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LilyvsThorns
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Name: Jes
Birthday: 11/10/1982
Gender: Female
Interests: deep things
Expertise: baking chocolate chip cookies (I'm really an elf at heart)
Occupation: Artist
Industry: Nonprofit
Message: message me
Member Since:
11/5/2003
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| I have a new blog:
www.naytandjes.com
check me out there.
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| I feel like I'm being schooled in what a "real man" is like. 
So, this morning when I got up, I started processing a few things that have been making my head spin. And the Jes processes most naturally by writing things down. (This is mostly because she's had a lot of practice in using writing to communicate thoughts. That practice had resulted in a comfort level which has granted me confidence in this one area.)
Back to the topic at hand: the greatness of men.
Nayt and I went to see IRON MAN this past weekend. First off, Meagan Brookes needs to be thanked, because she gave Nayt the Christmas present that allowed us to see this movie (and have an awesome date) for free. All we had to do was show up.
Anyway, so we're sitting there in the theater, watching the opening scenes of the film and there are three hummers truckin along in some mountains. I hear Nayt mumble to himself, "ah, Afghanistan." Immediately I wonder, "how the crap could he tell by some friggin mountains and three hummers that the setting was Afghanistan!?!" Lol. And then militaristic text rolls out at the bottom of the screen, validating that my future husband was right.
As an aside, any time I watch "boy movies" that include heroes or "Americanism" and most especially the Armed Forces (regardless of branch or division), I tend to think of three specific people. I think of my Uncle Paul, who is this fearlessly amazing Nurse for the Army. He's served QUITE a bit of time in Iraq over the past 5 years, and I had this great conversation with a nurse in the hospital where I work because of him. I think of him all the time. I have been wanting to send him fun presents. Sometimes, he has gone to battle at the expense of his fearlessly lionhearted wife, my Aunt Yvonne. I have always had a special Yvonne-shaped place in my heart, mostly because throughout MY life, she has consistently been willing to share who she is (and whoever she is) with me and Monica. Aunt Yvonne lived in my parents' garage for awhile. Sometimes when extended family comes to live with you, it can turn ugly. I'm sure there were moments when I was a brat, but in general, if Aunt Yvonne was involved, Monica and I got really excited. She has been the fun, cool older sister I never got to have. And when she went off to Desert Storm, I watched her parade her new Army clothes for us in my living room. We have the pictures to prove it.
The third person I tend to think of when presented with an image of the Armed Forces is my dear, dear Grandpa Elvy. The last time I saw him was almost three years ago this August. I won't get to visit his grave for probably a year or two, though I was saddened (deeply) that I did not have the time or money to fly to California and stand with my parents at his funeral to honor him. For many reasons that I cannot go into now, my Grandpa has been a special person to me. He was well-known for his "Elvy wit" and told me many stories about teaching Math that I still remember to this day. But my own Dad, his son David, did me the great service of telling me stories that my Grandpa related to him about his experiences in the Navy in WWII.
The result was an awe and respect for my Grandpa for his service.
So, the hummers in IRON MAN connect me to that preexisting opinion of a few honorable servants in the U.S. Army, ok?
Anyway, the movie was extremely well-done, in my opinion. As Nayt would probably agree, you never can tell how well a company is going to turn a comic strip/book (or ANY book) into something visually entertaining and engaging to watch. Were there sick moments where I had to turn my head in IRON MAN? Um, yes. I will admit that I have a squeamish stomach and have absolutely no desire to see men tortured or dying. I am not a soldier. I cannot handle that well. I haven't trained myself to cut my emotions away from stuff like that, yet. So I turn my head and fight back tears.
But I will tell you this: as I was sitting there, highly enjoying this movie, there were a few key moments where I turned to whisper something to Nayt. Every time I did, I couldn't help but to notice that he was totally enraptured with the film. It was like, "speaking his language" HARD CORE.
Because I have a vested interest in Nayt, I wanted to know what he was thinking about the movie. It would have been rude to ask while we were watching it. So, I baited the hook and waited for what Jack Sparrow would call "the opportune moment." I'm not sure Nayt will be able to effectively tell me what he experienced, watching this movie. But I do know that he bought the soundtrack on iTunes yesterday...not even one day after we had seen it in the theaters. That suggests to me that it connected with him. Lol.
And if I don't have this blog to share and explain myself, I really am a coward. It's one thing for me to process this in my journal and keep it a secret, but it's quite another to put yourself out there in a real, authentic way. Other people can comment here. Other people can make their own judgements. To be an artist can sometimes feel like being a soldier under fire!
The processing has led me to arrive at one major conclusion: men need to be men.
Don't hear me wrong: I am NOT advocating that men should be posers. To act like a man and to BE a man are two extremely different things. But there's a reason men connect with "boy movies" that involve war and history and evil conspiracies and mind games and twisted plots that don't make much sense to us women sometimes. (At least, they don't make much sense to ME sometimes...but I still want to watch them. what's that about? lol) Perhaps, these movies connect with the call a man feels to be more of a man.
Does that resonate with any men out there?
If you call yourself my friend (or value me) and you're male (and believe me, I know who you guys are: Naythan, Big Daddy Andy, the Scott, Sherlock, Sykes, Dunn, Scuba Steve), would you do me the incredible prop of communicating whether I am on target here or not?
Basically, it all boils down to something deeply personal for me as I walk through the final month before "I do." I am beginning to pay attention as God peels back the layers on the men around me. I'm beginning to see how awesome it is to have men play to their own personal strengths. (Thanks Dad, for randomly attacking my dirty car with a vengeance!) I'm beginning to feel the effects of them offering their strength when I feel weak. (Thanks, Nayt, for stroking my hair in small group Sunday night.) It's good when men are men.
To the few, the proud: The men who fight to be men. You who are ruthless at all costs to hold onto who you feel you should be, I tip my hat to you. In your small way, you have done so many a service. You have offered to shoulder their burden. You have played "the game" well. Thanks for being iron men.
Always,
Jes
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| Once upon a time, there was an old man, who lived in Bog Country. His prayers were answered for within the tiny village of Byr, upon the shore of Bog Fi, lived only a few hundred people, racked with poverty. Most of the men worked the bogs, turning over the putrid water with long sticks, hunting for food. The women of the village were tired, scavengers who ransacked the foilage for any available nut, berry or fruit. It was a meager life. But even a bog can sustain a few hundred.
The old man, who's name was Kidd, had a daughter, left to him by a wife who had died soon after bearing her. He had named the maid after a story he had heard of a goddess. She was called Kerena. The girl had lavender eyes and deep, rich red hair that fell in waves along her back. Every single man living in Byr had asked Kidd for his daughter's hand. There was no other maiden as beautiful as she. But her father was stubborn and refused to let his daughter marry any of Byr. He had convinced himself that someone would rescue his daughter from a life inflicted with smelly bogs and bog-workers.
And he was right.
One day, as Kerena was mashing a kernel dough to make bread and her father's old hands worked an ancient lathe, she heard a noise outside their hut that she had never heard before. Instead of the usual "slurp, slurp" of the bog or the rustle of the bushes, she had heard something distinctly metallic whizz by her window and strike a tree. Wiping her hands on her dirty apron, Kerena rushed outside to see what the object was.
Near Kidd's hut, there stood a large elm tree, all twisted and deformed. In high spring, it bore not a single leaf. It's bark was dead, and full of maggots, centipedes, flies and termites. In fact, many Byr women would plunge their hands into the trunk of the tree and emerge with plenty of crunchy ingredients to add to their meals. Kerena noticed a long, metallic object sunk into a low-hanging branch. Curiosity filled her. She inspected it more closely and discovered a spear covered in beautiful scrollwork. These did not look like the spears of Byr, which were made of long twisted sticks. The tip of the spear had caught itself on a large knot. Bracing her foot against the elm, Kerena pried the spear free, careful to step out of the way of the resulting shower of bugs. Twisting the shaft in her hands, she discovered that despite it's length of several feet, the metal was extremely light. She looked toward her father's hut, wondering who could have thrown this massive object. Though light, it certainly could not have been made in Byr.
Her gaze lifted to the endless Bog Fi; tiresome, slurping, it had not changed. Shifting to view the few huts that stood on it's southern bank, she noticed nothing new. To the west of Bog Fi lay most of the villagers' huts. Excepting a small bonfire in Gire's lot, ripling in a putrid breeze, she did not see anyone who was near enough to throw the spear. Something moved in her vision to the east. Startled, she turned her gaze upon the open wasteland that spread out to the bog's east bank. The thicket was immense, and long known to have held no signs of life. But Kerena's eyes hadn't fooled her. For again, she saw the flicker of a shadow moving behind the first layer of decaying shrubs. And though the thicket lay a good distance from where she stood, Kerena's throat was swollen with fear.
She wondered if the spear in her grasp was from a dark stranger's hand, a stranger whose intentions in Byr were not known. And suddenly, a hooded figure stepped out of the thicket. He stood tall, his long black cloak billowed around him, light armor gleamed in the fading light, a face guard obstructing his expression. He clutched a long oval shield in his left hand. His right was empty. And Kerena made out the t-shaped hilt of a sword, tied around his waist. The maiden bowed, out of respect and fear, still clutching the spear.
The stranger approached, softly clanking as his metal boots hit rocks and roots along the northern bank of the bog. Kerena did not lift her gaze or her head, silently trembling as his steps brought him nearer to herself. The soldier halted, not three feet in front of Kerena. And stood still, like a formidable tree, loaming. Kerena saw that scrollwork covered his metal boots as well, similar to the spear. She knew it had been he who had lodged it in the elm.
Stifling any fear, she slowly rose from her crouched position, letting her head and gaze never fully rise. The stranger's boots ran over his knees and into his black pants. His waist was bound with a silver, silk sash. But her eyes settled on the soldier's chest. A huge shield bearing a panther devouring a bird of prey was engraved into his breastplate. Fear gripped her at the image. "Has this man come for good or for evil," she wondered to herself.
The stranger stood still, waiting, and his silence unnerved her. Bowed her head even further, she offered him his spear.
"Yours, m'lord," she whispered.
His gloved hand accepted the silver spear. With a slight tilt of his head, he acknowledged her. Her auburn head trembled as she contemplated his next move. A sudden whinney broke her bow. Curious, she stood upright to see a war stallion emerge from the thicket, saddled in black and silver, with the panther emblem displayed on his muscled chest. It was a beautiful horse, a deep brown in color.
Aware that she had probably insulted the black-cloaked stranger by breaking her bow, Kerena began to tremble. Purposefully avoiding his eyes, Kerena bowed her head once more, glimpsing for a moment his elaborately decorated face guard. The soldier did not turn at the sound of his stallion. His rigid stance remaining, he merely saluted, bowed slightly and then caught the reigns, as his horse approached. Kerena could feel the hot breath of the stallion at the crown of her head. She prostrated herself further, and laid down on the ground.
"There is no need," he gruffly spoke aloud. His voice sounded like gravel. As he mounted, Kerena boldly looked up. The horse's large black blinders obstructed her view of it's great brown eye. But as her gaze beheld the mounted stranger, she caught of glimpse of the soldier's face. His eyes were not shielded by his helmet, and they burned a brilliant blue. They struck Kerena to the core. The stallion whinnied and pawed the earth with his hoof, breaking her focus.
All in one motion, the stranger signaled to his horse, who reared, turned, and galloped at full speed back toward's the thicket. Kerena was left, trembling for several minutes before she realized that he had dropped a small purse of silver coins at her feet.
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There once was a beautiful maiden named Bridget who was kept captive by an evil, soot-colored dragon. Berac, the foul-smelling, ashen-scaled monster, guarded the only entrance to the only tower in the only castle in the outer regions of Eastern Yore. The tower was made entirely of rough stones that held no comfort. Bridget froze there in the winter and suffocated in the heat of the summer. Berac circled the main gate, near a dried up old moat that ran at least 50 feet deep.
Bridget's only comfort was a large bejeweled sword which she never let part from her side. She slept with one fist clamped and ready around it's hilt. The longsword was ancient, resembling the Scottish claymores of an later period. It was far too large for a mere maiden. And with it's large rubies, it was much too heavy for a small girl of only twenty years. But each time Berac would take to the air and encircle the tower, Bridget's eyes would flash in a frenzied fury. She hated the foul dragon, and his foul breath and his stinkin scales and his red eyes and the way he encircled the tower as if she was a child to be looked after, lest it should disobey or escape. She hated more than anything that she could not free herself. She hated to look from the tower's window upon the countryside, upon freedom and be forced to wait for someone else to come and deliver her.
Each time Berac's wings would beat the air, Bridget would stand, ready herself and lift the weighted sword, wielding it high above her head. Her long hair would whip behind her as she let loose a terrible yell: a warning to the beast to take cover, lest she slice his wing with her blade. This brought her the only security she had, this threatening of the great dragon. The sword was her only power, her only company and her only friend.
One morning, the dawn birthed itself pink in hue and a lone warrior came riding along the countryside of Eastern Yore. A slender man, bearing a curse of a nickname: Gidd; he was tired, wind-beaten and very hungry. His horse, a valiant steed in his prime, was now aged and ready for easier days. His master bore a wane expression, something of a cross between a forelorn smile and an apathetic stare. He had been thus for days, riding on end with no sleep and no shelter from the sun's scorching gaze.
Far off in the distance, this son of a soapmaker, approached the dark shadows of a lone castle. Suddenly shivering, he readied his shield and straightened up in his saddle.
"Once again, old boy," he muttered, somewhat soberingly to his tired steed. "Shall we rush forward into what is surely a doomed fate ahead?" The horse whinied pitifully. Gidd nodded in agreement.
Berac sensed the approach and a smile curled on his black lips. Noiselessly, he took to the sky, even Bridget did not sense his movement, as she was practicing wielding the longsword against the stale air inside her tower. Berac knew his moment. With a loud roar, he landed, with full force on the top of Bridget's tower. And with a fiercesome growl, he bellowed flame high into the air. Bridget's scream was lost in the torrent of flames, cracking in the silence.
Startled, Gidd saw the shower of flames ahead and knew what was in store. He dismounted the horse and ran to the maingate to gain a better view of his target, swallowing his fear. Berac saw the man from his perch and cackled aloud.
"What a fool," thought the beast.
Angered at Berac's unexpected display, Bridget issued a warcry from her lips and drove the longsword into the one claw Berac had chosen to leave exposed, clinging to her only window. Reeling in pain, the dragon dove from his perch and blew an angry blast in the window's direction. Bridget took cover just in time, and arose to see a knight, shivering in terror as Berac approached him.
Gidd didn't know what to think. All he could see amidst the smoke and stone were the faint outlines of a great black dragon and a tower looming before him. He had heard a warcry in a female's voice and lost all his nerve.
"That didn't sound like a damsel in distress," Gidd thought, "Sounded like someone who's got more nerve than I do. Why am I even here?"
Berac snarled and his breath was so close that it rustled Gidd's hair. Sobering up to the thought of being a great dragon's lunch, Gidd gripped his shield and awaited the inevitable.
Angered at witnessing yet another warrior eaten before her eyes, Bridget hollered to the dragon:
"Oi! You big oaf! Wouldn't you like to make sure that this one ain't alone this time?"
Berac turned to look at her, dumbfounded.
"Yeah, that's right, stupid, from up here I see a great army amassing behind this knight. You best think what you're doing."
Her lie wove it's magic. As Berac faltered for a moment and stretched his neck to view what the girl was mentioning, Gidd took his chance and rammed his rusty-hilted sword through Berac's exposed heart. Heat, growls, and a few screams later...and finally, Berac's body fell in a great heap before Gidd's trembling arms.
Sheathing his sword, Gidd swallowed his pride and mounted the steps to thank this woman for saving his life. Swallowing her pride, Bridget waited for him to ascend her tower, to thank him for saving her when she could not.
In all my life, I have only begun to ponder this: that men must overcome their cowardice and fight for the women they think do not need their help. And women must overcome their pride in thinking only they can save themselves.
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| Good morning. It's definitely cold and dark outside, but I'm up cause I have to go to work.  But who am I to complain, they PAY me to do this.
I love the Christmas season, but this year it's been slightly tainted with the application process to OSU. Of course, had I done all this stuff earlier in the year, I could be free to enjoy the delights of the season now. So, really, it's my own fault.
I did get my Christmas tree and it smells LOVELY, in fact, I wanted to stay up and just smell it the other night, but I was falling asleep at like, 9pm.
George and Piper like to bat the ornaments off the tree. It's both cute and annoying to be the tree maid.
Nayt and I are going to two concerts next weekend, Manhatten Transfer and Cincy Pops on Friday and OTR on Saturday. Fun times!!!!!
I need to get going to work, but I wanted to take time out to actually post and say Merry Christmas! May God be with you and your family over the next few weeks!
Always,
Jes
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