Desires and dreams and powers

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Yesterday brought contributor's copies of Dreams and Nightmares #74 ("Beneath the Garden of Proserpine," dedicated to Greer Gilman) and The Magazine of Speculative Poetry ("The Wandering Ghosts," dedicated to Erzebet YellowBoy), thus proving that I know some awesome muses. Those who procure copies of the above magazines will find in them the excellent work of Greg Beatty, Mike Allen, Helena Bell, Samantha Henderson, Darja Malcolm-Clarke, John Grey, Jennifer Crow, Neal Wilgus—and others—and also accrue points toward the underworld of their choice.

(Last night and today were spent in company of a friend whom I see far too infrequently, and deserve a better writeup than I can give them right now. Content decreases accordingly.)

I have a new roommate. Two years ago, my mother got me a Halloween present. Then she either mislaid or forgot about it, and discovered it in a closet last week in the post-Thanksgiving cleanup; it is the world's most ridiculously cute bat, and fleurdelis28 has kindly hosted its photograph for me.



My skills with a camera really do not do it justice. It is made of black plush, with a soft beanbag belly and little white fangs and slightly mad red eyes; its feet and thumbs and the insides of its ears are pumpkin-colored, and its wings velcro together so that it looks like a monk or a maître d' or possibly Ed Wood's chiropractor. Currently it's perched on a small stack of books beside my computer, where it cocks its head speculatively at me with an expression that might imply imminent threat, or might just be adorable. It reminds me of the sketch on Sesame Street where the Count waltzes to the Batty Bat, with an appropriate backup chorus. (One, two, three, count!) I will have to take more pictures.

In closing, I love Balliol.

Comments

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That's an awfullyy flash tie and waistcoat.

They're from his days as an undergraduate legend:

"You know," said Mr. Peake to the world at large, "when we were up together—shocking long time ago that is—never mind! If anyone got landed with a country cousin or an American visitor who asked, as these people will, 'What is this thing called the Oxford manner?' we used to take 'em round and show 'em Wimsey of Balliol. He fitted in very handily between St. John's Gardens and the Martyr's Memorial."

"But suppose he wasn't there, or wouldn't perform?"

"That catastrophe never occured. One never failed to find Wimsey of Balliol planted in the centre of the quad and laying down the law with exquisite insolence to somebody."

Wimsey put his head between his hands.

"We were accustomed to lay bets," went on Mr. Peake, who seemed to have preserved an undergraduate taste in humour, owing, no doubt, to continuous contact with First-Year mentality, "upon what they would say about him afterwards. The Americans mostly said, 'My, but isn't he just the perfect English aristocrat!' but some of them said, 'Does he need that glass in his eye or is it just part of the costoom?' "

Harriet laughed, thinking of Miss Schuster-Slatt.

"My dear—" said Mrs. Peake, who seemed to have a kindly nature.

"The country cousins," said Mr. Peake remorselessly, "invariably became speechless and had to be revived with coffee and ices at Buol's."

"Don't mind me," said Peter, whose face was invisible except for the tip of a crimson ear.

—Dorothy L. Sayers, Gaudy Night (1936)