Tyler Yoder's Blog, page 2
August 18, 2015
In Which We Go On Hiatus
You read that correctly, Gentle Reader. I’m sorry.
You may have noticed that new posts have been thin on the ground since Pride, and that last week I missed posting entirely, apart from the poetry. I have been exceptionally busy, with G.i.s.h.w.h.e.s., with returning to the Renaissance Faire, with crossing off list-items, with gearing up for next quarter, with romantic misadventures, and with trying to keep afloat in this uncompromising world. My beautiful little blog – my darling of the last two-and-a-half years – is not getting the attention it deserves. So I propose a short break.
Now listen, I intend to be back the first week of September. And even though you won’t be getting adventures or strange interludes or whatever it is we do here, I’ll keep up with the Poetic Interludes on Sundays. So you won’t be entirely without me, you know, darlings.
Here is a bizarre picture from my collection, by way of an apology.
I hope your summer is going well, and I remain affectionately yours –
Ty DeLyte
Tagged: Blog Shit, Hiatus, Housekeeping, Not a Real Post, Ty DeLyte
Post the Sixty-Eighth: In Which We Go On Hiatus
You read that correctly, Gentle Reader. I’m sorry.
You may have noticed that new posts have been thin on the ground since Pride, and that last week I missed posting entirely, apart from the poetry. I have been exceptionally busy, with G.i.s.h.w.h.e.s., with returning to the Renaissance Faire, with crossing off list-items, with gearing up for next quarter, with romantic misadventures, and with trying to keep afloat in this uncompromising world. My beautiful little blog – my darling of the last two-and-a-half years – is not getting the attention it deserves. So I propose a short break.
Now listen, I intend to be back the first week of September. And even though you won’t be getting adventures or strange interludes or whatever it is we do here, I’ll keep up with the Poetic Interludes on Sundays. So you won’t be entirely without me, you know, darlings.
Here is a bizarre picture from my collection, by way of an apology.
I hope your summer is going well, and I remain affectionately yours –
Ty DeLyte
Tagged: Blog Shit, Hiatus, Housekeeping, Not a Real Post, Ty DeLyte
August 16, 2015
Poetic Interlude CXX
Frank
By Tyler J. Yoder
I haven’t slept; the dawn is here,
And I’m swept back to yesteryear.
A long-dead Uncle views the coast,
Embraces me; he is my host –
And in that faded Kodak room
We smoke, and sit, and toast our doom:
We share a certain malady –
The symptom of our family.
And though our blood stays smooth and sweet,
It rises to a certain heat –
and then I break another chair
to take to wine in my despair
and he’s run out into the rain
to scream aloud what’s in his brain
and on the scarred and wooden ground
I’m seeking a forgotten noun
he’s clawing at the skin beneath
the opera inside his teeth
I haven’t slept; the dawn is here,
And I’m swept back to yesteryear.
©2014 by Tyler J. Yoder. All rights reserved
Tagged: Bipolar Disorder, Family Illness, Manic Depressive, Poetry
August 9, 2015
Poetic Interlude CXIX
By Tyler J. Yoder
How could you possibly love me,
You slight young slip of a boy?
You don’t even know me from Adam;
I’m aging, and comfortably coy –
And yet, I enjoy the attention
(I never was Helen of Troy).
If you’re toying with me for the money,
Good luck, boy – it’s already spent –
Or maybe you think I’ve got talent
(And I may, to a certain extent) –
Whatever the insane attraction,
I doubt that I’ll dare to relent.
I suppose I’ll submit to seduction;
I admit I’ll allow your allure.
Don’t think you can rest on your laurels –
I’ll always remain insecure.
How could you possibly love me?
You might, but it’s still premature.
©2014 by Tyler J. Yoder. All rights reserved
Tagged: An Old Dame Like Me, Boy Crazy, Infatuation, Young Lover
August 4, 2015
Rays of Hope
Hey, Gentle Reader. It seems I’m in similar jam as to one I was in during the spring of 2014. Sorry for another re-run, but the sentiment remains. I mean, the circumstances are different – Doctor Boyfriend and I have long since split; the Tacoma changes and going back to school are in progress – the rays themselves are few on the ground at the moment. It was nice to look back on this and see that some of them came to fruition, though. It’s a reminder that there positive changes can, in fact, be made. Cheers, darlings.
Oh, my stars, Gentle Reader. I have really been slacking as far as the blog goes, lately. I beg your pardon – as you know, things have been a little rough lately. I even missed last Sunday’s Poetic Interlude – I’m sorry. Happy Easter, though?
Things are starting to look up – things with Doctor Boyfriend are going swimmingly, and he seems to be taking the chaos that comes from being associated with the Yoder family in stride. Right now, he’s the lighthouse in the stormy, night-time sea I’m struggling to navigate – but it’s still pretty early on, and I don’t want to put too much pressure on him. He seems to be holding up pretty well, though.
In other news, I’m shopping for a day-job in the Tacoma area, and looking at going back to school, maybe a cute little studio apartment in the St. Helens district. Who knows if either of those things will pan out – my plans usually fall through – but they’re giving me something to strive for.
There are a number of changes I’m trying to make in my life right now – that was the point of Europe, after all; a dramatic boundary, delineating the boundary in no uncertain terms of the life I want to make for myself. I’ve been reactive, not proactive; passive, not aggressive – dormant, sleeping, a plant nestled under a blanket of snow, waiting.
Spring is here.
You’ll have to forgive me if I’m a little less prolific here, and you’ll have to bear with me while I re-evaluate the priorities in my life, try to figure out who I am, and what that means, and why anyone should care. Those are questions that no one really answers, of course, but I’d like to have at least an inkling – surely I’m more than just the guy who stumbles across things like taxidermy rat underwear.
Thoughts and advice are welcomed, of course – and I’d be thrilled if you could help craft a resume! – but mainly, Gentle Reader, your patience and support are what I’m after. Thank you.
I’ll leave you here, with a little Rufus Wainwright.
Tagged: Feeling Down, Goals Achieved but where's the payoff?, Introspection, Re-Runs
Post the Sixty-Seventh: Rays of Hope
Hey, Gentle Reader. It seems I’m in similar jam as to one I was in during the spring of 2014. Sorry for another re-run, but the sentiment remains. I mean, the circumstances are different – Doctor Boyfriend and I have long since split; the Tacoma changes and going back to school are in progress – the rays themselves are few on the ground at the moment. It was nice to look back on this and see that some of them came to fruition, though. It’s a reminder that there positive changes can, in fact, be made. Cheers, darlings.
Oh, my stars, Gentle Reader. I have really been slacking as far as the blog goes, lately. I beg your pardon – as you know, things have been a little rough lately. I even missed last Sunday’s Poetic Interlude – I’m sorry. Happy Easter, though?
Things are starting to look up – things with Doctor Boyfriend are going swimmingly, and he seems to be taking the chaos that comes from being associated with the Yoder family in stride. Right now, he’s the lighthouse in the stormy, night-time sea I’m struggling to navigate – but it’s still pretty early on, and I don’t want to put too much pressure on him. He seems to be holding up pretty well, though.
In other news, I’m shopping for a day-job in the Tacoma area, and looking at going back to school, maybe a cute little studio apartment in the St. Helens district. Who knows if either of those things will pan out – my plans usually fall through – but they’re giving me something to strive for.
There are a number of changes I’m trying to make in my life right now – that was the point of Europe, after all; a dramatic boundary, delineating the boundary in no uncertain terms of the life I want to make for myself. I’ve been reactive, not proactive; passive, not aggressive – dormant, sleeping, a plant nestled under a blanket of snow, waiting.
Spring is here.
You’ll have to forgive me if I’m a little less prolific here, and you’ll have to bear with me while I re-evaluate the priorities in my life, try to figure out who I am, and what that means, and why anyone should care. Those are questions that no one really answers, of course, but I’d like to have at least an inkling – surely I’m more than just the guy who stumbles across things like taxidermy rat underwear.
Thoughts and advice are welcomed, of course – and I’d be thrilled if you could help craft a resume! – but mainly, Gentle Reader, your patience and support are what I’m after. Thank you.
I’ll leave you here, with a little Rufus Wainwright.
Tagged: Feeling Down, Goals Achieved but where's the payoff?, Introspection, Re-Runs
July 30, 2015
The Renaissance Faire
Gentle Reader, this weekend kicks off with an event I have spent many years loving, and which inspired many of my interests and hobbies. I wrote the following last year – the first year in my adult life that I was obliged to miss the Faire. Please enjoy!
Yesterday, Gentle Reader, I realized a terrible truth: I have wasted spent precisely one year of my life on what would become the Washington Midsummer Renaissance Faire. This year that I’ve spent – spread out over the last twelve – includes 24 hours of 7 days of 52 weeks. It’s a significant portion of my life, and I’ve spent most of it as head of the household that I run ran. This year, King Edmund I of Paisley Glen is hanging up his crown.
By the time you read this, I will be greeting old friends, setting up camp, and preparing for our Opening Ceremony.
Today marks the first night of my last year at this event, and I’d like to mark the occasion by telling you a little about our silly little household. After all, the bulk of my adult life is tied up in it. It fostered my love for costuming, for history, for not complying with the demands of traditional lifestyles.
In my teens, the faire started out a few miles from my parent’s house. Naturally, we’d end up there – there is very little to do, in a rural summer, when you don’t drive. I’m not exactly Opie, after all. After a year or two, we founded our household, Paisley Glen – named for the bright pink dollar-per-yard fabric we festooned in the foyer.
Oh, yes – our encampment had a foyer – as well as a picket fence, a swimming pool, etcetera, etcetera.
The next year, we were camped at what became our traditional corner – the ground there became our right. At the corner of Paisley Lane and Paisley Avenue, we opened our doors, and opened our eyes to what we would become – when the wind blew my tent into another encampment, we annexed it, calling it Paisley Poland, which would become the first of our duchies. We refused to recognize anyone else’s sovereignity, making other leaders dukes and duchesses of our realm – including the head of the whole damned faire. This year – 2002, I believe – was where I connected with Ex-Husband outside of school for the first time, and we shared an illicit bottle of Peach Arbour Mist.
When the faire changed owners and names, years later, it was a bit of a wrench – the original owners had purchased a large woodland area, intending to hold the faire there, but the site wasn’t ready – the new owners hadn’t taken over yet. This year, there was no faire, but that didn’t stop us: We held a picnic in a public park in our garb, we held a household-only camping event at somebody’s house, we camped in our designated spot at the soon-to-be-lost new site. We did what we always did: we were utterly ridiculous in the face of reality.
In the new country, after the coup that left the faire with new owners and a new name, we followed the faire: this was our home event, even if it had moved and changed. By this point, we were well established; completely distinct from other households, we were theplace to party, due to the generosity of our open bar. We had proper, upholstered, furniture, not just camp chairs. We claimed to be Victorian time-travelers, re-enacting theElizabethan age for a lark. Our costuming spanned five-hundred years, mixed and matched, and nobody minded. Not quite like the other ren-rats, we were well liked.
After we attained the new site, we were constantly striving to be bigger and better than before. The Lord Von Hale has built us many magnificent set-pieces and structures over the years, including our portable bar, that grew out of my Majesty’s original booze-cage.
A portable clock-tower – sixteen feet tall, with a belfry – has replaced the original muffin-dome.
Our silly mythology, peerage and parliament, our pretend customs and ceremonies, have grown, evolved, and changed. We even have a second generation – well, first and a half – of younger siblings who don’t remember a life without the Glen.
They’ve grown up believing all the silly bullshit we spout, and take it as a solemn duty, almost as if Paisley Glen were the church they were raised in. It’s peculiar, and it’s wonderful.
Over the years, drama has increased, mounted up; there is tension between various factions; we play politics for fun, but sometimes those pretend politics are deadly serious. This is part of why I’m abdicating my crown; I’m done with the drama. The Glen, as much as I love it, has been holding me back; almost all of the founders of this institution have moved on. I need to, as well. This is why I’m leaving the comfort of our little household, where I’m regarded as a literal king; the world is wide, and I need to explore it. I’ll never do that, trapped in the habits of twelve years.
Here are some additional photos, because – well, because of Nostalgia. Enjoy them, Gentle Reader.
Tagged: Paisley Glen, Ren Faire, Renaissance Faires, Washington Midsummer Renaissance Faire
Post the Sixty-Sixth: The Renaissance Faire
Gentle Reader, this weekend kicks off with an event I have spent many years loving, and which inspired many of my interests and hobbies. I wrote the following last year – the first year in my adult life that I was obliged to miss the Faire. Please enjoy!
Yesterday, Gentle Reader, I realized a terrible truth: I have wasted spent precisely one year of my life on what would become the Washington Midsummer Renaissance Faire. This year that I’ve spent – spread out over the last twelve – includes 24 hours of 7 days of 52 weeks. It’s a significant portion of my life, and I’ve spent most of it as head of the household that I run ran. This year, King Edmund I of Paisley Glen is hanging up his crown.
By the time you read this, I will be greeting old friends, setting up camp, and preparing for our Opening Ceremony.
Today marks the first night of my last year at this event, and I’d like to mark the occasion by telling you a little about our silly little household. After all, the bulk of my adult life is tied up in it. It fostered my love for costuming, for history, for not complying with the demands of traditional lifestyles.
In my teens, the faire started out a few miles from my parent’s house. Naturally, we’d end up there – there is very little to do, in a rural summer, when you don’t drive. I’m not exactly Opie, after all. After a year or two, we founded our household, Paisley Glen – named for the bright pink dollar-per-yard fabric we festooned in the foyer.
Oh, yes – our encampment had a foyer – as well as a picket fence, a swimming pool, etcetera, etcetera.
The next year, we were camped at what became our traditional corner – the ground there became our right. At the corner of Paisley Lane and Paisley Avenue, we opened our doors, and opened our eyes to what we would become – when the wind blew my tent into another encampment, we annexed it, calling it Paisley Poland, which would become the first of our duchies. We refused to recognize anyone else’s sovereignity, making other leaders dukes and duchesses of our realm – including the head of the whole damned faire. This year – 2002, I believe – was where I connected with Ex-Husband outside of school for the first time, and we shared an illicit bottle of Peach Arbour Mist.
When the faire changed owners and names, years later, it was a bit of a wrench – the original owners had purchased a large woodland area, intending to hold the faire there, but the site wasn’t ready – the new owners hadn’t taken over yet. This year, there was no faire, but that didn’t stop us: We held a picnic in a public park in our garb, we held a household-only camping event at somebody’s house, we camped in our designated spot at the soon-to-be-lost new site. We did what we always did: we were utterly ridiculous in the face of reality.
In the new country, after the coup that left the faire with new owners and a new name, we followed the faire: this was our home event, even if it had moved and changed. By this point, we were well established; completely distinct from other households, we were theplace to party, due to the generosity of our open bar. We had proper, upholstered, furniture, not just camp chairs. We claimed to be Victorian time-travelers, re-enacting theElizabethan age for a lark. Our costuming spanned five-hundred years, mixed and matched, and nobody minded. Not quite like the other ren-rats, we were well liked.
After we attained the new site, we were constantly striving to be bigger and better than before. The Lord Von Hale has built us many magnificent set-pieces and structures over the years, including our portable bar, that grew out of my Majesty’s original booze-cage.
A portable clock-tower – sixteen feet tall, with a belfry – has replaced the original muffin-dome.
Our silly mythology, peerage and parliament, our pretend customs and ceremonies, have grown, evolved, and changed. We even have a second generation – well, first and a half – of younger siblings who don’t remember a life without the Glen.
They’ve grown up believing all the silly bullshit we spout, and take it as a solemn duty, almost as if Paisley Glen were the church they were raised in. It’s peculiar, and it’s wonderful.
Over the years, drama has increased, mounted up; there is tension between various factions; we play politics for fun, but sometimes those pretend politics are deadly serious. This is part of why I’m abdicating my crown; I’m done with the drama. The Glen, as much as I love it, has been holding me back; almost all of the founders of this institution have moved on. I need to, as well. This is why I’m leaving the comfort of our little household, where I’m regarded as a literal king; the world is wide, and I need to explore it. I’ll never do that, trapped in the habits of twelve years.
Here are some additional photos, because – well, because of Nostalgia. Enjoy them, Gentle Reader.
Tagged: Paisley Glen, Ren Faire, Renaissance Faires, Washington Midsummer Renaissance Faire
July 28, 2015
G.i.s.h.w.h.e.S.
Gishwhes starts in less than a week, Gentle Reader, and in honor of the Hunt, I’d like to revisit last year’s competition.
The Greatest International Scavenger Hunt the World Has Ever Seen is a celebration of art and kindness that shatters Guinness records and normalcy alike, put on by actor Misha Collins. It’s in its fourth year, Gentle Reader, and I was so enchanted with the idea that I put participating in it on The List. You only have a week for you and your team to complete 180-odd items.
The Task: Participate in G.i.s.h.w.H.e.s.
The Execution: Prior to the actual event, our team – Team Fighting-Gurgle – met online, got to know one another better, recruited like-minded people from all over the world to join us in our burgeoning quest.
It was announced a few days in advance that this year’s Guinness Record Attempt would be held in Seattle, and would be a costumed event. Three of our team live in Washington state, so we knew we’d be well represented. We waited with bated breath, and soon learned that we’d need three french maid outfits, complete with headdresses, as well as three “Still-life Hats” – hats modeled on still-life paintings. We’d also need to be comfortable with holding hands with strangers.
When the morning arrived, I met Mica for the first time; we then met up with Rae, who I’ve known for years online, but have only met a few times in person. This was around eight or nine in the morning; we had to be in Seattle by 12:30 – plenty of time, right? Traffic said otherwise; our leisurely drive with time to stop and get ready at Rae’s place in Covington became a madcap dash with large swathes of a frustrating crawl. We arrived in time, though, and got into the line stretching around the little park where we were all to meet; the gentleman from Guinness came to make sure we met the entry requirements – we were dressed as maids, we had our hats, we had our note cards with our legal information and our papers bearing our team names. We were ushered into a small, sweaty, overcrowded gymnasium, where we waited two hours for the festivities to begin.
After the first two records were successfully broken, all three-hundred plus French Maids were allowed to step outside into the blazing sun. Some of us were off the hook for the third record attempt – there were more of us than expected. Those of us who were watching were led in our cheerleading attempts by Misha Collins; my teammate Rae is seen here directly on top of him.
The rest of the week was spent in feverish crafting and spontaneous moments of beauty and art and love as we Gurgles tried our best to complete the challenges expected of us. I was mostly busy with work and with a mental breakdown, but I tried my best to contribute where I could, in modest ways.
Meanwhile, my teammates did abnosome (abnormally awesome, obviously) things like this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DXn4-euG85Y&
and also like this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3XkUtYCo5FM&
Furthermore, like this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WYpNY9LviiQ&
And also also these:
The Verdict: Would I do this again? Absolutely! This was an amazing experience, and I wish I’d been able to participate more heavily. I HELPED BREAK WORLD RECORDS, Y’ALL. And was involved in hijinks. And there were a massive amount of people who registered to donate bone marrow.
My friend Rosalind explains g.i.s.H.W.h.e.s. the best, though, I think:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TilUBpC4_SA&
Tagged: Gishwhes, ReRuns, Whatever
Post the Sixty-Fifth: G.i.s.h.w.h.e.S.
Gishwhes starts in less than a week, Gentle Reader, and in honor of the Hunt, I’d like to revisit last year’s competition.
The Greatest International Scavenger Hunt the World Has Ever Seen is a celebration of art and kindness that shatters Guinness records and normalcy alike, put on by actor Misha Collins. It’s in its fourth year, Gentle Reader, and I was so enchanted with the idea that I put participating in it on The List. You only have a week for you and your team to complete 180-odd items.
The Task: Participate in G.i.s.h.w.H.e.s.
The Execution: Prior to the actual event, our team – Team Fighting-Gurgle – met online, got to know one another better, recruited like-minded people from all over the world to join us in our burgeoning quest.
It was announced a few days in advance that this year’s Guinness Record Attempt would be held in Seattle, and would be a costumed event. Three of our team live in Washington state, so we knew we’d be well represented. We waited with bated breath, and soon learned that we’d need three french maid outfits, complete with headdresses, as well as three “Still-life Hats” – hats modeled on still-life paintings. We’d also need to be comfortable with holding hands with strangers.
When the morning arrived, I met Mica for the first time; we then met up with Rae, who I’ve known for years online, but have only met a few times in person. This was around eight or nine in the morning; we had to be in Seattle by 12:30 – plenty of time, right? Traffic said otherwise; our leisurely drive with time to stop and get ready at Rae’s place in Covington became a madcap dash with large swathes of a frustrating crawl. We arrived in time, though, and got into the line stretching around the little park where we were all to meet; the gentleman from Guinness came to make sure we met the entry requirements – we were dressed as maids, we had our hats, we had our note cards with our legal information and our papers bearing our team names. We were ushered into a small, sweaty, overcrowded gymnasium, where we waited two hours for the festivities to begin.
After the first two records were successfully broken, all three-hundred plus French Maids were allowed to step outside into the blazing sun. Some of us were off the hook for the third record attempt – there were more of us than expected. Those of us who were watching were led in our cheerleading attempts by Misha Collins; my teammate Rae is seen here directly on top of him.
The rest of the week was spent in feverish crafting and spontaneous moments of beauty and art and love as we Gurgles tried our best to complete the challenges expected of us. I was mostly busy with work and with a mental breakdown, but I tried my best to contribute where I could, in modest ways.
Meanwhile, my teammates did abnosome (abnormally awesome, obviously) things like this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DXn4-euG85Y&
and also like this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3XkUtYCo5FM&
Furthermore, like this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WYpNY9LviiQ&
And also also these:
The Verdict: Would I do this again? Absolutely! This was an amazing experience, and I wish I’d been able to participate more heavily. I HELPED BREAK WORLD RECORDS, Y’ALL. And was involved in hijinks. And there were a massive amount of people who registered to donate bone marrow.
My friend Rosalind explains g.i.s.H.W.h.e.s. the best, though, I think:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TilUBpC4_SA&
Tagged: Gishwhes, ReRuns, Whatever
