The wild ox will dance and play and the violin will sing

[sovay]

Courtesy of 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.

Comments

[lesser-celery.livejournal.com]

The story of your return would make a beautiful poem, as it already is so beautifully poetic. I hope a night's sleep has allowed you to reclaim the apartment as your own.

[schreibergasse.livejournal.com]

Arrh!
So how long are you back in New Haven? The whole semester, or a weekend?

[thewriteratwork.livejournal.com]

Beautiful. I feel nostalgic reading this...for what, I don't know.

[tinkbell.livejournal.com]

Hi - i just woke up from a weird night, after trying to draw roadkill and a severed hand at 4 am (on deadline) then instead getting sad about other things; I feel better anyhow but reading that helped, to think about how carefully one can see her surroundings.

[scanner-darkly.livejournal.com]

Peter S. Beagle! Do you have his new collection? It's quite grand.

[clarionj.livejournal.com]

God, everyone keeps talking about Peter S. Beagle and I've still never read anything. I might have to move him up near the top of my list.

[clarionj.livejournal.com]

This is just beautiful--definitely keep some of these lines for a poem. It feels to me like you have such an abundance of language and myth and imagery inside you that you can just toss it about like small seeds from a leather pouch, and we're all scurrying after just gobbling things up.

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.

[xanadu-dreamer.livejournal.com]

Hello there. . .

Just wanted to tell you that I read your stories in Sirenia Digest, and you're a fantastic writer. I can't wait to read more of your work. =)

[sovay]

So how long are you back in New Haven?

At the moment, through early Sunday morning. (So if you would like to meet up tomorrow, let me know!) But I plan to return later in the semester and stay.

[sovay]

Do you have his new collection?

Not yet: I want it! I re-read The Rhinoceros Who Quoted Nietzsche last night and The Innkeeper's Song and Giant Bones today. Currently I'm hoping my parents will take pity upon my penniless studenthood; I have a birthday coming up in a month.

[sovay]

I might have to move him up near the top of my list.

I would start with The Last Unicorn, with the caveat that it's not quite like anything else he ever wrote—in language, certainly, and some of its themes, and the kinds of characters that interest him, but it has a very individual feel. It is also one of my favorite books. I read it so young that I can't even remember the first time; just that it was a re-read by the time I was twelve. And then just about anything he ever wrote is excellent. : )

[sovay]

Just wanted to tell you that I read your stories in Sirenia Digest, and you're a fantastic writer.

I'm honored: thank you! I'm very glad you're enjoying them.

[sovay]

I really wish your voice could have been reading it

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.

[sovay]

I feel better anyhow but reading that helped, to think about how carefully one can see her surroundings.

That sounds like a weird night. I'm glad this helped.

For what were you drawing roadkill and a severed hand at four AM?

[sovay]

I hope a night's sleep has allowed you to reclaim the apartment as your own.

There was not so much in the way of sleep: but I didn't wake up not knowing where I was, so I think, yes. The bed was familiar.

[sovay]

Thank you. Sometimes I wind up feeling as though I'm nostalgic for my life as it's happening. Those are strange moments; at least I try to write them down.

[gaudior.livejournal.com]

Glad to hear you got back okay. Let us know next time you're in Boston!