journey right now.

My Takeaways

In studying Athena, I realized three things. First, it seems mega-unfair that the dark side of female warrior energy is reviled while the dark side of male warrior energy is held up as some sort of life goal. Which leads me to…

Second, it strikes me that the folks this situation is MOST unfair to is…(insert drumroll here) the good guys. I mean, as a woman, at least I have reasonable role models. Good is good. Bad is bad. How much would it suck to be the good guy and still feel like you aren’t measuring up? Very sucky indeed.

And third, I realized that maybe it’s time for a publishing company which focuses on girls who kick ass, whatever their form. Fortunately, there are some brilliant folks out there who were thinking the same thing, including you, dear reader. Welcome to Ink Monster.

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On The Ideal Gentleman

Living in New England, you can’t help but notice our founding history. The red brick buildings, the tall ships, the Freedom Trail…
And, inevitably, the attempts to make our founding fathers look, well, more bolshy. One classic example is the NE Patriot’s logo.

Guess what? That look wasn’t what the original patriots were going for. At all.

IMHO, our founders thought that the perfect guy was polite, neat, well-read, could win a fair fight, and always worked towards the common good. He was gentle and a man at the same time. A gentleman. No one wanted to be a self-interested, uneducated thug. In other words, I think our founders would freak if they saw the Patriots logo. CAVEAT: this is not a put-down of my hometown team; they’re simply reflecting the modern ideal guy. Fierce, ripped, take no prisoners. A winner.

And damn, I can’t help but feel like that modern ideal is a real loss…For all of us.

Today, we often use the term gentleman only to describe how someone opens doors, but back in the day, it meant much more than that. For example, John Adams set a goal of reading a few hours of ancient Latin every morning before working on his farm, and chided himself when he failed to do so. That’s a gentlemanly concern. Sure, he probably opened the door for Abigail, but he also worshipped the ground she walked on and debated politics with her constantly. Again, gentleman. Alexander Hamilton knew how to duel (though not well, as he died in one against Raymond Burr.) The ideal gentleman could defend himself, his home, and his country. He was firm without being aggressive, fierce without being rude. Gentle and a man.

Not that every part of the old gentlemanly ideal was awesome. I don’t think they swore a lot, and that’s a fucking shame. Also, they could be a product of their age, or as Abigail Adams put it, “great personalities are forged on the anvil of adversity.” Perhaps the times did indeed make the gentlemen. If George Washington were born today, he might be doing the rounds on reality TV, barely able to string a coherent sentence together.

And that’s possible, but…nah.

I’ve met many a modern gentleman, most recently at Starbucks where one watched over my temporarily-abandoned computer without being asked. It strikes me as a disservice that these awesome guys weren’t born a few hundred years ago, when their traits would be celebrated as perfection. Today, I fear they too often get the message that they don’t measure up. That they should be more aggressive, action-oriented, and bolshy. That the gentle, contemplative life of service to your family and country is uncool, old fashioned, and maybe even a bit of a joke.

Which, of course, is total bullshit.

To these fine men I say: stay you, hang in there, and don’t change. We have a male ideal right now that’s so extreme, it’s bound to rebound one of these days. It’s the law of social gravity, if nothing else. And, for what it’s worth, you’re always the ideal in my book(s.)

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Book Review: MR CHURCHILL’S SECRETARY

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Why Ash Maiden (aka the Original Cinderella) Kicks Ass

When I was nine years old, I got my hands on a copy of Grimm’s Fairy Tales from the 1890′s. It had a pretty red embossed cover; it had lovely woodcut illustrations; it had gruesome stories that were freaking terrifying.
I loved it instantly.

Thanks to this wonderfully nasty book, I got to know the original fairy tales in all their pre-Disney horror. Few of the stories had happy endings. Snow White, for example, was a dumbass who kept taking obviously-dangerous gifts from her stepmother until a pair of shoes danced her to death. The moral? Use your brain, twirp. There won’t always be a huntsman around to save your pretty face.

Ash Maiden was one of the few tales that ended well, but for one simple reason: Ash Maiden (what was later Disney-fied into Cinderella) worked her tuchus off…And not in the ‘sweeping the floors with happy rodents’ way that we think about today. Yeah, you read that right. Ash Maiden’s main challenge in life was NOT boring chores, her mean step-mother, or ugly step-sisters. Bizarre, huh?

Here’s the shocker (to me anyway): in the original story, Ash Maiden’s big problem was that she lost her mother and had grief work to do. And no, I am not kidding.

Don’t get me wrong; our lovely lady worked hard. She was forced to sleep in the ashes and given a not-so-clever nickname. But Ash Maiden didn’t weep every day because she had chores to finish or teasing to endure. She cried because she missed her Mom. It was mourning that drove Ash Maiden to plant a seed in her mother’s memory. Every day, she’d find time to be alone and cry, her teardrops falling on the tiny seed until, bit by bit, it grew into a massive tree.

SIDE NOTE: This is something I totally-otally love about the original Grimm’s fairy tales. No easy answers. People had to empty lakes with thimbles, stay trapped in animal-form for centuries, or cry on a seed until it grew into a huge goddamn tree. Got problems? Shut up and grab a thimble, bitch.

Back to the story. For those of you who’ve lost a loved one, you know what Ash Maiden was going through at this point: the valley of the shadow of death, one tear at a time. And Ash Maiden’s ball gown? Fell out of that freaking tree, along with her famous shoes. In that tree perched a bird that led her to her Prince. There was no fairy godmother, no quick fix. It was this young girl’s unflinching bravery in facing her sorrow that brought about positive change in her life.

And that, IMHO, is what kicking ass is all about.

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BOOK REVIEW: Hidden Wings

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TEST: What Kind of Geek Are You?

Today, the geek label is anything but, well, geeky. Heck, there’s even a ‘fake geek’ backlash against pretenders. Not sure which one(s) define you? Find out with this simple test.
For each question, select the best answer, then tally your responses using the chart below.

Question A

Right now I have:

At least one game on preorder.
Five or more books on technology (hardware, software).
Tons of ideas for a new creative project or company.
At least five books in one ‘the world’ of something I’m a fan of (Star Wars, Buffy, Mortal Instruments).
Five books on a single subject area not listed above.
Not sure how to answer this one.

Question B

Of the following, I consider the most kick-ass achievement to be…

Finishing a new RPG or other game faster than anyone else in the world.
Getting a patent on new hardware or software I designed.
Winning an award for something I created (drawing, article, company).
Having dinner with the ‘guru’ of my favorite fantasy world (such as George Lucas for Star Wars).
I have another guru I’d love to meet, but not in a fantasy world.
You totally lost me there.

Question C

When I think of the web, I think:

Group play.
SAAS.
Time suck.
Of my favorite fan site.
Of another site with information I love not related to my job (science, nature, fashion) that I visit daily.
Starting to wonder if I should have taken this test.

Question D

Typical lame adult comment when I was growing up:

Turn off that computer, go outside and play.
Why did you take that apart? (remote, radio, frog)
Get your head out of the clouds.
She’s a little obsessed with [POP CULTURE ICON] now. She’ll grow out of it.
She’s a little obsessed with [SOMETHING ELSE] now. She’ll grow out of it.
I know other kids who’s parents said stuff like that, but I didn’t necessarily hang out with them.

Question E

I used to (or still) collect:

Game manuals and cheat site URLs.
Good hacks.
Things I could use someday for a project (articles, pictures, pieces of string).
Stuff related to my favorite world (Harry Potter wands, Hunger Games books).
Lots of stuff, just not something that’s listed here.
Starting to wonder if this is a good use of my time.

Question F

If you don’t tell me to stop, I’ll talk for hours about:

Great game cheats.
The future of hardware and software.
My latest project.
What I’m wearing to Comicon.
This great convention I’m going to for fun.
Nuthin’. I’m more a listener.

Scoring:

Whichever response number you chose the most often (be it 1, 2, 3, 4, or 5), then that’s your primary geek type, although it’s awesome to resemble more than one! The test’s author is a major Dreamer with a side helping of Expert.

Did you answer ‘1’ the most?

Then you’re a Gamer. You follow forums, know your best game times cold, and only turn to cheat sites as a last resort. Your bookshelves are filled with game guides and related figurines, all lovingly positioned and cared for. According to the latest research, you’re also smarter than the average bear with advanced reasoning skills. Go you, gamer.

Did you answer ‘2’ the most?

You’re a Tech Guru. No one had to tell you that technology was your thang. Whatever it was that caught your attention—whether computers, software or gadgets—those lovelies called to you, kept you up nights, and sucked up your extra pocket cash like a hoover vacuum on cat hair. Find another geek with your area of interest, and you either have a best friend (or new enemy) for life.

Did you answer ‘3’ the most?

Hello, Dreamer. You don’t so much have your head in the clouds as your mind focused on building something new. You love turning ideas over, figuring out the angles, and seeing how things can work in new ways. Where other people ask ‘what’s everyone else doing,’ you’re fine-tuning your master plan to take over the world. Because that’s how dreamers really roll.

Did you answer ‘4’ the most?

Then you’re a Fan Girl or Guy! You’ve found something you love and, dang, you own that world like a boss. You’ve got the books, the special edition DVDs, and the awesome cos play (that’s costume play for the uninitiated). Plus, you know the right sites to check for insider information. Keep living the fandom dream, cuz.

NOTE: Because I’m a nerd, I must point out that not all fans maintain dual citizenship with the greater land of geek. Read here about when the coolness of fandom crosses into the sublime state of geekery.

Did you answer ‘5’ the most?

In that case, you’re an Expert. You know an assload about a particular area, but it’s not one that falls under a mainstream fandom umbrella. I’m talking late-era Victorian jewelry, miniature schnauzers, or obscure ways to pimp your Harley. You own your area like a boss and can talk its intricacies for hours/days. You do this because you love it, although if you love it and it’s your day job too, then you’ve reached geek expert nirvana.

Did you answer ‘6’ the most?

Sad to say, you’re not primarily a geek…yet! That doesn’t mean you aren’t totally awesome in other ways, nor does it mean you can’t grow into your geeky-ness.  Many gateway geek experiences include a love of video games, comic books, and any movie where the special effects budget tops $100M. Find what works and follow your inner geek!

What kind of geek are you? Post your particular flavor of cool in the comments below…

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Fans v Geeks v Nerds

Lately, I’ve been contemplating the difference between fans, geeks, and nerds. What can I say? As an avowed geek with a brain that won’t shut the fuck up, these things happen.

Here’s what I’ve come up with. Fandom is a summer fling. Intense. All consuming. But in short order, easily forgotten. The guy you adored and then, two years later, you don’t know how that weird t-shirt ended up behind the couch. On the other hand, geekdom is true love. Life changing. Never ending. Makes you do things you never thought you’d do. My own areas of geekdom include Star Wars (the original trilogy only, and in the original theatrical release only), LOTR, myth collecting, and some of the Doctor Who canon. It used to include Lost, but the last episode killed it for me.

Which brings me to nerds. After much thought, I’ve come to the conclusion that nerdy-ness is being socially awkward without meaning to. This is WAY different from the hipster concept of ‘being first to like something,’ as in ‘it’s not cool now, but wait and see.’ It’s also not the same thing as always being ‘on trend’ with a few geeky interests to show a non-conformity to cool. That’s still careful cool-nurturing, and if you can do it, go you. But nerdy-ness requires the complete lack of knowing you made a mis-step, which is not necessarily tied to giving a crap about the mis-step in question.

Case in point: writing long blogs about nerdy-ness is quite possibly a nerdy move. I don’t really know, and that makes me a nerd.

All of which leads to the mac daddy question (to me anyway): Can you be a geek without being a nerd? After much contemplation, I have decided that the answer is a definitive ‘no.’ Geekdom means you care so much about something, you can’t help but be a nerd–as in outrageously socially unacceptable–in order to celebrate whatever it is you randomly adore.

Fellow geeks, you know what I’m talking about here. This is stuff like attending a key Halloween party in an ill-fitting, home-made Sailor Moon outfit because you couldn’t imagine going as anything else. Or going toe-to-toe with an uber hottie about a particular point of geek lore (how can you not love Tom Baker as the Doctor?), even though it flies in the face of your base instincts for achieving good-looking offspring and hot sex.

In the words of Nick Hornby’s About a Boy, it’s about singing with your eyes closed. That’s love, and IMHO, that’s what being a geek is all about.

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Angelbound: Read Chapter 3 here!

Chapter Three


(Read Chapter One here)
(Read Chapter Two here)

The entire ride home, Cissy fiddles with Betsy’s radio and grills me about every millisecond of my interaction with Zeke. It’s amazing how many details she thinks are important. ‘Did he look directly into your eyes when he asked that question?’ ‘Were his arms crossed over his chest like this?’ And, of course, there’s the ever-popular ‘Did he ask you about me?’ When I run out of answers, I start making stuff up. It’s easier that way.

Cissy’s eyes flare with a bit of red. “Did he give you his smoldering look?” She’s created an elaborate filing system for Zeke’s goo-goo eyes. Blech. This boy-crazy crap makes me a little nuts. Not only because it’s dumb, repetitive, and a total waste of time, but also because part of me wishes I’d felt that way. Maybe once.

“Smoldering look.” I smack my lips. “What do you mean?”

Her eyes blaze red. “You know exactly what I mean. He gives you that look all the time. Zeke so likes you and you could care less. It’s not fair.”

I grip the steering wheel tighter and brainstorm ways to change the subject. There are two Cissys. One is my sweet friend with a big heart who can’t help but take care of oddballs like me. The other’s an obsessive nut job who goes demon-eyed with envy over whatever’s the object of her desire. Like Zeke. “Put the brakes on your inner demon, Cissy girl. Do you want to miss this chance?”

“What chance?” Cissy slumps into the seat, kicking her foot onto the dashboard. “You’ll be at the party too. Let’s be honest. He won’t notice I exist.”

“Hey, now.” I can’t stand to see Cissy so down on herself. “This is like…like…”

Cissy frowns. “Like what?”

“Well, it’s like fighting a Cellula demon. Do you let its projectiles wrap around you until it squeezes you to death? NO!” I pound the steering wheel with my fist for emphasis. “You reach inside the membrane and pull out its nucleus!”

The edge of Cissy’s mouth quirks upwards; her eyes return to their regular tawny brown. “I’m not exactly sure what you just said, but I think it was something like ‘don’t give up?’”

“Yeah.” I whack the steering wheel again; I’m on a roll. “Who lives in the one house in Purgatory that can get any kind of dress, make-up, or hair goop in the five realms? YOU. If Zeke’s what you want, sitting in the car and moping isn’t going to get him for you. Get your Barbie on and knock his socks off.”

Cissy sits up, her mouth rounding into a full grin. “You know what? You’re absolutely right.”

“Damn straight, I’m right.” I pull the car into the driveway and kill the ignition. Betsy’s engine kicks with a loud thump. “Now, let’s chow down on some Demon bars.”

Cissy pumps her fist in the air. “Huzzah!”

I park the car, walk through the front door, and update Mom that Cissy will be here for the rest of the week, talking non-stop about Zeke’s party on Friday.

Mom perks up immediately. “A party in the Ryder mansion?” She opens different kitchen cabinets, pulling out ingredients for chocolate chip cookies. Whoa, that’s unexpectedly awesome.

“Yup.” Cissy twirls one golden lock of hair around her finger. “I don’t know what I’ll wear.”

Mom hauls the mixer out from its hiding place above the fridge. “I have an old contact at Versace. I’ll write the name down for your parents. They’re great at whipping up something special on short notice.”

I slide into my favorite seat at our kitchen table (the one with the perfectly-sized back-hole for my tail) and watch Mom putter around the kitchen, a rare smile on her amber face. Since when does she know anyone at Versace?

“Thanks so much, Momma Lewis.” Cissy draws circles on the tabletop with her finger. “Want me to get something for Myla, too?” She looks expectantly from me to my mother.

“Nonsense!” Mom juts out her chin. “I attended my share of diplomatic events back in the day; I saved all my dresses. I have the perfect one for you, Myla!”

My face stretches into a sly grin. “All this talk about diplomatic events must remind you of someone.” As in my father. I shoot her a look that says ‘this is me, not giving up.’

Mom gathers up my long auburn hair, piling it at different angles atop my head. “We’re not talking about that, Myla.” She lightly pinches my cheeks to turn them blush-red. “I know just what we’ll do with your hair and make-up too.”

I pause, biting my lower lip. Versace, diplomats, parties at the Ryder mansion…Do I push for the millionth time for information about my father?

Cissy sighs. “If you’re starting one of those ‘who’s my dad’ fights, I’m going home.”

Mom keeps fussing with my hair. “I’m not fighting.”

I drum my fingers on the tabletop. “Okay, you don’t want to talk about Dad. Maybe you can talk about your diplomatic work? What were the events you attended at the Ryder mansion?”

Mom hums a nonsense tune, twisting my hair in different angles. “I never answered these questions before and I won’t start now.”

I let out an exasperated gasp. “Come on, Mom! This is so unfair. Can’t you tell me one little thing?”

Cissy thunks her forehead onto the tabletop. “No way! This sounds like a ‘who’s my Dad’ fight plus a ‘what did you do before the war, Mom’ battle. Can I please save us all some time?” She sits upright, making her two hands talk to each other like puppets.

Cissy’s first hand ‘speaks.’ “Mom, I really want to know who Dad is.” Cissy gives me a very whiny voice. We’ll have a chat later about that.

Her second hands ‘replies.’ “No.” Her mom voice is totally grouchy and right on the money.

‘My’ hand: “What did you do before the war?”

‘Mom’s’ hand: “I can’t tell you.”

“Not one eensy beensy bit?”

“No.”

“But I really, really want to know.” Cissy’s puppet-Myla jumps up and down.

“No, no, no, no, no. Now, go to your room and ask your friend to go home.”

Cissy stands up, taking a bow. “Thank you, thank you! Show’s over.” She plunks back into her seat. “Now, can we talk about the party?”

I set my hands over my face. “No.” She’s not charming me off the subject this time.

Cissy gently moves my hand until I peep at her between my fingers. “That’s not my Myla.” She shoots me a sweet grin.

I try to pout, but I slowly smile instead. Once again, Cissy knows exactly what to say to get everything back on track. No doubt our school will be overrun with moths in a matter of weeks, too. I drop my hands. “Fine, let’s talk about the party.”

Mom grins as well. “Absolutely. I was saying I could do your hair and make-up.”

“I can do my own hair and make-up, Mom. But if you can find a dress for me, that would be awesome.”

“And shoes too,” adds Cissy.

“Of course!” Mom sashays from the room; I hear the pit-pat of footsteps in our attic crawlspace. The rest of the afternoon, Mom pores through old boxes while humming a tuneless song. Meanwhile, Cissy and I actively avoid homework by watching the Brady Bunch marathon on the Human Channel.

All in all, a good day.

***

A bony finger pokes my bare toe. I peep out from under my comforter, seeing Walker at the foot of my bed.

“You are called to serve.”

I glance at my alarm clock. “It’s 5 AM, Walker.” And tonight is Zeke’s party. “This makes it twice in one week.”

Walker shrugs, rubbing his sideburns with his bony hand. From the other side of our ranch house, I hear Mom nervously clunking around the kitchen.

I roll over and stare at Walker out of my right eye. I know there’s no way out of this (not to mention that there isn’t anything else I’d rather do with my morning), but that doesn’t stop me from giving him a hard time. “Couldn’t find anyone else, eh?”

A smile tugs at his mouth. “No.”

“In that case, I guess I could go.”

Walker steps toward the door. “Don’t worry, there’s another fighter that I could–”

I jump in front of him, blocking any exit from my room. “Don’t you dare!”

Walker smiles. He really is way too handsome for ghoul. “So, you will fight?”

I punch him in the upper arm. “You know it, slim.” I speed through getting dressed, stuffing my face with cereal, and passing my morning interrogation with the Maternal Grand Inquisitor.

Walker steeples his hands under his chin. “Time to go, Myla.”

“Finally!” I clear my throat. “I mean, let’s go.” I’m totally pumped to have two fights in one week, but I don’t want Mom to have an aneurism. I give her a quick peck on the cheek. “See you later.”

She grips my shoulders. “Be safe, Myla-la. You’re all I have in the world.” She sniffles. “If I lost you…”

“No worries. I’ll be super incredibly safe. Bye now.” I grab Walker’s hand and almost run through the portal. It doesn’t matter how many times I do this, it always makes me sick to my stomach. When I step out onto the Arena floor, my head feels a little loopy too.

Fighting the fog in my brain, I inspect the grounds around me. Beside me stands Walker, Sharkie, XP-22, and good old Sheila, the Limus demon. As I struggle to focus, my fuzzy mind misses the procession of demons and angels into the stands. By the time my head clears, Sharkie’s ready to announce the match.

“Demons and angels!” The emcee’s deep voice echoes through the massive Arena. “I bring you another spectacle of efficiency in ghoul administration of Purgatory.”

At this point, a roar would typically erupt from the Arena’s demon population. Instead, there’s perfect silence. I scan the stadium; Armageddon sits unmoving on his ebony throne. His red eyes glow brightly; his thin mouth is set into a frown.

Sharkie eyes the stands carefully, then gestures to the dark balcony. “I would ask the greatest general in history to say a few words before the match. Armageddon, if you please!”

The demon lord swings his leg over the arm of his black throne, his scarlet eyes scanning the crowd with pure malice. “I have nothing to say to you.”

Okay, that’s weird. Normally, these matches start with a mutual love-fest between Armageddon and the ghoul hierarchy. Things seem oddly icy today. I rub my neck and yawn. Or maybe my brain hasn’t woken up yet.

Verus rises to her feet. “I’d like to say a few words.”

Sharkie stares at Armageddon for a long moment, his jaw hanging open. Verus never speaks at these events. Sharkie bows to her. “Uh, yes. Please.” He snaps back into emcee mode. “Ghouls, demons, and angels! You all know Verus as the Oracle, the only angel with the gift for seeing the future. What would you like to share with us today? A prediction for the match?”

Verus takes to her feet, her great wings extending. “We angels can’t help but notice that the Scala is getting on in years.” Her gaze rounds on Armageddon, a sly look twinkling in her eyes. “It is time the Scala Heir was announced and brought to these matches.”

I gasp. There hasn’t been a Scala Heir for ages. I’ve heard the stories, of course: at any point in time, there’s one Scala and one Scala Heir. Of all the creatures across the five realms, only these two mortals have the blood of a human, demon, and angel. My tail arcs over my shoulder, ready to strike. Somehow, Verus bringing up the Scala Heir sets my warrior instinct on alert. Bad mojo.

Around the top lip of the stadium, the Oligarchy turn their heads in unison toward Verus. They speak in one voice, the sound a mix of low rumble and hiss. “We have no need of a Scala Heir.”

Verus slowly wags her head from side to side. “The Scala is powerful, but he is mortal. That’s why there’s always been a Scala and a Scala Heir. We haven’t seen an Heir since Armageddon’s War.” She folds her arms into her long white sleeves. “The angels appreciate these matches as a demonstration of efficiency, but how effective is your administration without an Heir?”

Armageddon snaps his long black fingers. A red-skinned demon with horns and a pitchfork steps up to the greater demon’s side. “Where’s the Scala Heir? The thrax we caught at the border to Hell?”

The red demon swallows. “Dead, my lord.”

Armageddon’s eyes flare red. “Why?”

“You thought him insolent, my lord.”

The King of Hell scratches his cheek. “Ah yes, I remember now.” His mouth curls into a sickening grin. “He died very well indeed.”

I shiver. ‘Very well indeed’ means he came up with something especially creative and painful. Oy.

Armageddon gestures to Verus. “There’s been no Scala Heir for nearly twenty years. Why question it now?”

Verus bows her dark head. “We deem the time ripe.”

“Whatever are you up to?” He drums his long fingers on the armrest of his throne. “Is there a prophecy involved?”

“To an Oracle, there’s always a prophecy.” Her eyes flare bright blue. “Answer my question. The Scala Heir.”

“We’ll find the poor sod.” He leans forward, setting his bony elbows on his knees. His eyes narrow as his stare locks with Verus’s steady gaze. The air becomes charged with strange, oppressive energy. My chest tightens.

Armageddon’s eyes flare bright red. “It’s about time I made another Scala Heir suffer.”

The word ‘suffer’ echoes strangely about my head. In my mind’s eye, I see a man with mismatched eyes and jet-black hair. He’s a burly powerhouse of muscle, covered in blood and screaming. I don’t know why, but I feel certain he’s the last Scala Heir. My knees turn watery beneath me. A heavy patch of clouds roll past the always-gray sky, darkening the Arena.

Somehow, Walker is at my side, his hand set about my shoulder. His arm is lean and roped with muscle, stronger than I would have expected. “What’s wrong Myla?”

The man’s screaming face fills my mind. “You don’t see it?”

“No, Myla. You’re catching energy from Verus and Armageddon. Sometimes, it causes hallucinations.” He scans the skies. “Just a few seconds more.”

Verus inspects the crowd with ice-blue eyes. “Let the games begin.” She wears a satisfied smile as she slowly resettles into her white stone throne.

“So be it.” Sharkie thumps his staff onto the ground. The sky lightens, my legs become solid beneath me again. What the Hell is going on?

Walker releases his hold on my shoulder. “Alright now?”

“Yeah, thanks.” I suck in a few deep breaths. “What was all that? I felt like I’d pass out.”

“Battle of wills between Verus and Armageddon. I felt it too, but not to the point of seeing any visions.” Walker wraps his hand in mine. His skin is warm and comforting. “You need to prepare yourself to fight, Myla. They’re about to summon the soul. Can you do that for me?”

I give his hand a squeeze and crack my neck from side to side. “Hells, yeah.” With each passing second, more strength pours back through me. “Bring it on.”

Walker grins. “That’s my girl.”

Sharkie thumps his scythe again. “We summon the soul for battle.” A ghostly woman materializes beside him. Wiry and thin, she has slightly hunched shoulders and frizzy gray hair down to her waist. A constellation of scars covers her swollen face.

The human woman quickly raises one arm, pointing to Sheila. “I choose her.”

Sharkie pauses. “So, you choose trial by combat?”

“Yes,” the woman says quickly. “And I choose the green demon.”

The emcee gestures toward me, Walker and the other ghoul. “You three must depart.” Turning to the woman, Sharkie adds: “And you must prepare for battle.” The human nods, bows slightly to the Limus demon, and crumples onto her knees. From the way her shoulders shake, I’m pretty sure she’s crying.

I follow Walker into one of the Arena’s archways, anxiety curling its way across my shoulders. That scene back there is just plain wrong in so many ways. Once inside the shadows, I stare at the ground, only vaguely aware of Sharkie reading the rules of combat.

I turn to Walker. “This has got to be my weirdest day in the Arena. First, there’s all that stuff about the Scala Heir and a weird power struggle between Verus and Armageddon. Second, I’m yanked out of bed to fight some old human who’s sitting there crying? I only go up against the worst of the worst.”

“There’s nothing I can say.” Walker’s gaze meets mine, his black eyes glistening in the pale light. “You’re precious to me, Myla.” He raises his hand and presses it to my cheek. His skin is warmer than I expected.

Realization slams into me. “You know what this is all about, don’t you?” I wrap my fingers around his hand. “Tell me.”

“I’ve watched Verus for years. I know how she thinks.”

“And how’s that?”

Walker frowns. I know Mom bullied him into telling me zero about himself. But he does more with his life than ferry me back and forth to matches. He must know something about what really happened today.

He drops his hand. “I’ve said too much already.” Turning on his heel, he starts to walk away.

I block his path. “Tell me what you were going to say. I promise I won’t press you for more. I know you made some kind of promise to my mother.” I stare into his liquid black eyes and hope with everything in me: please, tell me something.

Relief washes over Walker’s face. “I can say this. I believe you impressed Verus with your defeat of the Choker. She’s taken an interest in you now. She specifically requested you come to the Arena today, but I don’t think it was to fight.”

“Why then?”

“To hear about their search for the Scala Heir, perhaps. But definitely to see this.” He gestures to the open archway to the Arena floor. The human still crouches on her knees, sobbing quietly. Sheila closes the distance between them, green saliva dripping from her gaping mouth.

Waves of red-hot anger rip through my body. Every fiber of my being says that woman should not be killed and sent to Hell. I just know it. “That’s wrong, Walker.” My eyes flash demon red. “Why isn’t that woman going to Heaven?”

“Some souls believe they deserve Hell, even if a trial would send them to Heaven.” He shakes his head from side to side. “Under the old regime, quasis would never have allowed this human to choose trial by combat.”

And she’d be going to Heaven right now. A hollow feeling creeps into my bones. She’s purposefully losing the battle so her soul can be consumed in Hell.

On instinct, my back arches. My toes dig deep into the dirt, preparing to run. I scope out the distance from my spot to the woman’s. I could reach her in seconds. She doesn’t belong in Hell. I won’t let it happen.

I’m halfway out the archway when Walker yanks me back. “What are you doing, Myla?”

I shake him off. “It doesn’t seem right. Maybe I can grab her–”

“And get torn apart by a thousand demons.” He wags his head from side to side. “That would help no one.”

My voice catches in my throat. “Isn’t there anything I can do?”

“Not at this time, I’m afraid.” He scans the Arena, his gaze resting on Verus. “But soon, maybe. I believe our angel allies have a plan to give Purgatory back to your people.”

My heart kicks into overdrive. Purgatory free? Armageddon and his cronies gone? Count me in. “What will they want me to do?” I slap my palm onto my forehead. “Of course, that’s more than obvious. Fight.”

“Most likely.” He sighs. “But with angels, you never know for certain until it’s too late.”

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My favorite female myth: Isis explained

Some people collect stamps, others old photographs. I collect myths, and I really dig ones that explore female energy. For the record, female energy can inform the life of a man or woman.
As Jung called it, this is the anima.
Or, as some others call it, this is a bunch of hippy-dippy bullshit, but I happen to find it fascinating and informative. And since you’re still reading, I’m guessing you find it interesting, too. So, without further ado, I’ll share a bit about the myth of Isis, the most kickass story in the history of ever.

I first encountered Isis in college, when I read a translation of the Egyptian Book of the Dead. Regrettably, I did so sober, which may inform the reaction I had, which can be summed up in three words:

What. The. Fuck.

Before reading The Egyptian Book of the Dead (and yeah, I did it for fun), I knew that the Isis story arguably stretched 20,000 years before the founding of what we now call ancient Egypt. The image of Isis with Horus on her knee was even more arguably the model for the Virgin Mary and baby Jesus. The Isis myth fed one of the longest-running empires in recorded history, and here it is:

Isis and Osiris were god and goddess consorts. Osiris got tricked by his brother Seth into climbing into a sarcophagus (no, I am not kidding) whereupon Seth chopped his brother up into little bits and chucked the pieces all over Egypt. Isis brought the pieces back together, brought her husband back to life, had sex with him, and had a baby boy, Horus. The End.

And once again I say, what the fuck.

It’s taken me twenty-plus years to piece together what that story was really about, and I’m proud to say it was absolutely worth the wait. My upcoming book, Angelbound, is inspired in part by the Isis tale. But to understand the story, I needed to first understand some important shizz about ancient Egypt. Here’s what I found out.

Important Shizz in Ancient Egypt #1: You don’t have a god without a goddess, and vice versa

We’re used to monotheistic religions today, but that wasn’t the norm in ancient times. IMHO, it had to do with the way daily life went. Let’s say you lived by the Nile in 2000 BCE. You’re gone all day, bringing in crops or hunting wild animals or whatever. While you’re out, your consort does cool stuff like care for your kids and brew beer (the Nile’s also your toilet so no one drinks that stuff straight and lives.) You have a sexual division of labor, but it’s an equal one. If you don’t have someone to brew beer for you while you’re out, you die, end of story. There was no stopping by the Store-24 for a six pack, you know what I mean?

I think this daily reality got reflected in how ancient folks saw their deities, too. A god without a goddess couldn’t last, and vice versa. This wasn’t a guideline, this was a hard and fast RULE. If you had a goddess roaming around without a god consort, the shit was coming down. It was just a matter of when.

Important Shizz #2: When I say sarcophagus, you think Ferrari

Ancient Egyptians lived their current life for the one that comes after, and your sarcophagus was where you’d spend eternity. As a result, having a nice one was a status symbol, even if you were a god and presumably immortal (nice move, Osiris).

Important Shizz #3: Seth was the god of Chaos, but that doesn’t mean he was a bad guy

Weird, right? This was a total mind-blower to me when I figured it out. Yeah, Seth chops his brother up into little bits, but it’s nothing personal. He’s Chaos, you know? What do you expect when he offers you the chance to climb into his sarcophagus? I mean, while Osiris was climbing into that coffin-o-death, Seth must have been thinking ‘damn, this guy’s an asshole.’ In the ancient Egyptian mind, no one wants to get rid of Seth, really. For example, the solar boat which ensures the sun rises every day needs Seth; he’s the only one who can fight certain monsters on the path to dawn. So no Seth, no sunshine, no nothing. Bottom line: Chaos is an important (if irritating) part of life. Don’t be a dick and take stupid gifts from it.

Important Shizz #4: Sometimes bad shit happens, and it’s not your fault, but you pull up your big girl panties and fix it anyway. Because you can.

To me, this is the essence of the Isis myth. Isis’s husband made a big mistake and got tempted by what I think most closely translates to our modern idea of materialism. Long story short, he got chopped up into little bits and scattered everywhere. Isis was a powerful goddess. She could have flown back into the clouds, said ‘fuck it,’ and taken up with another, lesser god. But she doesn’t. Why? Because that ultimately leads to an imbalance that destroys everything, one way or another. Instead, Isis goes on the original odyssey and finds all the little pieces of her guy, puts them back together, and literally works her magic on them. She beings him back to life, they make love one last time, and she has a child: Horus, whose male energy balances her female energy. All is right in the universe once more.

Interesting footnote (to me anyway): the Virgin Mary (inheritor of the Isis myth imagery) wasn’t always ascended into Heaven. In other words, she wasn’t always physically present in the afterlife like her son, who was physically ascended from the get-go. That addition was made sometime in the Middle Ages. To my mind, it’s the power behind the Isis myth returning on an unconscious level: there should be balance in Heaven, and if the son is physically ascended, then the mother should be, too.

Interesting footnote part deux: Not surprisingly, around the time the above ascension was decided, women in Europe were enjoying some of the most autonomy and power they’d had in a while. The plague had left many of them wealthy landowners, as the sickness struck men in far greater numbers. The general air of awesomeness lasted until the witch trials, which (no pun intended) focused on wealthy single women because, hey, if you said a wealthy chick was a witch–and there wasn’t anyone around with a big stick to kick your ass–then you got all their stuff. Huzzah!

In Conclusion

From time to time, I still research the Isis myth in particular, and ancient Egypt in general. Every time I re-examine the myth and period, I learn something new that helps me today. That’s what makes it a hobby, I guess. I hope you found a few tidbits on this page useful as well.

Huzzah

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Friday Blog: An Open Letter to My Brain

Dear Brain,
We need to talk. You process information way too fucking fast and it freaks me out sometimes. And yeah, I am you but that doesn’t mean my point isn’t valid. Let me explain.
I don’t think other people wake up at 5 or 6 in the morning and go non-stop until 11 or 12 at night. That’s a little strange. I’ve been contemplating a faux-drug habit to create a socially acceptable explanation for this stuff. You know, other than the fact that we’re on the autism spectrum, of course. Between us, I use that one when I can, but most folks just don’t get it.

Classic example: us driving somewhere, anywhere. I really think most people just drive and, well, that’s it. They don’t drive, plan new scenes for their books, dissect the Irving Berlin canon, and wonder why Victoria’s Secret makes the itchiest bra tags in the universe…All at the same time.

And no, I am not shitting you.

As a result, most folks usually reach their destination in a reasonable and predictable timeframe. Again, I kid you not. No one but us gets sidetracked en route to the Foodmaster because they see a street named Beguine, which is like Irving Berlin’s Begin the Beguine, which could maybe be a new cool route to the grocery store, so why not drive that way, hum the song in question, and plan another scene while we’re at it? I think most people just get to the grocery store without random, half-hour detours.

I’m not complaining, really. After all these years, I don’t think I’d enjoy a typical old drive to anywhere. But how to respond to the inevitable ‘where do you get your energy from’ or ‘I want some of your drugs’ comments? Any ideas?

Your loving and conscious self,

Christina

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Dear Christina,

Stop fucking around and get back to writing your manuscript.

Your Brain

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