tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-65167950698337662972024-03-05T23:37:53.149+00:00the taste of tuesdaysRosemary Cheethamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06359932769000965941noreply@blogger.comBlogger7125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6516795069833766297.post-66145150147849990342011-05-30T17:00:00.003+01:002011-05-30T18:41:25.433+01:00Endeavour.Regular readers (ha!) of my twitter will be aware that I have been monitoring the last space shuttle missions almost religiously. Why? <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://live.spaceflightnow.com/news/images/ni1105/29undockingpre_400266.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://live.spaceflightnow.com/news/images/ni1105/29undockingpre_400266.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image from <a href="http://spaceflightnow.com/shuttle/sts134/110529fd14farewell/">Spaceflight Now</a></td></tr>
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Well, as I look at the incredible achievement of not only those brave men piloting Endeavour back home from her last encounter with the International Space Station but also the dedicated ground crews at Mission Control, the teams of engineers and visionaries from dozens of co-operating nations responsible for contributions spanning almost every boundary imaginable, I think it is immensely important to remember what it is we have done there as a species. Our ventures out of our atmosphere are not only a testament to our potential, our ambition and determination, but also to our deep-rooted need, a spiritual one, I believe- to feel a part of something far bigger and greater than ourselves. To feel that we are becoming better, growing and learning. What I believe the exploration of space provides, beyond the knowledge and the wonder and the beauty of the curve of the earth turning slowly beneath a patchwork space station is the one thing we need the most. Hope.<br />
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You only have to look at the news for the briefest of moments to drown in evidence of just how far we have to go and how much we have yet to learn and relearn until finally it sticks- but in the sight of those majestic machines, each a silhouette of potential itself standing tall and poised on the launchpad, and then with a tiny point of light whirling overhead at 7,706.6 metres a second, we've made a small but significant start.<br />
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And then I remembered this quote from Carl Sagan, which probably says everything I want to say:<br />
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<blockquote>In our tenure on this planet we've accumulated dangerous evolutionary baggage — propensities for aggression and ritual, submission to leaders, hostility to outsiders — all of which puts our survival in some doubt. But we've also acquired compassion for others, love for our children and desire to learn from history and experience, and a great soaring passionate intelligence — the clear tools for our continued survival and prosperity. Which aspects of our nature will prevail is uncertain, particularly when our visions and prospects are bound to one small part of the small planet Earth. But up there in the immensity of the Cosmos, an inescapable perspective awaits us...<br />
National boundaries are not evident when we view the Earth from space. Fanatical ethnic or religious or national chauvinisms are a little difficult to maintain when we see our planet as a fragile blue crescent fading to become an inconspicuous point of light against the bastion and citadel of the stars.</blockquote>Rosemary Cheethamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06359932769000965941noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6516795069833766297.post-21158649975467641562011-05-12T19:56:00.000+01:002011-05-13T21:25:45.160+01:00Interviewed!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglfKRDiGw7sVmtft_0a8I_azERtZh3_fiyRJnR_ZNo6lEVb5HiJk8b9aLCU5pKL8xlkUMmC_bMrQ-g980dL0aHYl1FP-oEKf06FD5tDJPHOWQ_-uHzU0pHNqPIDUsYkA1Y1ipkulUa/s1600/WEWO_02_23_03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="313" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglfKRDiGw7sVmtft_0a8I_azERtZh3_fiyRJnR_ZNo6lEVb5HiJk8b9aLCU5pKL8xlkUMmC_bMrQ-g980dL0aHYl1FP-oEKf06FD5tDJPHOWQ_-uHzU0pHNqPIDUsYkA1Y1ipkulUa/s400/WEWO_02_23_03.jpg" /></a></div><br />
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I was interviewed about my job as a comic book colourist amongst other things by writer extraordinaire Molly McIsaac for comics website iFanboy. What an experience! <strike>I'm not entirely sure why the images ended up being quite so blue-shifted.</strike> Anyway, if you're interested, <a href="http://ifn.by/j3xsC9">check it out</a>!<br />
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I have a public gallery of samples over at my facebook, and at some point I'll probably consolidate them somewhere more sensible. In the meantime, to see the work as I originally intended you can do one of two things.<br />
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1. Buy Weird Worlds!<br />
2. Go <a href="http://tinyurl.com/6l4p4td">here</a>.Rosemary Cheethamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06359932769000965941noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6516795069833766297.post-68299426228265340202011-02-16T16:55:00.003+00:002011-02-16T20:35:46.185+00:00Pancake Planets!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://tasteoftuesdays.blogspot.com/2011/02/pancake-planets.html#more" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVae953VCaDe0tQU9dIhGLE3PdRqPMnKr06Hb0b5bVZlMmh9ob91W4cz6GNJ0Qv88Vv24J5yMokhzr4jwP3zz7w070qRqj8oSTYI_UWXj7CycKb6nrtLvjHWyRcqTELpBih4Ze_umi/s400/tutorialheader.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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That's right. I'm making pancake planets, and you know you want to make one too :D<br />
It's a good excuse to make pancakes if nothing else?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeb_Szv1K_nHoD9JPM164Do3FLnc_5wgQwzTuj1lBonV04wKLwfDCTZN4B-e8r36ny55dkZNDOTBEXDgJKEYQ6GlIF_sDozxjmWEJp0nF-4Z_Ot1OjXIqCw9z9WoT56Nrxon4M3izq/s1600/pancaketutorial.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeb_Szv1K_nHoD9JPM164Do3FLnc_5wgQwzTuj1lBonV04wKLwfDCTZN4B-e8r36ny55dkZNDOTBEXDgJKEYQ6GlIF_sDozxjmWEJp0nF-4Z_Ot1OjXIqCw9z9WoT56Nrxon4M3izq/s1600/pancaketutorial.jpg" /></a></div>Rosemary Cheethamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06359932769000965941noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6516795069833766297.post-27350333906387097352011-01-15T14:23:00.002+00:002011-01-15T15:33:39.203+00:00Iron Rose Fails At Blogging<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0KGQlyLWdlXEv2f1EymwDkljnq_DXZ5OpaM82pKUdvc4Ezlgxb0pG6MK15egeqxmImykvQs5lDpZt4uyLuAo3yEp43-O_2cu-nMZ1RaXwuIsbbm7GEA9D3_Wx1i1JFLZpKaksg_kA/s1600/IronRose.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0KGQlyLWdlXEv2f1EymwDkljnq_DXZ5OpaM82pKUdvc4Ezlgxb0pG6MK15egeqxmImykvQs5lDpZt4uyLuAo3yEp43-O_2cu-nMZ1RaXwuIsbbm7GEA9D3_Wx1i1JFLZpKaksg_kA/s640/IronRose.jpg" width="448" /></a></div>I realise it's been a long time since I last updated the blog. I've got a lot to write about- my latest trip to New York, for example, and the release of my first published work. I'm a little busy right now, but in due course I intend to write about:<br />
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TRON: Legacy<br />
Being On A Boat (And Then Meeting The I'm On A Boat Guy)<br />
The Spider-Man Musical In Which No-One Died <br />
I Love You, Phillip Norris (And Jim Carrey)<br />
...and so on. In the mean time, have this picture. It's me as Iron Rose, as drawn by the fantastic Kevin Maguire. I coloured it right back in April, and at some point, I'll re-do it. After I'm done with Tanga, maybe!Rosemary Cheethamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06359932769000965941noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6516795069833766297.post-11135868931227156322010-12-26T03:13:00.005+00:002010-12-26T03:34:51.599+00:00Kutabare! Or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Language BarrierHello! Me again. Happy Boxing Day!<br />
Today, in a somewhat continuity-friendly fashion, I thought I'd tell you about the time I was cruelly tricked into telling my Japanese host-mother to go fuck herself.<br />
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We pick up the story from about a week since the <a href="http://tasteoftuesdays.blogspot.com/2010/12/very-christmas-story.html">disasterous octopus murder</a>, of which I was an unwilling participant. We'd started getting to know each other, and various members of the extended family had come over on various different evenings to Come Meet the Foreign Girl. It was a little like being an animal in a zoo crossed with a princess- and to be quite honest, I loved it. I adored the attention and praise I received for the tiniest accomplishment. Look! The Foreign Girl can use chopsticks! She performs 45 degree bows! She covers her mouth when she laughs! She sits in <i>seiza</i> (that odd kneeling position with your feet tucked under your bottom that the Japanese are fond of for no discernible reason) for the <i>entire duration of dinner</i> despite it quite clearly being excruciatingly painful, and she smiles through her distress!<br />
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For my part, I learned small snippets of language, picked up on the odd family feud between Grandma and her sour spinster sister, and actually ended up getting to feel really quite close to the wonderful family that had taken me in. Most of all though, it was my not-Mum. <br />
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Tiny, delicate, stereotypical without any of the fakery, she was everything you could wish for in a host mother. She taught me how to make sushi, occassionally called me over to carefully place flowers in my hair, dressed me up in her beautful antique kimono and fed me the most exquisitely prepared meals I have ever seen. I didn't tell her I had a kind of seafood allergy (it's <i>only</i> an intolerance, really, after all), because I was sure it would have broken her generous heart not to have been able to bestow these precious culinary gifts upon me. The consequence was a few nasty breakouts and a lot of delicious, delicious food that was all the tastier for the knowledge that it would make me pay for its succulent bounty later.<br />
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Anyway.<br />
For the first couple of days, not-Mum used to shoo me and the rest of the family away after dinner was finished, shut herself away in the kitchen and only emerge after every last dish was washed, dried and replaced in its space. Being a lazy little so-and-so, this would have been an ideal arrangement for me if it wasn't for a tiny but all important detail: for the first time in my life, and I'm aware of how awful that makes me sound, I genuinely <i>wanted</i> to do the washing up. I wanted to show my appreciation- and when the extent of your language ability is Hello, My Name Is, Good Morning, Good Night, Thank You and patches of the lyrics to the Japanese version of the Grand Old Duke of York, you're kind of limited when it comes to expressing gratitude. "And when they were up they were up" doesn't quite cut it. So, setting my firm foreign jaw and narrowing my wide foreign eyes in determination, I decided I would do the washing up. Even if I had to sneak past her to do it.<br />
She didn't seem to mind the intrusion at all- in fact she seemed delighted by my interest in the Japanese Art of Tea Towel Folding and so on- to the point where as we stood in the sparkling cleanliness of her kitchen, everything done and completed, that when she said Thank You, it felt like an earth-shattering event. Like I had genuinely done something that she felt deserved gratitude- not an empty thing at all. It was a moment of understanding; of Togetherness. Of, if you will, <i>Henosis</i>.<br />
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To help you understand the next bit, dear reader, I'll have to skip back a few days, to a brief exchange I'd had over email. I had a Japanese friend- a penpal, really, though I don't think anything written with a pen ever exchanged hands. He did once send me a pressed flower, but I'm fairly sure, especially given the events that were to follow, that it was something his mummy had made him do. <br />
Anyway, I'd asked him to fill in a few blanks in my Japanese language vocabulary, carefully memorising the words he listed for me and waiting eagerly like some kind of big cat predator for a conversational opening to pounce on.<br />
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Here was my Big Chance. I didn't have much cause to use the Japanese for You're Welcome, or It's My Pleasure, No Biggie, Ach, Don't Worry About It, It's No Bother... but here it was. I was about to produce another trick that would earn that Look-at-the-foreign-girl approval I was utterly and irrecoverably addicted to. I was going to crown this moment of joy with a memorable accomplishment.<br />
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I said the word my little penpal had told me meant somewhere in between Really, It's Nothing and No No, Thank <i>You</i>-- and like a cartoon, literally like something you'd see on Looney Tunes, the colour drained from my host mother's face, top to bottom.<br />
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You see, my adorable little penpal had taught me the word <i>kutabare</i>, which roughly translated, is a slightly archaic command to drop dead. To kill yourself. To go to Hell.<br />
Simply put, it's the imperative form of the verb 'to fuck oneself'. <br />
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I gaped, horrified. Something was terribly, terribly wrong.<br />
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And then, bless her, bless that wonderful, wonderful woman, she laughed. She pulled me into her arms just as the tears were beginning to prick at the corners of my eyes and gave me a very un-stereotypical warm, loving, accepting and forgiving hug.<br />
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See, I learned a lot that day. The beauty of an understanding, accepting relationship and all that, sure. But I think the most important thing I learned was that I should really just get over myself and try out words I wasn't quite sure of, grammar structures I had no real grip on, whatever. Just do it. Try it. Because what else could possibly go wrong? What could I possibly say that could be worse?<br />
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Once you've told your host mother to go fuck herself, the fear of using the wrong form of a verb kind of loses its power.<br />
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Besides, I had my revenge. When the little bastard wrote me an email telling me he was soon to visit London, I told him to keep his eyes open for a wonderful free magazine, full of all kinds of tips and tricks-- called <i>The Big Issue</i>.Rosemary Cheethamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06359932769000965941noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6516795069833766297.post-77612293901890441132010-12-24T16:02:00.005+00:002010-12-26T03:42:34.637+00:00A Very Christmas StoryI lied. I don't really do Christmas very well. <s>I much prefer my birthday, when I'm the only one getting presents</s>. Instead, I thought I'd write about the very first friend I made in Japan, and how I ended up being responsible for his death.<br />
Merry Christmas!<br />
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When I was 15, I decided Japan was the place for me. I'd never been, but that was where I belonged. So with the help of my parents I made contact with a family in Japan who were willing to look after me for three weeks.<br />
I didn't speak Japanese particularly well, I didn't know what these people looked like, and I hadn't even spoken to the family I was going to be staying with. For added hilarity, once I'd turned up at Heathrow (on my own, naturally), I discovered my passport was out of date. I phoned Dad in floods of tears, as you do, and he told me to just try getting through on it, and to deal with getting a new one once I got to the other side. Sound advice, dad.<br />
So my first ever solo plane journey, to a place I'd never been, on an expired passport. Somehow, though, I got through security and onto the plane- even with my crippling inability to tell a believable lie. Hard to imagine now, after 9/11- though I keep hearing reports of people forgetting they've got a loaded gun in their bag and still getting on board, so who knows.<br />
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I still remember flying over Japan, which is quite an accomplishment for someone with an atrocious memory like mine. Tiny, tiny pockets of civilisation springing up wherever deep green mountains weren't. Mountains! We don't have any in England. It was beautiful.<br />
And then the plane flew over where I was going to be living- Nagoya. Grey, boring, deliciously disappointing, it satisfied my craving for disillusionment.<br />
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Anyway, the landing, passport control, baggage reclaim etc went without incident, and being quite a small airport (this was before the more modern one was built) it wasn't long before I was out into that terrifying corridor where you hope someone's waiting for you with a card with your name on. No-one was.<br />
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You know, I think awful airport experiences follow me? Anyway.<br />
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Eventually I met up with the family who'd adopted me, and they took me home- to a village some way away from the city, right by the beach. There was an earthquake that night, the first one I'd ever experienced. In retrospect, it might have been a Sign.<br />
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In the morning we went fishing on a boat in the bay, bathed in the odd pink light of pre-dawn. It was cold and unspeakably beautiful, and I couldn't quite believe I was there.<br />
Anyway. I didn't really know these people, they didn't know me, and we communicated mostly through gesture. We managed, though, and I got the impression they were rather lovely (which they were). My host dad beckoned me over, patted me on my life-jacket padded back, and presented me with a fishing rod, beaming. I beamed back, took it in hand, and tried to explain that I had absolutely no idea what to do with it, armed only with one handed gestures. He put the bait on the hook thingy, mimed the thing you do where you flick the rod and the line goes out, and I did it. I did it! It worked! I had earned the approval of my not-dad!<br />
Suitably impressed, he went to deal with his own lines, and I was left to bask in my own success.<br />
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For a long while, nothing happened. I hear this is fairly typical experience, and I wasn't too worried about it at the time, just enjoying being out on a boat (a boat! A real one!) with the sun coming up, stillness, quiet. I might have had some kind of Japanese spiritual awakening and started writing poetry if I hadn't been distracted by a <i>tugging on the line</i>.<br />
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I'd accidentally caught something. Now what?!<br />
I called my not-dad over, gesticulated wildly- and he helped me reel in my catch.<br />
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See, I'm not actually a great fan of fish. I guess I only really have sympathy for things I find cute? Not sure. But I hadn't caught a fish. Clinging to the bait on the end of my line was the tiniest, cutest baby octopus I'd ever seen. Admittedly the first I'd ever seen, but I've seen a few since then and this one was undoubtably the best.<br />
Not-dad laughed and used one of the few Japanese words that just about anyone with a passing interest in the country knows, say it with me: <i>kawaii</i>, and I nodded vigorously, delighted- and let him deposit the little squirming ball of adorableness in my hand. He was smaller than my palm, brown-purple and lovingly docile. Balancing the rod against the rail carefully I rummaged in my pocket for my camera, at which point not-dad returned, took my little friend, placed him on the deck and hit him with a stick.<br />
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It was the shape of things to come.Rosemary Cheethamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06359932769000965941noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6516795069833766297.post-80477664901586067382010-12-23T19:03:00.012+00:002011-01-15T14:46:01.469+00:00First Post, Probably to be Deleted Later but Who KnowsI've been thinking about doing this for a while. I tweet, I throw Things I Find Interesting up on facebook, and occassionally I write something that at least I consider vaguely amusing.<br />
It's not exactly enough to base a blog off, though, is it? That's what I told myself anyway, every time I thought it might be a bit of a laugh to start one of these things. Besides being a strong contender for gold in Britain's 2012 Disappointment Olympics (the gruelling procrastination pentathalon being my main event), I just don't do anything worth writing about. As Martin Freeman's John says in that brilliant scene in the BBC's new Sherlock series, a tight little smile on his face: "Nothing ever happens to me."<br />
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And then it did.<br />
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Sadly I haven't been caught up in a whirlwind of crime, clues and cheekbones with the delightful Benedict Cumberbatch (What a name. Could it be more British?), but I have found myself propelled into the weird and wacky world of comic book creation which is probably just as much fun- and so far, doesn't require tolerating a flatmate who keeps severed heads in the fridge.<br />
It's been a mad journey, and I suppose much of my reason for starting a blog is to document what's still left to come: in January, the release of the first issue of my first published work, in February, my 25th birthday. March, my first comic book convention as a published professional, (which, incidentally, will mark a year since I met Kevin Maguire, to whom I owe so much) my first visit to Chicago, the first time my work will appear on the cover of a comic book... it all just feels utterly unreal.<br />
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I'll probably end up writing more about meteor showers, clockwork, the allure of Tony Stark, my love of science, science fiction, 1920s fashion, birds, creepybeautiful music and various other brown paper packages tied up with string... if I write anything at all in between procrastination training sessions. It's a gallant start, none the less.<br />
To blogging!<br />
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Now, where's the rum?Rosemary Cheethamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06359932769000965941noreply@blogger.com0