Week 12 Review: Lake Monsters

Even though I've been watching the announcements this week to plan for this post, I dropped my other choice of favorite announcement feature once I saw this chart today of Lake Monsters of America. If something involves monsters, legends, or unsolved mysteries in any way, there's a pretty good chance I'm going to love it: Supernatural and The X-Files are some of my favorite stories ever, and I also dig the heck out of the Buzzfeed Blue YouTube series "Unsolved Mysteries."

I've never been to Lake Thunderbird, but I love the idea of a "Giant Killer Octopus" chilling out at the lakebed there, and the other monsters on the chart look like a ton of fun, too.

Except for the Goat Man in Lake Worth, Texas. I might pass on that one.



Image Credit: "Mythical Lake Monsters" by Atlas Obscura. Source: Online Course Announcements.

Famous Last Words: It's All About Perspective

For my reading this week (after reading ahead for next week to clear the schedule some), I've just about finished The Palace of Illusions. It's been really interesting to see all the characters and events of the Mahabharata—which had very specific, distinctive characters and events, but was also somehow kind of vague about them, skimming over details without that much depth—laid out like this, with enough room to unfold naturally.

A huge factor in how it unfolded so naturally, though, is the narrator the author chose. Back when I read the PDE Mahabharata, I didn't pay that much attention to Draupadi: she seemed really promising at first, but quickly took a backseat to her husbands and their legacy.

One thing The Palace of Illusions does brilliantly, though, is show the huge extent to which that shouldn't be the case. As I read through the cousins' war, I was struck by the fact that this time around, each of the deaths of the various warriors meant something. And once I thought about it, I realized that that was because Draupadi was the perfect narrator: she had ties to every one of the other characters. Drona: father's nemesis, destined to be killed by her brother. Duryodhan: her enemy since he tried to have her humiliated after the gambling misadventure, and her husbands' rival. Karna: never-to-be love interest, secret brother-in-law. Dhri: commander of the Pandava army, her brother. And so on. Sometimes because of special connections the author added or embellished, like the one with Karna, but often just because of reading between the lines of the existing text, the author found Draupadi at the center of the huge, complicated web that is the Mahabharata; with her as a reference point, all of the other characters had a role and a place, instead of all running together. It's a fascinating study in point of view, and in reworking mythology in general.

I also shifted my course schedule around this week, (at least temporarily) substituting extra credit options to make up for a missed story each week and the resulting missed project addition. While I still miss writing a new story each week like I did last semester, it really has been a huge help so far; I'm not so stressed, and I've actually been able to work ahead a little on my reading, making room for next week so I can focus on deadlines coming up in other classes. For now, at least, it's a good system, and I'm sticking with it.

Image Credit: Staggered Windows, by PixelAnarchy. Source: Pixabay.

Wikipedia Trails: From Yama to the Carnival of Venice

I'm working on a novel for another class this semester (inspired by a weekly post in the Myth-Folklore class last semester, fittingly enough), and it revolves around a necromancer-medium duo. Because of that, I thought it would be interesting to research about Yama, the Indian god of death, and see where that takes me.

1: Yama, Indian god of death & the underworld

In any mythology, I'm always interested in the death god's actual relationship with death, and Yama's is probably the most interesting one I've seen so far: Wikipedia states that according to the Vedas, "Yama is said to have been the first mortal who died. By virtue of precedence, he became the ruler of the departed and the lord of the [spirits of the departed]."

In Hinduism, he's guarded by a couple of hellhounds who "wander about among people as messengers," and Yama himself "wields a leash with which he seizes the lives of people who are about to die." Another version claims he carries around a noose instead of a scythe, which is pretty fascinating.


2: Death (personification)

It seemed appropriate to read up on personifications of Death itself, since that's interesting research for my novel, so that's where I headed next.

Some cultures have thought of Death/the Grim Reaper as responsible for a person's death, causing it when coming to collect the person; because of that, characters in some old stories try to avoid Death by dodging his visits or tricking him, sometimes even bribing him. Other people view Death as more of a chaperone, a psychopomp who comes to collect the victim and bring him or her to the afterlife.

Interestingly, "Ancient Greece found Death to be inevitable, and therefore, he is not represented as purely evil. He...has also been portrayed as a young boy." The Greek god of death was Thanatos; his brother was Hypnos, god of sleep, while his sisters were the Keres, "spirits of violent death...associated with deaths from battle, disease, accident, and murder." If Thanatos wasn't seen as evil, his sisters were: they were often depicted as "feeding on the blood of the body after the soul had been escorted to Hades," with "fangs and talons, and would be dressed in bloody garments."

Celtic folklore's death figure, delightfully, was usually "the spirit of the last person that died within the community." In Ireland, meanwhile, it was a dullahan: someone whose "head would be tucked under his or her arm," with a head that "was said to have large eyes and a smile that could reach the head's ears." The dullahan would ride up to someone's house on a black horse and call out that person's name, causing their instant death. But the dullahan apparently didn't like attention, because "if a dullahan knew someone was watching them, they would lash that person's eyes with their whip, which was made from a spine..."

In Aztec mythology, morphed through the years by Spanish traditions, the "Lady of the Dead" (related to the Mexican folk religion's "Our Lady of the Holy Death") is said to have been born and then sacrificed as an infant before becoming the Lady.


3: Plague Doctor Costume

The related links brought me here, which is also the source of this post's photo. Apparently, plague doctors during the 17th century wore this outfit to protect against airborne diseases; it "consisted of an ankle length overcoat and a bird-like beak mask often filled with sweet or strong smelling substances (commonly lavender), along with gloves, boots, a wide brim hat, and an outer over-clothing garment." There were glass openings in the mask to see through, and straps that held the beak over the doctor's nose. The doctors would also wear leather hats to show their profession, and carried canes so they could examine patients, shift clothing, and check pulses without actually making deadly contact.

During the Plague of 1656, "[t]he costume terrified people because it was a sign of imminent death."


4: Carnival of Venice

For my last stop, I wound up at the Carnival of Venice, where I was mainly interested in the masks. Apparently, back in the day, people were allowed to spend a large part of the year in disguise; "[m]askmakers enjoyed a special position in society, with their own laws and their own guild." There are plenty of different theories to explain this widespread practice, but one explanation is that "covering the face in public was a uniquely Venetian response to one of the most rigid class hierarchies in European history." Eventually, though, masks and crime became an issue, and the law cracked down on wearing masks "in daily life."




Image Credit: Copper engraving of Doctor Schnabel [i.e Dr. Beak], by Paul Furst. Source: Wikimedia Commons.

Tech Tip: Canvas Calendar

By this point in the semester, I've just about accepted that I don't have time to do the weekly stories anymore. I'm not thrilled about that—the weekly stories were my favorite part about the Mythology & Folklore class last semester, and a big part of why that was my favorite class I'd ever taken, so I was looking forward to more of the same this semester. But I've had a lot more classwork than I'd expected, and I'm also working on two novels at the same time (one for class, and one I'm planning to pursue publication for); considering the fact that each Wednesday story usually takes me about 4 hours, it doesn't make much sense to prioritize that over other assignments when I can use the extra-credit options to make up for the weekly stories.

Because of that, at least until something in my workload changes, I'm reconfiguring my weekly schedule for this class. Since I'm replacing a Wednesday assignment (and the Sunday portfolio assignment) with extra credit options with no specific due dates, I can work on those in advance instead, freeing up the later half of the week for other homework and writing deadlines.

Right now, the new plan is to finish a Tech Tip, an extra batch of commenting, and a Wikipedia Trails post on Mondays, when I've got a break between classes. Then on Wednesdays, I can do an extra reading assignment during another break. I hadn't thought about putting this revamped schedule to a calendar till I saw the Canvas tech tip option, and now that the tutorial video has taught me how, I'm adding those weekly adjustments to my personal calendar.



Image Credit: Calendar, by webandi. Source: Pixabay.

Reading Notes: 7 Secrets from Hindu Calendar Art, Part A

For the extra reading this week, I decided to start the "Secrets from Hindu Calendar Art" series on Epified. First up, it's all about Ganesha's secret.

One thing that struck me as interesting—and potentially useful for world-building—is the idea in Hindu religion that divinity "is not restricted to a singular idea—there are gods and goddesses, who are individually pieces of a jigsaw puzzle called God." I think part of why I think this has so much story potential is that it allows for both petty power struggles and in-fighting among those gods and goddesses, but also a bottom line: if they all want to survive, they're going to have to pull through and do it as a unit. Neil Gaiman's American Gods is on my TBR list, and I haven't started it yet, but this kind of reminds me of my preconceived notions of that somehow.

I'm also pretty intrigued by Shiva's non-elephant son, Kartikeya. His godly role is to "[lead] other gods in battles against demons," which sounds promising. I also think it could be interesting just to set up a royal family hierarchy that way: maybe the parent, once he's semi-retired, sits back and rules the kingdom he's got, while it's up to the kid(s) to go out and conquer more land for him to rule, or to protect what the family's already claimed. Paying your dues, in a way—all guts, no glory.

I'd also be completely down for a character redemption arc or even backstory inspired by this: "Some demons, like Mani, who ask for repentance, become deities in their own right..."

The video also raises the idea that local heroes became "village-gods" to their own people, deified by legend of their deeds. I think it's interesting how that speaks to legends of superhuman kings like Arthur, Glendower, and Beowulf, and there's some story potential with that, I think.

It also presents an interesting view of Greek mythology's pantheon: "The gods of Greek Mythology became masters of the universe by overthrowing the Titans, an earlier race of powerful beings, who in turn had become powerful by overthrowing the Giants."




Bibliography: "7 Secrets from Hindu Calendar Art - Chapter 1: Ganesha's Secret," by Epified TV. Source: YouTube.

Image Credit: Book Printing, by wilhei. Source: Pixabay.

Reading Notes: The Palace of Illusions, Part F

The first bit that struck me came from the section of the Mahabharata when Draupadi and the Pandavas have to disguise themselves and work in the palace of another king, and Draupadi claims she's married to some gandharvas that watch over her. I think it could be an interesting, darker twist on the guardian angel trope, if I removed the love-interest aspect and narrowed it down to one of them: "What's that about your husbands? They're gandharvas, half-men, half-gods? You say they're watching you at all times, even though you've been cursed and must be separated from each other? They're powerful and extremely hot-tempered?"

When I read through the PDE version of the Mahabharata, which focused more on the actions of the characters than their feelings and perspectives, I always thought Bheem was Draupadi's favorite of her husbands. Though that's kind of undermined in The Palace of Illusions (in more ways than one), I still feel like their connection is strongest and most interesting when she goes to him for help against Keechak: Together we created the plan the would destroy Keechak without betraying my husbands. Really, with her brains and his brawn and dedication, they made a great team.

Of course, this would also make for the core of an interesting story, and it spins off into its own thing pretty easily: When they found his smashed body the next morning, word spread like fire. It was gandharva magic! What else could destroy one of the foremost warriors of Bharat? A weeping Sudeshna would have had me burned as a witch, but she was too afraid of my spirit-husbands.

I'm also a huge fan of the dynamic between Krishna and Draupadi—Krishna and Krishnaa—and you really see that he's just as fond of her once they're reunited after the year in disguise: Earlier today, meeting him after so long, I'd wept, and he'd dried my tears—and then his. Now he sat behind me, so close that I could feel his breath on my neck. From time to time, as we listened to the priests' drone, he whispered an irreverent comment, forcing me into laughter.  I love how close they are, and how their friendship continues on without a hitch even after they're both married multiple times and have families and kingdoms of their own to rule.

This isn't exactly news, but I'm always a sucker for a good brother story, and Duryodhan's discussion of Balaram and his brother Krishna (and even D&D) really appealed to me: "I'm sure you're right: he thinks too highly of his brother's prowess. Can't blame him—they've been inseparable all through their lives, like Dussasan and myself. In any case, we've made our choice, and I never was one for doubting my decisions."

I think this idea of a character atoning for sins he hasn't yet committed is really compelling, too, almost in a Matt Murdock sort of way: But I knew Karna wasn't showing off—he had never cared to do so. Instead, by giving to the poor, he was atoning for his misdeeds and securing a place in heaven. No matter what he said to bolster Duryodhan's confidence, I could see that he didn't expect to live past the war. Nor—my heart constricted when I realized this—did he seem to want to do so.

Draupadi's tough-love, suck-it-up speech to the Pandavas when they had nightmares about the upcoming war with the Kauravas makes for a really interesting character sketch, too: "Of course there will be blood. Of course there will be death. As [warriors], isn't that what you've trained for all your lives? Are you afraid now?"

I think it could also be fun to do something with a character that's all made up of contradictions and internal conflicts, like this: Karna said nothing. Perhaps he wondered if Surya truly knew what his heart's desire was. So many yearnings clashed against each other inside him, he himself was no longer sure.

Also, because I'm a literal creature (I mean, figuratively), I found it really interesting when Draupaid mentioned that her daughter-in-law couldn't articulate her fears about the ear "because it might bring bad luck." The idea that fear can literally writhe around in the darkness and manifest itself as bad luck sounds like an entertaining concept to play around with.

The sense of foreboding here is perfect: I'd barely finished when a star detached itself from the black fabric of night and fell. My heart expanded at this good luck sign. The gods had answered me!
    I should have remembered how tricky the gods are. How they give you what you want with one hand while taking away, with the other, something much more valuable. Yes, fame would come to both the young men, and bards would sing of their exploits oftener than they sang of their fathers'. But when they did so, listeners would turn away to hide their tears.




Bibliography: The Palace of Illusions, by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni.

Image Credit: Night Sky, by Mhy. Source: Pixabay.

Reading Notes: The Palace of Illusions, Part E

The first snippet I'm taking inspiration from comes from this exchange between Draupadi and Karna, after Y has gambled them away: He looked back at me, his eyes steady. There was a waiting look on his face. I knew what he wanted: for me to fall on my knees and beg him for mercy. He would have protected me then. He had the reputation of helping the destitute. But I wouldn't lower myself to that, not if I died. I think it could be interesting to do a story involving a secondary character who's known for his generosity and helpfulness, when really, he's a cold bargainer who trades in complicated, intangible things.

There's also this, which could be a compelling character core for any kind of story: Is the desire for vengeance stronger than the longing to be loved? What evil magic does it possess to draw the human heart powerfully to it?

I'm also really interested in Draupadi's (admittedly biased) perceptions of why her husbands didn't rush forward and save her (it also reminds me of some of the lyrics to "Lydia" by Highly Suspect): I'd believed that because they loved me they would do anything for me. But now I saw that though they did love me—as much perhaps as any man can love—there were other things they loved more. Their notions of honor, of loyalty toward each other, of reputation were more important to them than my suffering. They would avenge me, yes, but only when they felt the circumstances would bring them heroic fame. A woman doesn't think that way. I would have thrown myself forward to save them if it had been in my power that day.

I would also kind of love to write a story around this, from Draupadi talking about Karna spurring Dussasan on: He knew he would regret it—in his fierce smile there had already been a glint of pain.

It could also be a ton of fun to build a crime story around this character: I'd thought myself above the cravings [for vengeance] that drove [my father]. But I, too, was tainted with them, vengeance encoded into my blood.

Draupadi's confession here is pretty compelling, too: "I know you want me to drop my hatred, Krishna," I whispered. "It's the one thing you've asked me for. But I can't. Even if I wanted to, I don't know how anymore." 

This new perspective on Bheem is fitting but still fresh, and could make for an interesting character dynamic as well: He wasn't deft with words like Yudhisthir, who could hold forth on philosophy for hours. He wasn't witty like the twins or declamatory like Arjun. But when we were alone, he told me things he'd never told anyone, acting out with gestures events for which he could not find expressions. His enemies, who knew him only as a whirlwind, single-minded and destructive, would have been astonished to see it.

Also, while Bheem's always been my favorite Pandava and I always thought his episode with the serpent king and the underworld was interesting, it's never had so many small, fascinating details ripe for spinning off: He fell for days through wetness into the underworld... [The snakes around him] bit him, as snakes are won't to do. Their poison canceled Duryodhan's. He sat up on a floor of green silt. Lazily, he took hold of a snake—two, three, twenty—and flung them to destruction. Someone informed the god of snakes. He rushed to kill the monster-child who was wreaking havoc among his subjects. What did he see that made him take the boy upon his lap instead and give him elixir to drink? And why did Bheem, the poisoned one, trust the king-god with his blue, striated face? He drank; the strength of a thousand elephants entered his body; the king released him into the currents that would lift him to the surface of the river so that he could go on to the heroism he was destined for.
    "I didn't want to leave," Bheem told me. "When he held me in his arms, it was so much sweeter than my mother's hugs, or my brothers'. In fact, I'd forgotten them already. I clutched the king's hand and cried, Keep me with you. He closed his glowing eyes and shook his head. But before he pushed me upward, he gave me a kiss."
    He held out his left hand and I saw what I'd never noticed before, a tiny red mark on the back of the hand, like a flower with two stamens, or a snake's forked tongue.

I also think this concept of dream seepage could be pretty special in its own way: There were things Arjun kept to himself. (Isn't it thus with all stories, even this one I'm telling?) But when you share a man's pillow, his dreams seep into you. And so I knew. 

Also, while I generally think Arjun is overrated, I find his sharp-jawed steeliness pretty compelling (and it reminds me here a little bit of Glen Murakami's Robin, if he'd been crossed with some of Jason Todd's destructiveness): What gave Arjun the power to resist her? Earlier I'd thought that it was for my sake. O vanity! Now in my dream I knew the truth. Arjun was determined to show the gods that he was stronger than their strongest enchantment, a worthy recipient of the astras they'd promised him. Against the sharp metallic seduction of instruments of death, what chance did Urvasi have?



Bibliography: The Palace of Illusions, by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni.

Image Credit: Dark River, by Pexels. Source: Pixabay.