Touch the treasure if you dare!

Don't ask me. I have no idea why I have friends who summon me to cursed sarcophagi to risk the wrath of the mummified dead. But risk the wrath if you wish--you are then cursed with gems, adornments and bits of...mummified flesh. Hrm.

In other news, I finally decided to invest in another of Draconic Kiss' "Poe-lita" outfits. I started with "Annabel Lee", of course, because it's the bloodspattered one, and also, that's one of my favorite of his poems.

Since the gathered gentles went a bit...insane with tipping--not that I'm complaining!--during the Day of Music celebrating Caledon's two years on the grid (HUZZAH CALEDON!!), I felt I was allowed, and finally decided on "Tell-Tale Heart". (Though most of the unexpected largess? Is going to go into rent. Hee.)

I love the deconstructed-skirt look, I do. The "Tell-Tale" dress is cut very closely to the body, in tones of black, charcoal, and red, of course, but the skirt is essentially a deconstructed hoop frame over black bloomers. Quite scandalous in some settings.

But the hair in the advert, the hair wasn't one that Miss Lioncourt had designed. (I know, I looked). So I made bold to ask. She told me it was Refugee hair.

For the life of me, I could not track down Refugee yesterday, and finally gave up.

How'ver, today, Miss Neome ventures, might it be Refuge that was meant? And so it was. Took me a bit to track it down, but I do believe it is their "Chloe" hair.



This is the white version of "Chloe", I believe the same hairstyle as seen in the "Tell-Tale" advert at Draconic Kiss, on me in the Refuge main store. (Unedited--but it doesn't look *bad*, bad, and I did catch it and adjust it for later pics.)



And this is the "Chloe" in black, on me, in SiniStyle's main store. After editing for my head size, and position. Simple little tweak, hardly anything. It's a very sleek and flattering style.



This is another view. (If you haven't figured out, it's not the full "Tell-Tale"--it is the skin, though. The dress is Draconic Kiss' "Hana" EGL dress. And I finally at long last bought her arm and leg braces, so you can also see her lower arm braces on my arms.)

There was a moment of genuine, heart-striking fear--oh, no, not in the SiniStyle sim, no no. Yesterday morning, when I went to see if there was anything new I wanted to demo out in Cake:



Now, I realize, I'm not far from "newbie" status m'self, I haven't been on the grid two years yet. But if this is the future of newbies? I'm very, very scared.

This picture actually improves this fellow's general look--he actually, in person, has a much smaller head than this picture makes him look like he has.

And that's a Coca-Cola bear on his shoulder.

And the necklace? Blingtastic.

My Lord Stiv, save us...oh, right, you're busy learning LAW, I forgot. *rolls eyes*

This? Sounds like it's going to be grim.

And then I crashed, and I came back, and I could no longer see the conference, so I relogged, and I crashed on the way out...and when I came back--

[2:27] Fawkes Allen: Emi got sent elsewheres!
[2:27] Neome Graves: Problems, Emi?
[2:27] Neome Graves: Nuuu!
[2:27] Emilly Orr: Yiss
[2:27] Emilly Orr: Lemme figure this out
[2:28] Emilly Orr: The Lindens, in their infinite something, have sent me to....
[2:28] Emilly Orr: El Dorado.
[2:29] Neome Graves: .....
[2:29] Fawkes Allen smirks
[2:29] Fawkes Allen: Golden City!
[2:30] Neome Graves: The lost city of gold!
[2:30] Emilly Orr: It's right here
[2:30] Emilly Orr: It's not lost



[2:32] Fawkes Allen: Is there gold?
[2:33] Emilly Orr: I don't know
[2:33] Emilly Orr: But I'm staring at this carving on the stone that says, 'You've found El Dorado'
[2:33] Emilly Orr: And apparently textured vegetable protein
[2:33] Emilly Orr: So yay, at least I'll be able to eat
[2:33] Emilly Orr blinkblinks
[2:34] Neome Graves: o.O
[2:34] Emilly Orr: I'm SOOO going shopping at Sine Wave
[2:34] Neome Graves: That is just wrong.



I couldn't figure it out. So I thought, well, let's go to Sine, because we'd heard they had new dances in; because I was somewhat in a mood; because I was tired of being ported to strange places on the relog.



And boy, has Sine Wave grown. I may end up with Cover Girl (L$250), among many others, but...Adoration (L$300) was positively illegal:



There's no way I can dance this one in Caledon! I'd be...arrested! Or given a Scarlet Letter or something.

Guh, though...



How'ver, they're also trying to break into the pole-dancing market. And from what I saw? They're doing a damned good job.

And they now have some traditional Chinese dances:



This one is called "Butterfly Blade" and it retails for L$200. It's a very traditional fan dance. Lovely animations, smooth and liquid, and ideal for twin fans, though--as you can see--it can be done with one fan.

So, at some point, I need all the fan dances. And maybe Adoration. And then, not to go back to Sine Wave...

...until the next time they have new dances.

*hangs her head*

I'm a Sine Wave addict. It's so sad.

when I'm done with thinking, then I'm done with you.
when I'm done with crying, then I'm done with you.
when I feel so tired, then I'm done with you.
everybody feels this way sometimes, everybody feels this way--

The night's dark, and it's cold. I stand on the streetcorner and I look up and watch the moon go dark. I remember nights where this bothered me. I remember nights where I rejoiced. I remember nights where I never gave a thought to it, I was busy with other things.

It happens so often. Anyone can get distracted. Not notice. Be occupied with something else in the life. It's life, after all. So much goes on in a life.

and I do.
you can't hear it, but I do
you can't hear it, but I do

The night's dark, and it glitters. The lights dance around me, red, hot orange, bright green, glowing blue. We dance, through the colored lights, moving to the beat which compels us to move faster, moving until sweat runs from our limbs like rain and the drums command every heart to beat in pattern. We are together in this, the flame crackle is what all our ears hear, the night song moves us all as the drums beat and the dancers step to the pattern we all know.

The dance is life. The dance is survival. The dance is the choice to live again.

you're trying to convince me that what I've done's not right.
I get so frustrated, I stay up every night.
you ask me for an answer, and I'm so tired and I'm up in the air,
I'm up in the air
you know, everybody feels this way sometimes, everybody feels this way--

Light and shadow, dark and bright, we are all these things. I say I live in the shadows, out of the light, and that's largely true. That doesn't mean where I live is wrong. That doesn't mean where I live is evil. That doesn't mean I spread out from the heart of it, corrupt and indistinct, pretense of love gone viral, pretty mask hiding damnation.

No one's damned, unless they want to be. There's always a choice.

and I do.
you can't hear it, but I do.
you can't hear it, but I'm feeling this way
just because you say:

And yes, sometimes that choice hurts. Life hurts. Sometimes life deals us greater hurt than any single entity could ever do; and it takes time to come back from that pain, more time to reach the point where inhaling doesn't feel like drowning, where movement isn't agony.

But it can be done. Day by day. Hour by hour, if need be. And we, we social creatures we, we living members of the same consciousness, we cannot do it alone. We die if we try.

Though that, that is our choice, too.

I will be ignored.
I will be denied.
I could be erased.
I could be brushed aside.
I will get scared, and I will get shoved down,
but I feel like I do because you push me around--

And I go to Morgaine to remember how to breathe. I go to Rivula to remember how to smile. I go to Penzance to remember decisive action. I go to my loves to remember how to heal.

And everywhere, everywhere I go, I carry with me what I know, what I don't know, what I'm learning, what I've forgotten. And I've left the train wreck behind.

I'm starting to ignore you, I've doubted you so long.
I'm tired of over-thinking, I know you don't belong.
now I'm asking questions--no one pushes me around.
everybody feels this way sometimes, everybody feels this way--

I know it's there, it won't leave. It's too much a part of me. I know it will roll down the tracks again, at some point, if for no other reason than it's the largest symbol I have in my arsenal symbol-set, all those ideas and concepts and broken dreams.

But it's not rolling now. It's not moving. I'm moving. And I'm moving forward.

You may not see it, but I am. You may not understand it, but I am. You may not approve, but I am.

And you're only left behind if you want to be. You can choose to travel and learn--with me, or learn by yourself, or learn from others on the same path. Or you can stay and nurse your hurts where the hurts started.

It's your choice. It was my choice, too.

And I chose to listen to pain for far too long. Now I listen to the world.

and I do.
you can't hear it, but I do.
you don't seem angry, but I do.
I do.

(Lyrics are from Lisa Loeb's song I Do.)

Do not go here.

Oh, you want a reason? Well, then.

First, I've been standing in place, not moving, for twenty minutes; the sim is still not done rezzing in. Partially, perhaps even mostly, this is because the rocks, the trees, the very soil of the sim itself--are all SCULPTS!

ARE THEY INSANE?!?! They have to be. They have to be taking serious Second-Life-altering drugs.

It's not even worth waiting for the art to rez in, either, for all it's very impressive--



Because it's one hundred and eight prim!! I mean yes, it's beautiful, and yes, it does make quite the visual impact. But really--ONE HUNDRED! AND EIGHT! PRIMS!

And also it's behind a wall:



So really. Honestly. Don't come here.

Want more reasons why not to come here? I was standing, in the last picture, next to a butterfly-spouting pink tulip, and could barely move. So I turned, to face a barely animated glade, and my frames per second surged to the blinding forward speed of...*breathless pause*...1.3 fps! Astounding!



Yes, I'm being sarcastic.

That's just slightly over one frame per second, for those not keeping score at home. If you need a local reference for such numbers, dear friends, let me put it this way--were you to find a two-hour motion picture moving at this speed, you'd need a goodly supply of food and tea, and perhaps a very comfortable chair, and certainly a blanket, because you'd need a little less than sixty hours, I believe, to watch the film.

A hand-crank operated Nickolodeon machine is faster than the frame rate I have now. Phaugh.

(Though I do heartily recommend reading the artist's profile, the one who created the one-hundred-plus prim Icarus? Because there are moments of sheer joy to be found, reading the words of Nomasha Syaka.)



After yesterday's Wake-that-Wasn't, some few of us gathered at a seaside pub named the Salty Mermaid. I didn't catch where it was; I was in something of an odd mood, not bad, necessarily, just wondering about the oddity of the wake and the survival propensity of certain Expedition members.

[Insert from the Editrix: it turns out this is an establishment in Kittiwickshire, owned by the reknowned Professor Oolon Sputnik. Lovely little place.]



I think I was fine until I asked for a drink. And mine was...glowing green, and reminded me oddly of apples and citrus in taste, but...looked like cavorite blended with ice. It started to levitate, and I grew worried, and Miss Neome said, oh, that sounds like fun...

So I gave mine to her.



I'm not sure that was any better. Because she couldn't get close enough to *catch* it so it would *stop* floating!

Odd drinks in the Salty Mermaid. But a very clean, efficient space, and close enough to the docks to retain that lovely crisp salted-air smell. I'll have to go back when they're not stocked with odd floating fruit drinks...

Such a busy few days, in their own way.



Last night, Wulfenbach Consulate members went to the Sea Song/Trillium Frame Gallery, which is--at least at present--set in a *very* old-growth forest, redolent with scents of leaf decay and damp bark. Here, Frau Lowey and I stand in dappled-sun shadows between the great trunks.



It's just...gorgeous, there's no other word. There's just no other word. Forget the art--just stand in the space and breathe in. Let the world sing and hum around you. Trust me, it's worth the time.



Down a cobbled ramp between two large trees, I found a lower-level gallery. Some of the images seemed...well, childish and unsettling in nature (Spongebob?? Good gods, why??), but there was a very evocative series of beach rocks and sands which was oddly powerful.



Not a far distance at all from the lovely trees, we found the quartered-hedge layout of the Exotic Women of Caledon exhibit. I walked in, finding things oddly familiar, and immediately knew why. This series of portrayals of Duchess Kamilah Hauptman struck me as very Alice...in fact, many of the images, for some reason, seemed to reflect Lewis Carroll imagery, to greater or lesser extent.

I make no claims that this was intentional, only that it was my impression.



I must admit, this image of Miss Rothschild tore my heart out...there seemed so much in it of yearning, mayhap even loss...again, it may have not been the intention of artist or subject, but it's how it struck me.



Each painting had a bio notecard attached to it, and each painting clicked to display another image. I admit, members of the Consulate brought me, but I had read Lord Bardhaven's review of this show earlier. While my difference engine rezzed slightly faster, I'd also spent much time wandering the forest, which, while also sculpt-dependent, seems to load slightly more quickly.

The baron seemed...taken aback...by some of the decollatage; I admit, I was surprised by who chose to take risks. Miss Soliel Snook, known for her love of gardening, for example, quite delighted me. And the three the Baron stares so fixedly at in this image; I had no knowledge of Miss Delcon (in the center), but Lady Darkling, as always, looks quite beautiful, and Duchess Diamanda Gustafson, to the right, looked intense and breathtaking, in curving horns and distinctive Chaospire attire.

All in all, I have to agree with many of Lord Bardhaven's assessments--the overwhelming use of sculpts does slow down the appreciation of the show for those with lower-end graphics cards. And also, seeing one subject in two portraits that feature the same outfit, the same setting, did not always work.

And, though I knew more of the name from speaking to various gentle ladies in Caledon chat, I would still say a quarter of the names I'd never heard before, nor seen. It seemed somewhat odd to me that the 'Exotic Women' featured to represent Caledon would be women I'd never even seen in passing.

Perhaps Caledon has overgrown, a bit. I can only hope we draw ourselves together once more, the new and the old, the large, dysfunctional, amusing group that we are.

The following day, being today, brought us the tragedy of the wake in Caledon Highlands, where we eagerly assembled to make sure Mr. Glineux had expir--

*coughs*

--we assembled to mourn the passing of dear friends and companions who would leave us bereft and grieving in the outer darkne--

*coughs again*



We thought the Caledon Expedition had been lost. They came back. Yay.



But then Caledon Highlands died! Oh no!

Finally, the night tied up at October Country's Haunted Campfire, listening to several radio shows featuring Vincent Price. They were from a show called The Price of Fear, featuring Vincent Price as himself, and they were quite delightful. (Depending on how quickly I can finish this, they may still!)



Hope you can make it. If not? Well, October Country runs spoken recordings of interest every night.

And in October Country, well...the nights...they last forever.

Some things happen for good reasons. Some things happen for bad reasons. Some things happen purely out of random chance.

On occasion, however, friendship, luck and love combine, and the world subtly shifts.

It's not well known, and the why of it may remain shrouded for some time to come (potentially to me as much as anyone else) but--due to one thing and another--Kaleidecopia House is no longer in the world.

I still have my bright blue build with all the stained glass windows, but it travels with me now. Our shop is still in Penzance, but not our home. With much contemplation, we accepted an offer to sell the home parcel, and set off looking for somewhere else in Caledon to call home.

We did not expect to find it so soon.



We reestablished my larger tree dwelling in my beloved Rivula, and spent some time with windows drawn, in that space of mossed forest primeval, discussing, sorting, acting and reacting. Crisis built from the world beyond the world, which ended in...something of a collapse, on my part. My core friends, my loves, came forward to support me, something for which I remain profoundly grateful...and I was carried, broken and bleeding from soul to skin, to a better place.

We were offered sanctuary in Caledon Morgaine.



It's a harsh lesson, but a true one: our words have power. This is, on its surface, an obvious statement, nearly a ridiculously obvious one--but, even with hitting 10,000 visits to the wee blog? I still had the notion that it did not matter, to anyone, what I said here, that I was writing profoundly for myself, that no one paid much attention to what I wrote here, to me.

This is not some swelled-ego "Dig me" realization, from this, trust me--but I know now, what I say here? Resonates beyond this space. My words have power. My words can hurt, more than just me. The train wreck travels and touches lives beyond my own.

I can apologize all I wish--and I do, and I have--and if I speak on my life, my life of so many secrets, that's my responsibility, no one else's. But if I speak on those portions of my life, that expose the secrets of others, secrets they may not--or actively do not--wish shared: that, I do, to my shame and their peril.

It's a harsh lesson, but a necessary one: I have been wrong when I do these things, I have wronged and harmed others, and all the regrets in me, copper-acid on my spendthrift tongue, will not change that. I was responsible. And I was irresponsible.

So now, I begin to heal. I am weak, and I resent it, but I will slowly grow stronger, hopefully heal and be better. I may not be as frequently seen, at social events or even in the world, for some time. I accept this. I have responsibilities here, and I will be responsible for them, it will give me a pattern to the convalescent days. And pain will still be part of the train wreck, because how could it not? I'm still me.

But it's going to be less of the point of this blog. I will have to consider carefully the impact of what I write, rather than writing blind. Every entry that deals with personal angst, mourning, pain, loss--I will need to consider whether it's just me I'm choosing to expose, or is it someone else, who would not have chosen such exposure?

Expect...carefully chosen angst from this point. More where-we-are posts. More skin/fashion/sim reviews (I can't stop those, and I won't stop being honest on them, and I learn from every one, even if no one else does).

And, since it was brought up by more than one person--occasional cookies.

[[NOTE: For anyone who took down this recipe and wondered how much baking soda? It's, err, now in there. I skipped that bit. Oops.]]

Moravian Cookies

1/4 cup butter
1/2 cup molasses
3 Tablespoons firmly packed brown sugar
1/2 teaspoon each: ground cinnamon, ground ginger, ground cloves
1/4 teaspoon each: nutmeg, allspice, black pepper
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
dash salt
1 3/4 cups sifted flour
1 cup rum (or brandy, or whisky), plus a shot glass

You'll also need: a large mixing bowl, desired cookie cutters, clean flour-sack towels, or cheesecloth, and a large-size holiday or cookie tin with a tight lid (like the Danish butter cookies come in, for example). Also a spatula.

First, heat the molasses in a saucepan over medium heat and stir in the butter. Add sugar, all spices and soda. STIR LIKE MAD: it'll foam up and try to leave the pan. DON'T LET IT!

Lower heat, pour a shot of the rum, and sip it for a bit, breathing.

Pour your butter/spice blend into the mixing bowl. Stir in the flour and beat well until it forms a large spiced ball on its own.

Open the tin, lay the first bit of cheesecloth or flour-sack towel on the bottom (it should drape over the sides of the tin, that's fine). Sprinkle towel with rum. Set aside.

Lightly flour a cutting board, and roll a palm-sized ball of the cookie dough out thin-thin, as thin as you can get it. Cut your shapes. Sprinkle with additional flour to prevent sticking, but use flour sparingly. Move by spatula carefully to towel in the tin. When you have enough to cover that layer, sprinkle with more rum, and lay out a new towel. Sprinkle *that* with rum.

Repeat until the dough's all gone and the tin is full of cut unbaked cookies. (Depending on your cut shapes, you *may* need more than one tin). Fold in all your layers, sprinkle with the rest of the rum (pour more rum if you need to), and press the lid on tightly.

Store this in a cool dark place for at least a month, taking it out on occasion and sprinkling with rum, and recapping. (You can do this for longer; six months works pretty well, I've never had the willpower to push it longer).

When you're ready, heat your oven to 375 degrees, lightly grease a cookie sheet, carefully unload your cookies, and bake each batch for six to eight minutes. Carefully brush excess flour from each cookie with a soft cloth.

Store in a tightly capped container (cleaning out the same tin works; or save that with the towels to wrap dark fruitcake in, that works too).

"The quality of mercy is not strain'd,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest;
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown;
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings..."

Shakespeare said this, through the lips of Portia, in The Merchant of Venice.

On occasion, mercy is withheld, and blistering sun besets us all, to torment with burning zeal.

Ever so often, though, the weather changes, the clouds gather, the mists rise, and mercy rains.

I am ill-enough used to such places, I breathe carefully in them, anxious not to disturb, lest all cool mist on places burnt and burned is blown away.



I have much to write on, much to think on, much to reflect on. It may take me days to organize it all.

But in the meantime...I sit here, for my reflections.

It is a very, very good place. It is a healing place. It is a gift.

And it's mine. Mine, and my architect scientist's, my creator of automated toys; mine, and my fellow shapeshifter lady, my well of quiet strength.

The train wreck?

Never came close to here.

Goodbye.

The word resonates for me. One word, just one word. Simple word. Simple meaning behind it. In any other context...just a word.

Just one word.

Goodbye.

In other contexts it's everything. In other contexts it separates, it drives apart, it is one word with staggering power to change all landscapes.

One word. One small, simple word. One word means everything is over, and can never be started again. One...little...word.

But it wasn't said to me. That word. That goodbye. Not directly.

Does it still count? That one word.

It was said. The universe heard, brought it to my ears. Short, the traveling, all in all, but the lump in my throat tells me, I heard the message of it. I was yet unready to hear it, but I heard.

Mayhap I will never be ready to hear that word. Mayhap that word, that small, small word...will always have the power to undo me.

One small word. Such a small word.

Such great power I've invested in such a small word.

I hear you. I am yet sorry, but that can change nothing now. It's been said, it can't be unsaid.

Goodbye.



One more love spins off into the moonless night...The cold of winter grows more bitter still.

(When last seen, our plucky skirt-based craft was edging towards Morgaine. Let's pick up their progress there, shall we?)



(And then, we crossed the bridge to Morgaine.)

The bridge--all bridges of this style--proved surprisingly tricky. For one thing, they were all too narrow for our float! The audacity. So it took some tricky steering to accomplish. (Our Duchess was ably positioned to brave all things.)



(Up we go! Wait, that's not the right direction...)

Our Duchess had no fear! She brought the float up to speed, and hit the railing, and up we went into the serene evening air...and...started to tilt...

Uh-oh.



(Don't breathe, Otenth!)

Well, it was bound to happen. We were near another source of water. Apparently, the float design? Moves like a fish, dances like a sword...steers like a cow.

(This picture graciously provided by Miss Neome Graves.)



(Moments after colliding with an ambulatory Marine.)

I believe we were leaving Morgaine, when we met a steampunk arachnid of some military bearing. He did not hear us coming, and we...somewhat...ran him over utterly. He is now pacing us and shouti--ermm.

Wishing us well on our journeying. Yes.

Up ahead in this shot, note we've caught up to Mr. Hassanov's elephant again.



(Tragedy--sort of--strikes again.)

Just after our encounter with the Marine, we ran into a bit of vehicular mayhem with Mr. Thadicus Caligari's steam airship. All were most kind and polite about it, and it was a gorgeous float, and very nearly completely silent! Disentanglement ensued, and soon they were negotiating the path ahead, and we were able to continue on.



(We cross the border of Penzance!)

Moving through the wide main square of Penzance, close to the mechanima studios, we took a pause to breathe and orient. (And did our best to stop before covering Mr. Hassanov in lime skirt flutters!)



(Mayfair ho! Mr. Roberto Viking was happy to board some few sims back, and helped guide our skirt along.)

Negotiating the wide, paved streets of Penzance proved to be one of the easiest legs of the entire route. We all cheered when we passed the new headquarters building (seen behind us, in this shot). Also seen behind us: Mr. Caligari's airship.

How did that happen?



(Moving towards Caledon Carntaigh! Huzzah!)

Moving through Mayfair was a relative dream; here we are approaching Caledon Carntaigh.



(Rejoice! For we have...Wait. Where *are* we?)

I can't recall whether we were still in Carntaigh at this point. I do know we had a bit of trouble crossing into Victoria City, as the edges of our skirt kept getting caught in the trolley rails!

Oh, the perils of fashion.



(Her Grace demonstrates an important safety tip in Victoria City: Always look both ways when driving a float into approaching traffic.)

It's important to remember. Otherwise one could get seriously injured!

(Thankfully, for most of the journey, we had Miss Laval on the float, so no Duchesses were harmed along the way.)



(Arrival in the Moors.)

Sadly, few of the images from the Moors fully developed.

I'm beginning to think the Moors, themselves, resist the photographing agents, for some reason or reasons unknown. At any rate, here we move through the telehub, bound for Tamrannoch, and the end of the route!



(Approaching the last sim crossing, from the Moors into Tamrannoch, disaster strikes again.)

Terribly sorry, sir or madam--are you quite all right?

Truly, we did not intend to knock them over--we simply took a corner and there they were, barely rezzed in! We had no time to stop!

(And actually? I did not realize flotational skirts could knock other people over! Goodness, the things one learns!)



(Moving at a sweet clip through Tamrannoch.)

We managed to gain a considerable amount of speed for the last leg, and began to cheer loudly as we pulled to a halt at Mr. Hassanov's estate! We had made it! We'd finished the parade!

Now all we had to do was--AAACK! 'Ware the library float!



(Thankfully, the Library equipped their float with a much improved braking system.)

Here we see the library float, come to a somewhat gentle stop, a truly lovely copper-detailed construction redolent with the airs of parchment and leather bindings. A crowd had at this point begun to gather, and we simply awaited the arrival of the rest of the processional.

Sadly, I was somewhat overcome by this experience, and as so very many thronged to cheer the survivors of the inaugural effort, I realized two things simultaneously: first, that I was oddly tired, after three hours dancing on the float, and second, I could barely move for lag.

I therefore engaged transport home and collaps--took some time to rest.

Huzzah to all participants! (I'll be updating this as I can with links to other photographs from the parade--at the least I wish to see the floats I haven't been able to see before now!)

((Honestly, I'm not sure whether to laugh hysterically, or be somewhat offended. Though some of those names in the club sound familiar...))

So. It's taken some time to cull my pool of captured shots down to size. This may well end up one of several entries.

And perhaps that's only appropriate--it does commemorate Caledon's first inaugural Mardi Gras parade, after all!



(First shot taken, lining the floats up in Caledon Tanglewood.)

Having the start point in Tanglewood? Let's just say giant floats, many people, and lots of old-growth forest? Not the very best plan. :)



(Tanglewoods was too difficult to navigate in. Many of the floats relocated their start point to Caledon Eyre.)

Unfortunately, as we discovered, steering of our particular float was something of a challenge. Here, her Grace Gabi Riel leads her flagship skirt...into the lake.



(Into the briny deep we go!)

A lot of people, all they could rez in was the bright green. And even we admit, we had no idea what most of us were dancing on! But the theme of our float was "Carnivale: Rio Style" so it helps--despite the images--to keep firmly in mind that our float is a skirt. That our brave Duchess is wearing.

Now then.



(Glub.)

We nearly lost Duke of Murdann, Otenth Paderborn, who was dancing at the end of the float. The back end kept sliding off the bank, deeper and deeper. (If you haven't seen him before, he's the fellow at the back in the elegant spiralled horns.)

(...okay, the elegant grey fellow. Really, he's not grey usually.)



(Carnivale, Rio Style...in SPAAACE)

I have only myself to blame for this. I'm so used to flipping in and out of limbo--honestly, it never occurred to me I could bring in a whole float! With other people, even!

Thankfully we escaped in one piece.



(Moments before disaster, the float moves along the thoroughfare of the next sim.)

Finally, we were out of Eyre and moving at a good clip through Caledon Regency! In the distance of this picture you can see Float Leader Iason Hassanov's elephant, boldly breaking the trail.



(Disaster in Wellsian.)

We turned a corner too sharply, readjusting, and--that quickly! The float slammed into the back of the next building!

(Mr. Fawkes Allen, pacing the float, was overheard to say "Do you realize how many laws of SL physics you're breaking??" [And no--I can honestly say, none of us knew!])

Here, we see the Duchess, Miss Eladrienne Laval, and...hmm...one other fair damsel fleeing to safety. (I know, I know, I should have taken notes, but I was laughing too har--I mean, concentrating on dancing!)



(Repairs complete, our float returns to the road!)

It took some little time to repair the float, but we did, and our figurehead and guide climbed aboard once more. We were off!

((continued in part II))