Amazons International # 27
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Contents:         Randy: Amazon Games software
                  NN27: What is required of us men?
                  Solan: Bio
                  Thomas: Young Tyra



Date of Transmission: 09.04.93

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Date: Mon, 22 Feb 93 13:41:07 PST
From: randyf@mickey.disney.com (Randy Fukuda)
Subject: Amazon Games

Have you seen "AMAZON, GUARDIANS OF EDEN" by ACCESS Software?
It's a relatively new PC game which has state-of-the-art
graphics, digitized human speech, and an inspired soundtrack.

The name"Amazon" comes from tales told by the Spanish
explorer Francisco de Orellana of encounters with a tribe of
fierce female warriors during his descent of the great river
in 1541.  However, "Amazon" is not set in 1541, but rather
the 1950's.

The designers and writers of "Amazon" have always enjoyed the
movie serials of the 40's and 50's, and decided to pay homage
to this nearly-extinct form of entertainment.  It is
comprised of 14 "chapters" or episodes, with all but the
final one ending in a cliffhanger.  Each chapter is
fast-paced and exciting, with unique puzzles and characters.

Well worth $42.00.
randyf@mickey.disney.com

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Date: Tue, 30 Mar 93 14:03:21 -1000
From: NoName27
Subject: What is required of us men? 

I'd like this posting to be anonymous.

As I understand it, part of the Amazon philosophy is that
there are no inherent roles for men and women.  For me this
has a very practical appeal, based on my own upbringing.

From the time I was born until I was 7, my mother was in and
out of the hospital with various illnesses.  During that time
my father had to play "mother," a task for which he was not
well equipped, having not much participated in child rearing
up until that point. He did not take good care of me, and as
a result, when I was 3 I was sent to live with my cousins,
Aunt and Grandmother.

Eventually, my mother recovered her health, but having lived
apart from my parents as a young boy, I never really got used
to living with them again.  I missed living with my cousins
and grandmother, and left home at 16, and have returned for
only a few weeks in the 20 years since then.

Most of that time was concentrated during a period in which
my father was in an accident and fell into a coma.  Since he
left no will, power of attorney, etc., and had not involved
my mother in the family business, my mother was left
helpless, with no means of support.  Luckily, he recovered.

For me, those incidents have reinforced the foolishness of
accepting defined roles for men and women.  For his inability
to accept performing a "woman's job," my father gave up his
only child, and because my mother could not accept that a
woman could run a business, she almost lost everything.

For us men who love and accept Amazons, must there not also
be some conventions we must break, beyond just supporting our
loved ones in their struggle?  Must we not also refuse to
accept the notion of "women's work?"  I guess I am asking the
Amazons out there for a list of ways in which they wish to be
supported.

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Date: Wed, 7 Apr 1993 14:42:51 +0100
From: solan@math.uio.no (Svein O.G. Nyberg)
Subject: Bio

Thomas Gramstad wrote in A.I. # 25:
>    [The following fiction story was written by a good
>    friend of mine shortly after he got married.  I must ..]

I am the author of the above story. This story might have
given you some impression of me, and Thomas' warning as
quoted above may have given you some impression of my wife.
I would like to start out this bio by saying that both are
wrong.  Tyra is, as I explain below, the essence of a certain
kind of [healthy] human feeling.

Myself, I am born in 1966 at a home for the elderly.  If fate
wants my final biography to look interesting, I'll probably
die in a birth clinic.

Our family soon moved to another part of the country, where I
became an outcast, since I did not feel that I should be at
the bottom of the pecking order just because I wasn't a
native.  I acquired a habit of beating up those who teased
me, my friends or anyone I cared about.  But mostly, I went
for walks in the forest and to the top of the local hills of
Bodo (great view!) to think and just listen to nature and my
own thought.  As it seems, and I later have been told, this
developed into its own kind of "natural meditation".

Anyway, knowing the solitary confines of my mind, I
discovered the uniqueness of my individuality and, by
extension, the uniqueness of each individual.  This
consciousness has made me an individualist.  Or perhaps I
should say -- this consciousness is what it _is_ to be an
individualist.

With this background, I never estimate another person on the
basis of arbitrary group-belonging.  My friends from abroad
say they feel well with me, as they can forget they are
"foreign".  Because I do.

The same goes for sex/gender and so on.  A person is who
[s]he is.  A is A, as Aristotle said.  That is all.  I don't
evaluate people as to what they "should" be according to
their group belonging.  I only evaluate if I like the
individual in question as [s]he is.

What I like, are people who are aware of their individuality,
and who -- at least to some extent -- share my individualism
as stated above.  This is why I like strong women.  Many of
them, though not all, have broken the ties to conventionality
totally.

To speak about my wife: She fits most of the description that
I have given of myself above.  She is a person, not just a
woman.

------

I like to write, and I like to experiment without putting
bonds on myself.  This is seen in "Tyra..".  I allowed
her to develop as a pure archetype instead of as a measly
compromise.  If the result offends anyone, it does.  How you
view this archetype is, however, almost like a Rorschach
test.

I will, upon request from Thomas, write one or more sequels
about Tyra, to develop her type further.  I will not inhibit
the writing process by my own prejudices, but act as a medium
for the archetype, come what may.  This is true writing for
me.  So, if you have any comments, come with them.

Svein Olav                         solan@math.uio.no

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From: Thomas Gramstad <thomas@smaug.uio.no>
Subject: Young Tyra

    [Inspired by Svein Olav's story about Tyra (see A.I. # 25),
    I have written a story of my own about Tyra, from her early
    years, as it were.  My story is based more on character
    development and less on archetypes than Svein Olav's.  We
    will continue the exploration of Tyra.  The journey has
    just begun.   -- Thomas]



    YOUNG TYRA: THE BEGINNING

    By Thomas Gramstad <thomas@smaug.uio.no>
    Copyright Thomas Gramstad 1993


The smith looked at the young girl in front of him.
She watched him working, and listened attentively to his
explanations and teachings.  Her eyes were green; the
kind of green that you can find in a dewy field on a sunlit
spring morning.  But there was a touch of blue in them, and
when she concentrated, as she was doing now, the blue seemed
to surface, like the blue-green sparkling of a calving arctic
iceberg.  The color shift fascinated and excited the smith,
for he knew the relentless energy and concentration that it
revealed.  But this time it also made him feel unrestful;
as if the dagger he held in his hand had opened a window
to another unknown and as yet dim dimension.

A haphazard bystander might have judged her age to be
seventeen or perhaps eighteen; but no more than twelve
winters had passed since her birth.  Her hair was neither
blond nor red, but the color of ripe orange rind.

At her seventh birthday she had declared that she wanted to
be a smith.  She was fascinated by metals; by their glance
and their hardness; by the glowing fluidity of a melt; and by
the endless variations of shape and purpose that metals could
be given, their flashy hardness yielding and bending to human
will.

It was a rare occupation for a woman, but the old smith had
come to accept it.  And something about the girl indicated
that she could not be dismissed easily.  At first he had
permitted her to visit the forge now and then.  Then he had
started to explain what he did and why.  Now she would be
there almost every day, the days she was not hunting, and
help doing the work as well as being taught.

She had made a dagger for herself, and now he was examining
it, commenting on her craftsmanship.  It was a good piece of
work, made without flaws and with careful attention to
purpose and requirements of use.  Still he took the time to
repeat some essentials of weapon making and maintenance, and
a few tricks of the trade.

"Well, methinks you are now well-versed in the trade of
smithing", he finally admitted.  "Now, I want you to bring
these tools to Uncle Durk today."  "Yes father," she
answered, her face expressionless.  Her eyes were very blue.

It was more than two hours' walk to Durk's dwelling, situated
as it was on the other side of the forest.  She fell into an
even, economic, mile-eating pace.  A single thought filled
her mind, merging with the rhythm of her steps: not this time
-- not this time, no, not this time....

The sound of the flute broke the trail of both her thoughts
and her steps with a clear and distinct, yet tender sound.
She could not tell whether it had just begun or whether her
mind had shut off her ears for a while.

She left the path, following the sound, moving slowly and
carefully through the bushes.  As she approached a clearing,
her eyes fell on a boy sitting there, clad in a green cloak.
His long silky raven hair encircled a regular face with big,
dark eyes and a thin, sharp nose, and ended somewhere on his
shoulders.  The sounds seemed to flow from his hands, as if
his long thin fingers pulled them out of the air like were
they condensed raindrops.

She moved very silently toward the boy.  Then she knew she
was close enough.  With a loud scream she jumped at him,
seized him and slammed him to the ground.  She sat on him,
watching him struggle to break free.  She held back, giving
him the impression that he was about to break free and
perhaps even get on top.  Then she easily forced his arms
over his head, crossed them, and locked both of his wrists
with a firm grip backed with her body weight.  With the free
hand she took the dagger and placed the cold metal on his
throat.  "YIELD OR DIE!!", she snarled.

"Y-y-yield," he croaked.  She put the weapon away, a bright
laughter sparkling in the air.  She took his head in her
hands and pressed it hard against her chest.  "T-t-tyra,
what... was that t-terrible thing?"  His muffled voice was
barely audible, making a narrow escape from her chest and
leather shirt.  "My new dagger.  Made it myself.  Worked on
it all yesterday and today.  Like it?"  He snorted, then put
his arms around her back, holding her as if he feared that he
might drown in the half-inch layer of dust that covered the
ground.  They lay still for a long time, Tyra still holding
his head.

"I must go", she finally said.  "Got to deliver some tools to
Old Dirt."  She stood up.  "Don't let anyone hear you calling
him that.  They'll tear your tongue out.  He's the chief of
the valley, you know."

"Alfalfa, you don't have any more to learn from Mylenea, have
you?"  "There's always more to learn."  He smiled.  "But I
don't need her to tell me what to do anymore.  I'm not an
apprentice, you know."  She didn't know why she had asked
that, nor why the answer satisfied her so.  "That is good.
I'll see you before supper at the usual place."  She
disappeared in the bushes.

Alfalfa retrieved his flute.  He put it in his mouth, then he
forgot it, staring at his hands.  There were red and white
marks on his wrists.  Her marks.  They would turn blue.  He
could still feel the grip of her fingers, as if his wrists
suddenly had acquired a memory of their own.  An icy chill
crept down his spine ticklishly, then spread out, and
suddenly another part of him was very hot.  He was carrying
her marks, proving that he belonged to her more intimately
than any ring -- or chain -- could ever do.  Of course, the
marks would go away.  But they would be replaced with others.

His thoughts drifted, and his dark brown dog eyes seemed to
become opaque, as if they turned inward to perceive fragments
of memory rather than the concretes of the forest.  There had
been plenty of wrestling through the years.  In the beginning
he had an edge, being four years older than her.  But even
then, when he managed to catch her in a hold, he could not
make her give.  It was always the same -- he would get a hold
on her, then he would try another, then another, but no
matter what he did, she would not give.  He would lie on top
of her, pressing her down with his body weight, waiting for
her to tire of lying there on the cold ground with him on
top.  But she didn't tire, he did.  And sooner or later she
would get free and continue the fight until he gave up.

Once he had applied a hold that he had seen his uncle use to
break the neck of a goat.  He had applied it on her, and
gradually put all his strength into it.  But even then she
didn't give, and when he tired and his grip loosened, she had
broken free and applied the same hold on him.  It had hurt
like raw acid, and he begged for mercy, crying like a baby.

As time passed, she caught up with him, and he was no longer
able to hold her against her will.  And now he was completely
at her mercy, a toy in her mighty arms.  But this knowledge
did not scare him, nor make him feel small or unimportant.
On the contrary, knowing that this force had chosen him made
him feel ten feet tall, the most privileged man in the whole
valley.

He wondered how big she would become.  He was soon 17; almost
fullgrown.  Tyra was an inch or two shorter, and ten solid
pounds heavier.  And she still had plenty of time for
growing.  And it simply was not in her nature to yield for
anything or anyone.  He knew that life with her was bound to
be a hefty ride.

He had learned all he knew about herbs and plants from
Mylenea, the old woman who everybody thought was a witch.
They feared her, but they came to her when they were ill or
in pain.  And now they began coming to him too.  It was a
useful trade, and he enjoyed the silence and the secrets of
the forest.  It had all grown to be a part of him.  But his
music had always been there, it was entirely of his own.
He had heard and seen travelers play flutes and other
instruments; that was enough.  He sooned learned how to make
a flute, and he could play any melody that he heard once.

Once during his apprenticeship he had, as so many times
before, spent the whole day looking for different herbs that
Mylenea had asked him to find, thus learning where to find
the different herbs not only in his head, but with his hands
and feet as well.  This day he came to a part of the forest
where he had not been before, and he found some flowers of a
kind that he had never seen before.  And he picked some of
them, as he used to do in such cases.  But this time,
inspired by the beauty of their purplish blue hue, he didn't
put the flowers in a pouch.  Instead, led by some hidden
impulse, the kind of impulse that can make or break names and
kingdoms, he stuck them in his hair.  Then he forgot them --
until he met the Bargh brothers, all three of them.

The Bargh brothers were playing with a run-away sheep they
had found.  Usually they tolerated him, but today they saw
the flowers in his hair.  "Hey, look at that girl!  That must
be the ugliest piece of tits and ass in the whole goddamn
valley!"  "It's not a girl, stupid, it's the flower wimp!"
"Flower wimp, flower wimp, now you're gonna limp!"  They
started throwing stones at him.  He tried to run, but he was
carrying too much.  Suddenly he discovered that he was
surrounded.  "Yech, what an ugly girl this is."  "Break his
knee, Zorg, break his knee!"

"Get away from him, and I mean right now!"  The voice was
high-pitched but fierce, and noone laughed.  They looked at
the newcomer.  "A girl!"  "You mean, another girl, stupid!"
"It's Tyra."  "Beat it, Tyra, or we'll beat you."  Tyra
snarled and came closer.  At that moment the sheep bleated.
With a sudden jump Tyra landed by the sheep, seized it and
threw it at the brothers.  Two of them were knocked down, but
Zorg barely ducked in time.  But Tyra was already there, and
kicked him so hard in the face that his nose broke, splashing
blood all over the place.  He screamed and half-stumbled,
half-crawled away, soon followed by his whimpering brothers.

Later that day Mylenea told her apprentice that the flowers
were called Alfalfa.  And nobody ever called him a flower
wimp again.

                      * * * * * * * *

As Tyra reentered the path, she soon fell into her walking
rhythm.  And with it the thought came back: not this time...
not this time... not this time...

Durk's dwelling was located on a little hill not far away
from the forest.  It wasn't a hut, and it wasn't a cave.  It
had a few qualities of both.  Durk was outside, enjoying the
company of a big jug of beer.  He was a big, heavy man in his
forties.  One's first -- and perhaps only -- impression of
him was one of hairiness.  His whole body seemed to be a
mattress of dark and grey-tinged hair, covering his head,
his face, his breast, his legs, and even his shoulders and
stomach.  The only contestant to the impression of hairiness
was a similar impression of dirtiness.

"I bring you these tools from my father."  "Put them on the
table."  Durk waved in the direction of a big, flat irregular
rock.  She did, and turned to leave.  "Not so fast, little
one.  And turn around when I talk to you."

Those damned blue eyes.  He wanted to see them weep, no,
bleed.  "Take your clothes off."  The quality of his smile
could have embarrassed a snake, expressing a mental ugliness
rivaled only by a corresponding dental ugliness revealed by
the brown debris that might once have been teeth visible
through his open mouth.  She didn't move.  "Didn't you hear
me?  I said, TAKE YOUR CLOTHES OFF!!"

"Go dip your dung stick in a porcupine, you slimy old wart!"
"That adds insult to insubordination.  I can do whatever I
wish with you now."  His eyes were shallow and ugly.  "I'm
going to cut your arms off, then I will use you till you
bleed to death.  And maybe a little longer."  He came at her,
the most feared, brutish man in the valley.

Durk was a head taller than her, stronger and much heavier.
And he was a warrior with combat experience.  It would be an
easy match for him -- and that, perhaps, was her one great
advantage.  She made a deliberately clumsy attack with one of
the tools and watched him easily avoid it.  He made a simple
feint and then lounged at her, as she had hoped and invited.
With a stunningly lithe movement she dived and slid under his
sword, dropping the tool with the one hand, and grabbing her
dagger with the other.

His belly filled her entire field of vision.  It was a big
and hairy belly, a battle ground of fat, muscle and dirt.
There was even a scar on it.  She would never forget the
sickening ripping sound following the intercourse of meat and
metal, the death song of the dagger blade, slitting his belly
wide open from the navel to the breast bone.  Neither would
she forget his loud roar of terror and pain, nor his futile
attempts, laying on the ground, his throat rattling, to keep
what had once been his innards from oozing out on the ground.

An unwritten law of hunting surfaced in her mind: "A good
hunter does not create unnecessary pain; he kills as clean
and as quick as his ability and circumstance will permit".
And sick of disgust she ran the blade through his throat,
leaving another big red mouth below the original one, putting
an end to his moaning and misery.

There had been absolutely no way that she could have winged
him; and even if there had been, she would have had to face
his wounded pride and revenge later.  She felt disgust at the
fact of a life wasted, and at the brutality of it all.

And yet, underneath there was an undercurrent of something
else, something that she could as yet not quite comprehend or
identify -- a sense of immense relief, of having been tested
and succeeded.  And she knew that she would be tested again,
and that she would have the ability to succeed again.  Not
that she would seek such testing; but she knew that it would
find her, by the very nature of the world and of her own
being.

She knew that she had crossed some line, and that she could
not go back, a one-way boundary forever behind her.  She was
girl no more.  She had dropped the burden of imposed
restrictions and expectations that belonged to childhood,
shedded it like a budding butterfly sheds its larval form.
She had acquired a new kind of burden, the burden of adult
responsibility and the burden of the blade, and she knew that
these burdens in some ways would be harder than the old ones.
But they were her own; triggered by circumstance, but
determined and encompassed by the very core of her being.

Led by some dark impulse she placed the blood-stained blade
on her tongue, letting the taste of oxydized blood and iron
lash at her taste buds.  "You are Bittersweet", she said,
"and you will be by my side always."

The valley could hold her no longer; since she would not and
could not replace Durk as chief, she would not be forgiven
his murder.  And in any case the valley was too small and too
sheltered.  She would leave today.  She would take with her
only a few personal belongings: tools, garments, some
nourishments, and Alfalfa.  And, of course, Bittersweet.


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*  Amazons International:         thomas@smaug.uio.no   *
*  Thomas Gramstad, editor                              *
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"A Hard Woman is Good to Find"  -- The Valkyries