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animal_quillsDecided to explore the self. I figure that if I learn something, so do you.
Transplanted from my journal.
Fleetfoot is.
For one, physically, fleetfoot can be reworded to "fleet of foot" or "swift of foot".
But I did not pick swiftfoot or swift of foot, because I am not fast. Physically I am not a great or even good runner. But it is a promise of a lifetime that I am going to improve.
I chose "fleet of foot" for myself because (I suppose rather unconsciously) felt it related to a word that accurately describes I.
Fleeting.
Such connotations as running away and swift are included within one single word -much like another of my favourites "farouche" (but that has little to do with this)- and I believe represent me in more ways than I realized when I chose the name some six or so years ago. (so little-unexperienced.)
I simply love feeling a cold wind whip my hair and face and support me until I feel I can close my eyes and forget that it is my body that is working to support me, or that I am the one running. Windblown is so much energy that I feel I can let myself be blown away on a silk string to the faraway blue clouds and drift across that vast mediterranean sea. It is hard to keep my eyes from fluttering shut when I let myself go, and it is hard not to drift almost immediately after I feel the pulse of adrenaline zimmer through my body, when I sprint through cool underwood, eucalypti, shrubs, and dusty earthen ground. I am a very bad runner..
This passion is perhaps the reason why I cut my hair to an almost abrupt length. After all, does short hair not fly easier in a breeze than long in the same day?
My life, for the most part, is a fleeting memory. All that I learn, all that I see, seems to disappear into a big mishmash brainplace I keep somewhere.. No matter if it is travelling, hurt, good memory, bad memory, etc. It takes a skilled magician to pull my memory threads out of this pensieve. And I move, change, shift, flit through personalities at such speeds that even I have little noninstinctual recognition to who is what and the present.
Chance is fleeting, and those I know change around many times before I can recall truly what happened. I am a very bad test taker, but a wonderful talker-thinker to myself. I could write out a book in my pensieve head and not one soul besides myselfs would know what went on inside my gooey mishmash head of mine.
I am a fleeting impression, and that impression is no more memorable than the touch of a butterfly left upon somebody's arm. One teacher only represents me with erasedness as heshe only has to recall my hazardously foggy face in time for school grading period. (farouche youngling time for me.) Most don't recall much about me other than these fleeting impressions of greatness or a undistinguished talent that fades in and out here and there. Perhaps they will recall a faint impression of a name, but by the time this one flees to another place/country/home, it will be of little use for no longer.
I am a fleeting semblance of coherence. In either languages that I speak, every detail is played upon to right the minute colour, and as such, this transparent little butterflysneaking fox is little noted in all but bad grammar. I am not a very good writer.
I am a fleeting sound of a note, seldom well played to anyone but myself. Perhaps a somewhat pride to my teacher, who is one few I let into me, (music being only soulful and rightly played with emotional passion, this I cannot avoid) and little seen to others. Occasionally, I'll let a two page solo drift through this daily hour, and audience will sit with mouthfuls of air until they remember to clap and that my last butterfly touch sound has disappeared into the bars of the last whole note. But this one is a tasteful passion that little can be shown until it is time.
That fleeting moment.
Fleetfoot is the joyful dance of wholeness, (or as many pieces of herimself that s/he finds about) the tender dew spilled on sweet grass and delicate spiderweavings. Fleetfoot is markedly erased, always shiftingchanging, the few precious last notes of a plucked music box spring... Fleetfoot is a muchedumbre of shadows and whirl of colours, but always deeper than they eye will percieve.
And yet, fleetfoot is very lazy.
Transplanted from my journal.
Fleetfoot is.
For one, physically, fleetfoot can be reworded to "fleet of foot" or "swift of foot".
But I did not pick swiftfoot or swift of foot, because I am not fast. Physically I am not a great or even good runner. But it is a promise of a lifetime that I am going to improve.
I chose "fleet of foot" for myself because (I suppose rather unconsciously) felt it related to a word that accurately describes I.
Fleeting.
Such connotations as running away and swift are included within one single word -much like another of my favourites "farouche" (but that has little to do with this)- and I believe represent me in more ways than I realized when I chose the name some six or so years ago. (so little-unexperienced.)
I simply love feeling a cold wind whip my hair and face and support me until I feel I can close my eyes and forget that it is my body that is working to support me, or that I am the one running. Windblown is so much energy that I feel I can let myself be blown away on a silk string to the faraway blue clouds and drift across that vast mediterranean sea. It is hard to keep my eyes from fluttering shut when I let myself go, and it is hard not to drift almost immediately after I feel the pulse of adrenaline zimmer through my body, when I sprint through cool underwood, eucalypti, shrubs, and dusty earthen ground. I am a very bad runner..
This passion is perhaps the reason why I cut my hair to an almost abrupt length. After all, does short hair not fly easier in a breeze than long in the same day?
My life, for the most part, is a fleeting memory. All that I learn, all that I see, seems to disappear into a big mishmash brainplace I keep somewhere.. No matter if it is travelling, hurt, good memory, bad memory, etc. It takes a skilled magician to pull my memory threads out of this pensieve. And I move, change, shift, flit through personalities at such speeds that even I have little noninstinctual recognition to who is what and the present.
Chance is fleeting, and those I know change around many times before I can recall truly what happened. I am a very bad test taker, but a wonderful talker-thinker to myself. I could write out a book in my pensieve head and not one soul besides myselfs would know what went on inside my gooey mishmash head of mine.
I am a fleeting impression, and that impression is no more memorable than the touch of a butterfly left upon somebody's arm. One teacher only represents me with erasedness as heshe only has to recall my hazardously foggy face in time for school grading period. (farouche youngling time for me.) Most don't recall much about me other than these fleeting impressions of greatness or a undistinguished talent that fades in and out here and there. Perhaps they will recall a faint impression of a name, but by the time this one flees to another place/country/home, it will be of little use for no longer.
I am a fleeting semblance of coherence. In either languages that I speak, every detail is played upon to right the minute colour, and as such, this transparent little butterflysneaking fox is little noted in all but bad grammar. I am not a very good writer.
I am a fleeting sound of a note, seldom well played to anyone but myself. Perhaps a somewhat pride to my teacher, who is one few I let into me, (music being only soulful and rightly played with emotional passion, this I cannot avoid) and little seen to others. Occasionally, I'll let a two page solo drift through this daily hour, and audience will sit with mouthfuls of air until they remember to clap and that my last butterfly touch sound has disappeared into the bars of the last whole note. But this one is a tasteful passion that little can be shown until it is time.
That fleeting moment.
Fleetfoot is the joyful dance of wholeness, (or as many pieces of herimself that s/he finds about) the tender dew spilled on sweet grass and delicate spiderweavings. Fleetfoot is markedly erased, always shiftingchanging, the few precious last notes of a plucked music box spring... Fleetfoot is a muchedumbre of shadows and whirl of colours, but always deeper than they eye will percieve.
And yet, fleetfoot is very lazy.
no subject
Date: 2007-06-06 02:56 pm (UTC)You are eloquent, and I like every bit you share. I relate more to you and some other fox people than any other supposedly canine folk. I've had many moments of "this sounds so corvine" and "hey this sounds feline" and "yet, it's actually vulpine" - is that the nature of fox, or more related to what seems like a sort of shapeshifting ability akin to kitsunes? Maybe a little of both; do tell me. ;)
Anyway. Great as always!
Looking forward reading more, any time.
no subject
Date: 2007-06-07 01:05 am (UTC)I personally don't know exactly how kitsunes in japanese were atributed this shapeshifting and rather transient, changing nature, (It would be something to look into.) but I certainly like this approach on foxes than the more traditional european view of "sneaky chicken stealers."
And I don't know any other fox people very well. I've seen one or two around from far, but I've never actually talked to them
no subject
Date: 2007-06-07 07:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-19 04:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-06 04:49 pm (UTC)I disagree. I think you write very well, very descriptively. Thank you for sharing this little piece of yourself! :)
no subject
Date: 2007-06-07 12:39 am (UTC)Descriptive is more of my sock.
Thank you.