A promotional blog for the works of Donaya Haymond, and also a celebration of writing, crafting, and other creative endeavors by the wider artistic community.
I am a writer in the sense that I am female or half-Thai half-American. It is an inextricable part of my identity; happily what I write is enjoyable for enough people that I'm considered quirky rather than unfortunate.
My central question in all my books is, "What does it mean to be human?" I do paranormal/fantasy comic drama, with varying flavors of romance, mystery, adventure, or thriller.
Having been so blessed, I want to give other artists a boost as well, particularly those in great need.
St. Patrick's Day, Grad School, and Other Thoughts
I want to get some work experience before I go to grad school, but I'm starting to think I might enjoy getting a degree in business. All this Etsy and Elance entrepreneurship has been some of the most fun and fulfilling stuff I've ever undertaken. And I feel like with impeccable writing skills, good public presence, and then adding on knowledge of marketing and other joys of capitalism, I would be UNSTOPPABLE. I will think on it for a while longer. However, in the spirit of business-y things, here are some items I have put in my Etsy and WePay stores in preparation for St. Patrick's Day.
I bought a miniature top hat for costuming purposes, only to find that the band was a little too small for comfort. So I made this fellow instead. Care to join the tea party?
I'm going to a little 13-person get together full of baking, conversation, and crafting. This will be my contribution to the refreshments: Nutella sandwiches with two different kinds of bread, cut into dinosaur shapes. I think they'll be a hit.
Made about $50 selling things, $13 of which will be going to the club that sponsored me so I didn't have to pay a vendor fee. Will have another round on Friday. Then I'll be rebuilding inventory for Mary WashiCon.
I didn't sell any Cunning Hats in person, but I made two online sales in less than thirty hours. I have changed the picture to my newer design that is closer to the Firefly original:
I also now have a baby version! Red panda plush not included.
Perfect for a five-person tag flash mob, making silly sound effects all the while!
I made the ghost beanies and then had no idea how to make the central figure we know and love, until a friend suggested it be in beret form.
I actually made the whole beret, start to finish, this afternoon and evening. Then I was contemplating the colors of yarn I have available - I use Plymouth Dream Baby acrylic because Old Town Yarnery carries it for $4 a decent hank and it's soft and machine washable - and my covetousness towards a friend of mine's Jayne hat from the show Firefly, one of my absolute favorites. So I went on Etsy and looked at the various designs and came up with this in about two hours:
This one is available on a made-to-order basis, because that used up all my solid orange yarn and I want to keep it for myself. I'm very proud of it and am restraining myself from singing "The Hero of Canton".
So this is how I've been trying to healthily expend my manic energy. Now for another pair of fingerless gloves and hopefully I'll be able to sleep.
What Gives Life Value: Neil Gaiman's Death and Secular Humanism
Whether one agrees or not with the above cartoon, fear of death, and desire to know if anything comes after - and if so what - is one of the primary attractions of religious belief. Most mythological and theological systems put forth some sort of theory, often one used to shape desired behavior. Atheists abound in contemporary society, by definition having to deal with their feelings towards both mortality and morality on their own terms without a set path to guide them. One possible solution to this conundrum is chosen by secular humanists, who according to http://www.secularhumanism.org/"see themselves as undesigned, unintended beings who arose through evolution, possessing unique attributes of self-awareness and moral agency...[they] hold that ethics is consequential, to be judged by results. This is in contrast to so-called command ethics, in which right and wrong are defined in advance and attributed to divine authority...Secular humanists seek to develop and improve their ethical principles by examining the results they yield in the lives of real [people]." This essay chooses to argue that the character Death, an anthropomorphic personification of the ultimate End as portrayed in Neil Gaiman's Sandman graphic novels and various spinoff comics, is in herself an argument for the "lifestance" of secular humanism as a valid, morally sound, and spiritually fulfilling mode of thought.
Death is first introduced in the eighth issue of the original run of Sandman (Preludes and Nocturnes, "The Sound of Her Wings"), where she runs into her younger brother Dream and offers to let him tag along while she goes on her appointed rounds that afternoon. There is nothing grim about this young woman in Goth-type clothes with a distinctly sunny attitude, the Eye of Horus as part of her makeup and the Ankh around her neck both signifiers of eternity, echoing her other role in giving all living things their first breath of existence. She greets her charges with warmth and sympathy, reaching out a hand to them as she does to this man here, even as she gently refuses to let him know what happens next until he discovers it for themselves:
This scene with Death illustrates two opinions that are in keeping with secular humanism. One is that we do not need to be frightened about our inevitable demise, even if we have no real way of knowing what it will be like. Another is that saying prayers may help to comfort, but though there is no guarantee of a blissful afterlife no matter what we do, being composed and serene in the face of death is the real valuable attribute. In collecting the souls of other characters as the series goes on, Death makes such statements as "You get what anyone gets...you got a lifetime, (Brief Lives)" and "Everything ends. That's what gives it value (Death: The High Cost of Living)." As Stephen Rauch says in Neil Gaiman's Sandman and Joseph Campbell: In Search of the Modern Myth, Gaiman repeatedly underscores Death's gentleness, and eventually "we see Death as someone not to be feared, but revered as the mediator between this life and whatever lies beyond it. The point here is that death is part of the natural process, and far from being someone we should fear, it (she) can be seen as a blessed function, and a friendly face (65)." We do not need some divine power to ameliorate death, this version of Death seems to be saying, because she accepts us as we are, and we should do the same to her.
Fair Use Statement:
All quotes and images included in the essay are used for non-profit educational purposes only. I claim no rights whatsoever to them. The YouTube video embedded above was assembled by myself from a collection of both canonical and fan-created images of Death, originally for the non-profit purpose of entertainment and homage. Neil Gaiman has stated in a variety of interviews and blog posts that he considers such use fair and has no objection to them. The song "Soul Meets Body" by Death Cab for Cutie is included under YouTube terms, which by providing a "to-buy" link on the original site is considered free advertising rather than copyright infringement. The Endless own themselves.
I'm single this year, but it doesn't really rankle. In Thai culture, as I mentioned on the Facebook fan page, Valentine's Day is a more general Celebrate Love day, rather than strictly romantic. So my grandmother sent me a card all the way from Bangkok, and my mother keeps fretting about me checking my mail today and the competence of the post office. Also, campus dining lets us use flex dollars to pre-order chocolate-covered strawberries, some of my favorite things.
Also, if you're reading this blog, thank you and all the emoticon hearts you could ever desire.
Roses are red, Violets are purple, Which is a very hard word to rhyme And makes me happy that on February the 14th we don’t traditionally have to give each other oranges.
You know who you are. Thank you for the comments, the reviews, the weird hours talking about weird things on Skype, the help editing the TV Tropes page, and just the general Watson-ing you do to my Holmesery. <3!!!!
I tend to be notorious in my classes for two things: raising my hand all the time when I am present, and for frequently, to some people alarmingly, not being present at all. The first is simply because I enjoy class discussion. The second takes a bit longer to explain.
Contrary to what some people believe, bipolar disorder does not mean you change emotions suddenly and violently (unless your medications have been prescribed improperly or you are not taking them the way you're supposed to), and it does not mean you are necessarily more dangerous than anyone else. My own version leans more towards the cyclothymic, which is a milder, more rapid-cycling manifestation. It's a predictable pattern by now, six years after I first began treatment. I spend two to three weeks fairly stable, my emotions directly related to things going around me the way it is with people considered normal.
Then I have three or so days of mania, the "up" portion. It's a bit like being tipsy all the time, I'm told when I describe it to people, though I don't know firsthand because my medications can't be combined with alcohol. Everyone around me seems a bit more attractive. I become obsessed with sex. I'm extra-hungry. My mind fills with racing thoughts and ideas that, however reckless, seem fantastic at the time. No, sublime! No, the best ideas that anyone has ever had in the history of human idea-having! I have to take measures to keep myself from buying too many things online, the cravings for shopping super-intense, ones that have made me fall into overdraft more than once, spurred me chasing after freelance writing jobs in order to support them, and made me the University's record-holder in packages received through the post office. All the while everything in my head tells me that I'm gorgeous, brilliant, brave....Sometimes I laugh for no reason at all. It's fun, somewhat, but there's an undercurrent of danger, and it is exhausting after the first few hours.
Depression for me lasts longer, from a week to around ten days, depending. That's when I'm the most likely not to show up in class, and the main reason I have disability accommodations to reassure professors that I'm not just skipping for the sake of skipping. I want to spare all of you some of the ordeals high school's more stringent attendance policies caused: me sobbing uncontrollably in class over getting a low grade on a test or someone making fun of me, panic attacks of hyperventilation and stammering, the almost irresistible compulsion to curl up in a ball under the desk. Not only do I not learn things very well in such a condition, but no one else does either. A friend who has similar issues once joked with me about the difficulty she has excusing herself to classmates who want to know where she was: "I had to go to...Mars...to...butter my....cat." We've since made that a code when one of us is having a day like that, because sometimes it's difficult to talk directly when you feel like your blood has been replaced with cold paste.
My defenses against these things are many. I take seven pills a day, at different times, and avoid alcohol and significant amounts of caffeine because they might make the medication less effective. I deal with the shaky hands, dehydration, fatigue, and excessively vivid nightmares the medications have as side effects as best I can. I walk downtown to have an hour of talk therapy once a week. I also talk to a psychiatrist on the phone once a month so he can keep prescribing my medication. I crochet, or write, or call a friend, or play silly and mindless games to take myself away from the darkest hours. If I want to scratch or bite myself, I draw (or have a friend draw) butterflies on my arms that I name after loved ones, which I must keep alive by avoiding self-harm. I remind myself that there is a real me that is not chemicals in my head, that is a constant thing even when layers of confusing emotional noise muffles it, when I feel lost and doubtful. Most of all, I never let myself be ashamed, and hang onto hope that each day will be a day I can survive.
You grew up loving nights like this, your Khun Yai, your maternal grandmother, lying in bed next to you and your favorite cousin close by to talk and giggle. But you are now in your teens and so is he, your Nong (term of endearment for younger person) Bom growing tall and quiet and out of that nickname. You will never call him anything but Bom to his face. It would be too much of a break from the children you were, nestling in a cave under Grandma's desk with a pillow barrier and a blanket stuffed partially into the drawers to hold the makeshift curtain in place, chasing one another with Super Soakers to celebrate the Thai New Near where everyone splashes and pours on each other, nationwide all-out water fight for three days. You still call him Bom, an initially meaningless syllable, combining his parents' nicknames of "Burm" and "Om" into a portmanteau that is for you a symbol of fitful communication but slow and steady love. He is getting to be Jakrapon Sanguansook, though, on university entrance exams and military draft forms and a driver's license. You are not sure how you feel about that.
The hotel room is clean and chilled by overly aggressive air conditioning, you and Khun Yai on the large bed and Bom on the unfolded wheeled cot. There was a time when it was acceptable (and realistic) for all three of you to lie in bed together, or just you and Bom, poking each other and whispering jokes long after you were supposed to be asleep. You remember the last time you took a bath together, like the fall of Paradise and coming of original sin: suddenly, the naked bodies that had been so comfortable and easy, even if they were slightly different shape, had become shameful, and you had to hide from one another under bubbles and foam, fig leaves being in short supply in a Bangkok bathtub. American kids mocked you for innocently sharing such memories, differences in culture another reason why you have generally measured your social life in amounts of isolation, but that does not take away from your wishing sometimes that you and he were small again and could fit under the desk, in the bathtub, in the bed.
He's awake. You don't know why you didn't see it before. Khun Yai is doing her usual impression of a gentle chainsaw, so you shouldn't speak; she gets up at three each morning for some bizarre reason and needs her sleep now. It was always her job to reprimand you for telling riddles and stories too late into the night. Not much of a problem anymore.
You have so little time together these days. You live in America now, instead of closer like Laos or China. Your school holidays never synchronize, and his schedule is crammed with tutoring, special lessons, the army reserve training mandatory for all Thai boys and optional for all Thai girls. He is so quiet, now, too, reserved in his smiles. He might even have a girlfriend - he certainly does look appropriately hip with his skinny jeans and graphic tees, fingernails on his right hand grown long so he can strum the guitar with them. You don't know how much you mean to him anymore. He's one of the most important people to you in all your life and you spend perhaps twenty days out of the year with even a chance at glimpsing him.
So you reach across the gap between your beds with a tentative hand. He reaches also and takes it. The air conditioning tries to punish you for going beyond the crisp linens and fluffy comforter, but this is not important. The time is not important. You were allies against his parents and sister - she was always their favorite - and you were each other's anomaly, someone so far removed from everything else in your life and yet a great constant. A friend. His hand is warm. The fingernails press lightly into your palm, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you that they are there.
Finally, you whisper, "You know you are my brother, right?"
And he says, "You are my big sister."
You are not sure how long you hold hands. The crickets and geckos continue their noise, but you do not say anything else. In the morning your hand is back by your side. You never speak of this to each other.
I haven't had any online sales in a while, though a few face-to-face commissions. My Etsy store is still raising funds for Save Kelsey's Heart, the medical fundraiser, and throughout the month of February HEART4HEART will get you 40% off anything in that shop.
