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The wild ox will dance and play and the violin will sing
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nineweaving. Thank you, Arthur Sullivan, W.S. Gilbert, and Peter S. Beagle, for helping me become the swashbuckler I am today.
You Are A Pirate!
What Type Of Swashbuckler Are You?
brought to you by Maddog Varuka & Dawg Brown
On the train down from Boston to New Haven this afternoon, I saw a white egret in a salt marsh, its neck curved back like a serpent or half a line-drawn heart, in a glitter of sunlight on the silty water. I had wadded up a black linen jacket into a pillow against the window and only the sudden sun on my face, as it came out from underneath the pale overcast, the clouds stacked like grey taffy and stones over the sea, made me blink around and look out in time to catch it—brighter than the clouds, a soul-bird stalking through cordgrass and sedge.
Last night was a full moon in a rolling cavern of clouds, webbed with salt-white seas and shadows, like an Alan Garner illustration. Tonight it's a thumbnail coin, tin-snipped magnesium, so high in blue-black haze that it looks as though it should cast no shadows: and when I turned out the kitchen light, all I saw were streetlights striping through onto the floor.
I have been out of my apartment so long that it smells like a stranger's: dust, and locked windows, and closed doors. I cleaned for nearly three hours after dinner and now there are clothes laid out on the futon, books piled next to the bed; within absent reach beside my laptop, a mug printed wraparound with the Weighing of the Heart and still a quarter full of tangerine tea. All the books stacked double-deep on the shelves are mine, the green glass fishing float hung in a net of yarn in front of the central window, the wall calendar three months behind on gargoyles, the mermaids in my bedroom. I recognize everything. I will have to sleep here to feel at home.
I feel a little like a ghost.
Of a pirate, apparently. Could be worse.
nineweaving. Thank you, Arthur Sullivan, W.S. Gilbert, and Peter S. Beagle, for helping me become the swashbuckler I am today.You Are A Pirate!
What Type Of Swashbuckler Are You?
brought to you by Maddog Varuka & Dawg Brown
On the train down from Boston to New Haven this afternoon, I saw a white egret in a salt marsh, its neck curved back like a serpent or half a line-drawn heart, in a glitter of sunlight on the silty water. I had wadded up a black linen jacket into a pillow against the window and only the sudden sun on my face, as it came out from underneath the pale overcast, the clouds stacked like grey taffy and stones over the sea, made me blink around and look out in time to catch it—brighter than the clouds, a soul-bird stalking through cordgrass and sedge.
Last night was a full moon in a rolling cavern of clouds, webbed with salt-white seas and shadows, like an Alan Garner illustration. Tonight it's a thumbnail coin, tin-snipped magnesium, so high in blue-black haze that it looks as though it should cast no shadows: and when I turned out the kitchen light, all I saw were streetlights striping through onto the floor.
I have been out of my apartment so long that it smells like a stranger's: dust, and locked windows, and closed doors. I cleaned for nearly three hours after dinner and now there are clothes laid out on the futon, books piled next to the bed; within absent reach beside my laptop, a mug printed wraparound with the Weighing of the Heart and still a quarter full of tangerine tea. All the books stacked double-deep on the shelves are mine, the green glass fishing float hung in a net of yarn in front of the central window, the wall calendar three months behind on gargoyles, the mermaids in my bedroom. I recognize everything. I will have to sleep here to feel at home.
I feel a little like a ghost.
Of a pirate, apparently. Could be worse.
no subject
P.S. I just read Chez Vous Soon into a tape recorder so I could give a copy to my sister to hear--I really wish your voice could have been reading it; I really wish I didn't trip on lines or mispronounce and repronounce and use the wrong inflection in a line of dialogue. Really, when reading on tape, these things have to be practiced. I've read this story about four times (to myself) and I thought I'd handle the aloud version better. I am no live reader though. I even lose my breath.
no subject
It's becoming clear to me that I need either to make friends with someone who owns a studio or I need to import some kind of recording technology onto my computer, because I keep getting requests to read things. I would love to make a recorded version of "Chez Vous Soon" available—I read it at Readercon this year, and I was really pleased with the way it came out. But I don't even know if this laptop has a microphone, much less a program. And I always hate the way my voice sounds when it's played back.