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The seaweed was tangled about his head
I no longer remember on whose journal I found this piece of silliness, but it amused me:
I was sort of hoping to rule from a dirgible city, but I don't think that's even one of the options—and it was only because I've recently been introduced to Phil and Kaja Foglio's Girl Genius,* which is steampunk brilliance if ever I read it. No prizes for guessing which character is my favorite.
In other news, my mother and I made crab cakes with scallions, chives, and yellow peppers for dinner tonight, and my brother grilled shrimp downstairs in the summer kitchen (and my father, who cannot stand fish, shellfish, or any foodstuff with even a tangential connection to the water, fled the house). In this respect, I am not at all my father's daughter. If I could live on seafood, I would. As I am peculiarly comforted by eating miso soup: it contains seaweed. But I'm also fond of mushrooms, and I'm carnivorous, so I suppose I draw the tide-line somewhere. What I really need is to live somewhere with coastline and deep forest. As a child, in the summer, I would climb trees and hardly come down all day; I need somewhere the seasons change, where I can watch the calendar in the turn of leaves. It's tricky, this balancing of deeply-held kinks. Branches and deep water; the sea and the leaves. Maybe I need a mangrove swamp.
. . . I would so totally enact the law about window-rattling loud music, too.
*Courtesy of Crispin, who does not have a livejournal, but with whom I once chatted about tuberculosis while out to dinner and cleared the table behind us. We felt like the Blues Brothers. In his other life, he's a historian of medicine. And absentmindedly sketches, on napkins, the blueprints for contraptions like the Pigeon Liquefier. He'd fit right in with the Heterodynes.
I was sort of hoping to rule from a dirgible city, but I don't think that's even one of the options—and it was only because I've recently been introduced to Phil and Kaja Foglio's Girl Genius,* which is steampunk brilliance if ever I read it. No prizes for guessing which character is my favorite.
In other news, my mother and I made crab cakes with scallions, chives, and yellow peppers for dinner tonight, and my brother grilled shrimp downstairs in the summer kitchen (and my father, who cannot stand fish, shellfish, or any foodstuff with even a tangential connection to the water, fled the house). In this respect, I am not at all my father's daughter. If I could live on seafood, I would. As I am peculiarly comforted by eating miso soup: it contains seaweed. But I'm also fond of mushrooms, and I'm carnivorous, so I suppose I draw the tide-line somewhere. What I really need is to live somewhere with coastline and deep forest. As a child, in the summer, I would climb trees and hardly come down all day; I need somewhere the seasons change, where I can watch the calendar in the turn of leaves. It's tricky, this balancing of deeply-held kinks. Branches and deep water; the sea and the leaves. Maybe I need a mangrove swamp.
. . . I would so totally enact the law about window-rattling loud music, too.
*Courtesy of Crispin, who does not have a livejournal, but with whom I once chatted about tuberculosis while out to dinner and cleared the table behind us. We felt like the Blues Brothers. In his other life, he's a historian of medicine. And absentmindedly sketches, on napkins, the blueprints for contraptions like the Pigeon Liquefier. He'd fit right in with the Heterodynes.
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I've heard tell of a place called Jasper beach up near some family holdings in Maine, which is made out of smooth black stones; only having a twin somewhere in Japan. I hope to see it pretty soon.
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In what sense—that Agatha is always waking up in her Victorian underwear?
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I like the books quite a lot, mind, and it's a sense of very high potential not being realized that's bothering me! I don't think they've had an editor go over their whole giant projected opus, and I do think that good editing would fix most of the accumulating defects. It needs tightening.