"You shouldn't be afraid," she says, pulling a cigarette from a gold case in her purse. She offers me the smoke and waits for the briefest of moments before placing it between her own lips.

"Your loss," she shrugs, before taking a deep, long drag. Unfiltered. I turn away, feeling a phantom twinge of nostalgia in my undefined lungs, and I sense her eyes on me. She's playing -- she knows I've no taste for it anymore.

We exhale simultaneously, and the smoke hangs between us. Did some of that come from me?

"I was saying, you shouldn't be afraid. Letting go is not the end. It's becoming."

You don't understand, I want to say. I don't want to be you again, or never, or before. You're what I wanted to be, once, but now I want to be me. But it's too late. I haven't the strength, nor have I been able to speak for a very long time, now. I can only stare back at this, my past, my future.

She looks back through golden coils, like the signets scattered before Carthage -- a harbinger of doom.

I think, would it really be so bad?

And I know: one snip, one slip, and I unravel. The end.

I turn away once more, trying to ignore the weight of years of want. The sky is dark through the glass, deep and wet. A lost day, a day between days.

What do you do when you want to stop wanting?

The highlight of the week was definitely my return to the world of solid food on Wednesday. It was about two in the afternoon, and I'd been home alone contemplating making myself a sandwich but dreading the trip out into the cold to procure the needed ingredients. So instead I ended up curled on the couch with another bowl of applesauce, reading A. S. Byatt's Babel Tower. Like a guardian angel, Adam had suddenly appeared in the kitchen doorway, loaded down with plastic bags heaping with groceries.

"I come bearing good news," he announced, hamming it up. "There will be a grand banquet to commemorate this glorious occasion!" He held the bags up at his sides and winked, before disappearing back through the doorway.

I tiptoed into the kitchen, trying to get a glimpse of whatever he'd bought, but he was onto me.

"No fair peeking."

"Are you sure you don't need any help? You're not doing this alone, are you?"

"Honestly, Tara, I'm on top of it. This is fun for me."

Adam was a wizard in the kitchen, like he was in so many other ways. Every so often he'd whip up a meal that would have the rest of us screaming in thanks to whichever just and loving deity had allowed such divine food to exist. Back in the day, shortly after Adam and I had both dropped out of our respective schools, I'd toyed with the idea of suggesting that the two of us use my trust fund money to start up a restaurant. I knew inside that it would never have worked, though. With him it was always a matter of inspiration; he was probably the most brilliant and creative person I'd ever met, but he'd never been able to make things work unless he was in the mood. He was prone to long bouts of depression, during which he would be almost incapable of keeping his attention on any task long enough to finish it. Apparently, the onset of his concentration problems coincided with his family's emigration to New Jersey, and were probably the root cause of his failure in college. But when he was on, he was definitely on.

For most people, the flames of inspiration burn close to the surface. With Adam, it was the opposite. When he was in the zone, it was made obvious by supreme calmness and self-confidence. These moments were rare and often short-lived, but when they happened, the result--whether a painting, a song, a meal, or whatever--was usually unpredictable and extraordinary.

By the time Janice and David arrived (too simultaneous to be mere coincidence; a conspiracy revealed!), glorious aromas had filled the air throughout the house. I was back on the couch, having resumed my reading after being expelled from the kitchen. David appeared first, giving me a quick wave before bounding upstairs to deposit his bag. Janice showed up less than a minute later, carrying a brown paper bag in addition to her backpack. When she saw me, her face lit up with a mischievous grin.

"Libations!" I said, returning the smile.

Setting the sack on the coffee table, she pulled out a bottle of peach schnapps and a twelve-pack of Heineken. "Ayup. Real food won't be the only thing you're getting back on today. It's a celebration, after all."

"It sure is turning out that way. How long did you two know about this plan?"

"Just last night, after you went to bed. You know how Adam is--we were just talking and the whole idea suddenly came pouring out of his mouth. Totally spontaneous."

"Fifteen minutes!" came the yell from the kitchen.

This time the product wasn't a typical Adam meal, but only because he wasn't trying to invent anything new: instead, we were served a veritable feast of known Tara comfort foods: corned beef brisket with royal mushroom gravy, candied yams, macaroni and cheese. After days of tomato soup and oatmeal, it was simply divine.

It turned out that my stomach wasn't up to such a large first meal, and so I contented myself by sampling a little of everything and letting everyone else enjoy the food. Adam appeared to be a little disheartened when he realized. Janice, noticing, whispered, "He made a caramel cheesecake too. It's in the kitchen."

"Adam," I said, smiling, "there's always room for cheesecake."

"You were early." A faint shiver ran down her spine at the disembodied voice, though she knew instantly that it was Yuri, arrived in characteristic silence. Tasmin did not turn to look at him, but nodded quietly. The fact that it was already three minutes past six did not put the lie to his statement.

"What made you choose this place?" she muttered. "I hate this darkness. It dulls my mind."

"You should open your eyes a little. You'd be the better for it. I find this place, and these people... stimulating." He sniffed; whether out of disdain or congestion, Tasmin wasn't sure. She caught his form from the corner of her eye. He was stuffing a limp tissue into the pocket of his leather jacket. On the side of his face which was illuminated by outside light, Yuri's eye was bloodshot and wet, the veins at his temple bulging.

She looked toward the nameless shapes shambling through the darkness. "These people are shadows. They might as well be the whispered dead." And you, you are halfway there, she added in thought alone.

Yuri let out something like a nervous giggle--discomfort, or something... more? "I think... I think if you let the light in here... that you might be the one to disappear and they would remain." Another sniff.

There was nothing to say to that, so she remained silent.

They still had not spoken again when a tiny, kimono-clad woman brought a tray to their table. Yuri suddenly made a grabbing motion at her arm, or the tray--what his goal was didn't matter, as he missed both. Still, the tray completed the last centimeter of its journey without human aid, causing a great deal of noise but little damage. A few harsh, unintelligible whispers from Yuri and the newcomer was gone, scurrying back into the protection of shadow. Tasmin continued to ignore the proceedings, instead looking outwards, to the light.

"Well?" he asked. "This is it. Aren't you the least curious?" She heard the scrape of varnish against rough wood as he pushed something--a dish? a cup?--toward her, across the table. Even without looking she knew his hand was shaking.

She sighed, looking back towards Yuri. "Very well, if I must."

Tasmin glanced at the object below her, a plain, brown lacquer cup. Within it, a pool of viscous quicksilver reflected her gaze. She peered at her companion, who raised a newly-opened bottle of Asahi from the tray. A look of absolute glee had taken over his features, and silently, hands still uneasy, he poured the beer into the mercury. An identical vessel on his side required two attempts to fill, but no matter; there was plenty for their purposes.

Yuri had lost any semblance of control now, making no effort to suppress the fits of laughter firing from within his frail frame. Somehow, he managed to raise his cup to his face without any further spillage. Tasmin lifted her own to complete the toast.

"To new beginnings!" he cried, pounding his free hand on the table. If anyone else in the room heard his outburst there was no sign of it.

"To escape," she said, solemnly, and they drank.

I am a happy user of Movable Type. In fact, I've already bought two licenses for MT3.0D, one commercial and one personal. However, there are still things I'm doing that won't fit into either license, so I'm answer Mena's challenge and describing how I use this great piece of software.

I drive ne(one)piphany, my main website, with Movable Type. I have three "sub-blogs" on this site, one for the main content, one for longer, categorized works, and one for generic pages that don't fit under the other categories. In the future, I'd like to start a photoblog and an artblog at this same location (though those could be combined into either one separate blog or into the longer works blog -- depending on how much I wanted to write special case code for display of indices). This site fits easily into the terms of the MT3 personal license.

I use MovableType to drive a bunch of personal logging projects on my other, less-public website. These comprise a movie log, a book log, a restaurant log, and some other "toy" projects, which are put up on whims and usually stick around until I get tired of them. I may or may not ever make these public; sometimes they're just there as interesting toys that later find a real use. For example, one of those projects was a category-based cross-referenced photo album which I eventually used to generate the HTML for my high school 5-year reunion website. On this site, there's also a private writers' forum which I drive using MT as well. Though several folks contribute and read, only I have author posting privileges. Of course, these are all things I could do with other tools, both on and off the webserver. But I use MT because it does everything I need, and does it well.

The weblogs on that site are a little murkier under the terms of license -- though they all live under the same domain, they are not all accessible from the front page nor accessible from each other, nor can I really say that they are all part of a coherent whole. So I'm uneasy with assuming that these fall under acceptable use. On the other hand, it is really convenient to use the same CMS I use for my blogging for these side projects.

So two sites as far as licensing goes (ignoring my concerns above about the defiition of "one site at one URL"), and one author. So far, so good.

I also run a group blog, which is the category which is currently not covered at all under the current licenses. It evolved from a sort of fansite for a specific online game, but after the game went offline it evolved into something a little different -- not quite a fansite anymore, but a place where a few folks with a common bond can engage in freeform, whimsical and artistic expression. There are maybe 45 people on the authors list (in the interest of openness, I opened accounts to all interested), though I can't imagine that in any given chunk of time more than 4 or 5 are ever "active." Problem is, active numbers have gone up and down unpredictably over time. So first of all, there are far more authors than are allowed by any of the licenses (unless you count an add-on from the top personal license, which would be ~$500), and no flexibility on the lower end if I only wanted to "predict" how many would become active at any given time. And what if active authorship goes down?

The site is a labor of love, and if it can't be brought into compliance then I'll probably just shut it down. I don't have the energy to maintain multiple CMS installations just to run this site. Of course, I fully understand if sites like mine weren't meant to be allowed under MT. However, even if it doesn't include mine, I feel there still needs to be some provision for group blogging inder the MT license. I'm not talking about forums, or anything even remotely looking like slashdot. These are small, quiet sites that turn collaboration into something special, usually without any profit potential whatsoever, and for me at least figure into a lot of what made MT special in the first place. How many other tools "back then" dealt so elegantly with multiple authors? And yet, these are the types of projects most likely to be non-starters or fade away now that there's no place for them in the licenses.

Finally, before the new licensing clarifications were posted, I was in agreement with Jason Kottke's take on personal licensing. And I still am now. But I understand realities as well. I only hope that some way can be figured out to help keep the spirits of innovation and expression alive without denying Six Apart its just reward as well.

That's all I have to say! I've already put in my $270 for MT3.0D, so hopefully you'll at least pay attention to those two additional pennies. :) And as always, thanks for a great product! Even if I don't get to use it for everything I once did, I'll still use it, and happily.

I...

Where am I?

Dark, it's so dark. I can't see.

Are my eyes closed? Why can't I tell?

Flash: blue. A voice: "Remember." What?

Blue, a blue car.

Appearing as the faintest hint, a premonition, just around the corner. The light is blue, the sky is blue, the world is beautiful, idyllic. No need to see the blue car, but it's there, at the edge of my vision, nagging at me. Then, in slow motion, almost inevitably, emerging. A sound of steel against steel, and...

... this is not happening.

This was. And I know, know that he's gone: our baby, my baby, child of our love, my youth, my life. And –

Flash: red. A voice: "Remember." What?

Red, a red rose.

Peter holds out a rose, and I remember -- our fifth anniversary, here on the doorstep of our home -- a wet, hot, watercolour June evening. Heavy on the horizon, the sun glows as red as the flower. Peter's lovely surprise, one of many I know will remain unknown tonight, because I have one to trump his...

"I'm pregnant."

The rose is on the floor, and I in his arms, and –

Flash: yellow. A voice: "Remember." What?

Yellow, a yellow flame.

Quia respexit humilitatem

Christmas, it's Christmas vespers in the cathedral. Behind us the choir sings, but we pay it little heed. We have our own birth to celebrate this day.

aucillae suae.

We light votive candles, to our selves and to our God, a silent promise which seals our commitment to each other. Happy, oh happy, beyond words.

Ecce enim ex hoc beatam

One hour ago, he asked me to be his forever, and I said yes without knowing if I meant it. But now, I know, I do, I do...

omnes generationes

"I do." The words are soft, barely escaping my lips, but I feel his grip tighten on mine. And I can believe, right now, that love is forever, and ever, et nunc et semper et saecula saeculorum. Amen.

Flash: violet. A voice: "Remember." What?

Violet, a violet coat.

Her coat is violet, the only splash of colour at the wake. I don't know who she is, but I hate her, this nameless woman, she who refuses to conform in her mourning. For myself, for Mother, for... who is to say? There is no reason, except my need to rage at something, someone, anyone...

"Since your limbs were laid out
the stars do not shine!
The fish leap not out
in the waves!"

O, he is gone, he is gone, he is gone, he is gone –

Flash: green. A voice: "Remember." What?

Green, green grass.

My face in the lawn. I rub my nose in the greenery, taking in the fragrance of the freshly cut blades. My Sunday dress is ruined, stained by my verdant bed, and I know Mama will tan my hide, but here and now, there are no worries.

I know they're looking for me, so I lay still and low. And wait.

Exhale. Roll over onto my back, stifling a giggle.

The sky is green. Or is it orange? That's not right.

And still I wait –

Flash: orange. A voice: "Remember." What?

Orange, orange, orange...

Warm against her body, safe, I turn my head to see what is away, outwards. Shapes dance ahead of me, bright and colourful, and I reach my arms out to grab at them. Still too far. Out of my reach, they wave, some running away, others popping back in.

Not sure what I'll do once I get them, but I will. They can't run forever, can they?

Still –

Flash: black.

I've... been here?

Wait, no, I –

Flash: white. A voice; "Remember."

Light, there was light, when I...

... when I was...?

... was.

I.

Here I am.

"It is time," said Elspeth, and Hélène tried to rise. Her body, stiff from idleness and cold, did so only grudgingly. Suddenly aware again of her nakedness, she hesitated, unsure; but, from seemingly nowhere, Elspeth produced a white robe. Hélène gladly accepted the garment, wrapping it about herself. Silently and ghost-like, the priestess turned and headed back out into the hall, and Hélène followed.

Outside her cell, the air was damp. Though they stood in a corridor, light shone brightly through arched openings, high above. There was a draft, which brought with it aromas of sea and wood; wet, heavy smells that threatened to blot out the fragile orange flame before them. The wind itself took no heed of Hélène's new clothing, which protected little more than her modesty. Elspeth glided ahead, raven hair blown about, her footfall seemingly insubstantial as moonlight. Hélène's own feet, numb from cold, followed clumsily behind.

Finally, they arrived at a large set of wooden doors. Hugely immense, they towered at least twenty feet from the ground, unmarked except for a single, unblinking eye carved across their face. Perhaps it was a trick of the moonlight, but Hélène suddenly thought it could see her there, small and fragile.

She began, for the first time, to doubt her chosen path -- something she'd not done once during her long journey, or her days of isolation in the tower. Not once had she felt this weakness; so powerful had been her resolve. But here beyond these doors began the true journey, one nameless and unmapped, and she knew now that she feared it. As if reading her mind, Elspeth turned to face her, eyes inscrutable and dark. They were not the eyes of woman or of beast, but something older and unknowable; Hélène wondered whether they would be hers as well, someday. Biting her lip, she nodded, and Elspeth lightly pushed the doors, which opened as if blown by unseen bellows. As she passed, Hélène couldn't help but test one, and found it as substantial as it looked.

The room they entered was of a completely different character than those through which they had just passed. Instead of rough stone, it was richly adorned in polished black marble. Hélène couldn't make out the far walls, as the light was too dim and dimensions too spacious. Braziers sat towards the space's four corners, and did little to provide illumination and even less warmth. However, the oil was fragrant, and spoke of hearth and cooking-fire, and mountain meadows in summer. Thus the room, though cold as her cell had been, did not bother her for lack of heat. Nor was she assailed by wind, for once the doors swung shut behind them, the air was as still as in a tomb.

Above the floor's center was a high dome, beneath which sat a stone pedestal. Cut from marble as white as the rest of the room was black, it reflected orange firelight like a beacon. On top of it sat what appeared to be a crystal decanter, filled with clear liquid. Elspeth circled the stone, motioning for Hélène to approach.

"Are you aware of the nature of these symbols?" she asked, brushing her fingertips against the marble's edge.

Hélène could see designs, inlaid in gold around the rim of the circular pedestal. "They're the star-patterns of the gods," she replied.

The priestess nodded. "Twenty-eight in a circle, from Tinagar at the world's beginning to Varin at its end. This is what we call a plane of finding, and it is here that you will answer your calling, to the service of whatever god will have you."

There was no chance to question. Hélène had barely enough time to start considering the import of the priestess's words before she could feel flesh grasp her wrist, and see the flash of steel in the torchlight.

Hélène watched as the tip of the blade was run across her palm, slicing it quite easily. Almost immediately, red droplets began to well up; taking her hand, Elspeth held it over the decanter's mouth. One, two, three drops fell and mixed with the liquid within, deepening its color to crimson almost immediately. The grip relaxed, and she pulled away, only to find that her wound had closed without a trace.

Elspeth stopped the decanter, and set it, inverted, on the stone face. The stopper was cone-tipped, and yet -- incredibly -- stood on end, perfectly balanced. The priestess started to chant in a language Hélène had never heard before, a musical tongue which seemed to transcend sound and coalesce into light, centering on the crystalline vessel containing her blood. Slowly at first, but gradually increasing in speed, the decanter began to spin, and as it did, started to weave circular paths across the pedestal. Gradually, the light diminished, and the bottle began to sway. Finally, it all fell in a crash of glass and sound and color, spilling its contents across the marble's edge.

Hélène, transfixed by what she had just witnessed, did not even notice where her blood stained the inlaid design. Within seconds, it had vanished without a trace. Nor did she see the brief hint of relief that crossed Elspeth's face upon seeing it. In a moment, that too was gone, and the priestess's features were inscrutable once more.

"And so it is done. Welcome."

The dizziness had left her, but now her stomach was dancing. Anna wondered if it would always be like this. Surely he can’t try to sue every time, she mused ruefully. Howard had money to burn, but not nearly enough to waste on frivolous legal maneuvers. She knew that this first time had been a show of strength on his part – he’d already won the battle, and he’d wanted to rub her face in it. That was just his style.

She rested for a second, catching her breath and regaining her bearings. Albany was a lovely, clean airport, and not a very busy one; completely the opposite of Denver, where she had risked life and limb weaving through crowded terminals, barely making it to her connecting gate despite a brisk run. Chicago hadn’t presented that particular obstacle, but there’d been the thunderstorms – an hour’s runway delay in a warm, stuffy plane, poison to mind and body alike.

Now, there were only fifty yards to go. Taking a deep breath, she rounded the corner, passed security and entered the baggage claim area.

Anna saw them against the glass doors, backlit and indistinct, but Howard’s smirk was unmistakable. That was almost too much, after weeks of uncertainty: between when she had been served with those awful papers; and the court date, where – thankfully! – the judge had thrown out the lawsuit as completely frivolous. By then, it had barely been possible to get travel arranged in time, and still he’d had the gall to complain bitterly about driving in from upstate on a Saturday. “Short notice,” indeed!

Don’t look at him, she chided herself, as she continued her approach. He’s not the reason you’re here. Her eyes were inexplicably wet, and the sun still too bright, but she could finally make out what she’d waited months to see: that tiny shape, clutching her father’s leg, beautiful beyond words. Doubts came flooding back into her, fed by months of worry: Will she recognize me? Is she still my little girl? Anna was sure her mind would break in two if her fears were confirmed. She resisted a powerful urge to run, mostly because there was no way of telling which way her legs would take her.

And then her daughter saw her, and smiled, and Anna knew that it had all been worth it.

A flurry of footsteps, the first notable sound from within the building that night, marked her arrival. Winded and out of breath, her form emerged from the arch marked “SUBWAY.” It was just as unrecognizable as everyone else there, but the signature was clear. Alexa had always been just a little late to everything. With a sigh of relief, Jehanne ran to meet her friend for the last time.

“Of all the nights to cancel the express!”

“Last night you’ll ever have to worry about it,” said Jehanne, with more than a little wistfulness. “One train for another, again.”

“Story of my life,” Alexa replied. “One’ll get you three.”

Jehanne smiled. They had a secret language, these two, but she wondered if it would outlive their friendship. She decided not to follow that train of thought.

But there was no time for happy reminiscences or drawn out good-byes; Alexa’s tardiness had seen to that. Perhaps it was intended that way. Jehanne had spent a fretful night attempting to plan her farewell, never finding a satisfactory answer. Instead, there was only a moment; time enough for a silent, tight embrace, one which encompassed their years together than words ever could. Her eyes were full of tears when they separated.

“I’m so happy for you,” she whispered, and meant it; the first time, truly, since she’d started saying it.

“Thank you,” said her friend, her sometime sister, and her heart broke again.

Silently, they made their way toward the platform. Jehanne searched for words again, knowing that they wouldn’t come. Finally, when they had reached the train’s doors, she turned to her companion.

“It’s like the song, you know. ‘Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.’” Inside, she wondered if they would ever meet again.

Alexa turned away, and shook her head, her eyes hidden. “Friendship is thicker than blood. You’ll see.”

But sometimes, you still bleed, thought Jehanne. Friendship wasn’t thick at all; it was a gossamer thread, fragile to the faintest touch. She reached out, as if to grasp at its ephemeral beauty one last time, but it was too late – the doors had closed. Within, Alexa placed her fingertips on the glass, already a thousand miles away.

With apologies to Bhikku! Just extract the zip file and run, and right-click on the wheels to see more options. A little more flexible than the HTML version, they can float above or below your other windows, looking pretty and spinning their mantra into the ether while you happily type away at other pursuits.

Download 1.0.5 (82 KB)

1.0.5 (2003/05/04)

• Prayerwheels now places an icon in the system tray.
• App still appears in alt+tab list, but no longer in the taskbar.
• New option to control visibility of the system tray icon.

1.0.4 (2003/04/25)

• Bugfix release; should now work on all systems.
• Windows XP machines now show a translucent drop shadow behind the wheels.

1.0.3 (2003/04/23)

• Fixed a stupid bug where new installs of 1.0.2 wouldn't start up correctly.

1.0.2 (2003/04/21)

• New icon art, small versions shamelessly stolen.
• Window position is now restored between instances.
• Window position sanity check on startup and layout change.

1.0.1 (2003/04/14)

• Fixed the about dialog -- some systems wouldn't display it.
• Tweaks on the window region creation code.
• Cleaned up resource usage, vastly reduced file size.