The hearts that would burn and the hearts that would not

"On the Blindside" and "White Shadows" both made Locus' recommended reading list this year. This is good news to wake up to. Thanks to Tim Pratt, Heather Shaw, Christopher Rowe, and Gwenda Bond, whose multiple fault it is that these stories ever saw the light of the day.

Well, it's been a long day

You must understand that I'm nocturnal, or this next sentence won't look at all unusual: I got up at 6:45 this morning. It was still dark out. I could probably have seen the last few persistent stars, if I'd been enterprising and masochistic enough to stick my head out the window and look for them. Instead, I got dressed—I'd thoughtfully packed everything but my computer the night before—called a taxi, and wandered downstairs like the backpacking dead to catch my train to Boston.

I have one brother, a little less than four years younger than I am. I have also a woman in Hawaii who might as well be my sister, for all that we didn't meet until the day before seventh grade started; and a young man who's been, ever since he and my brother met up in elementary school, pretty much a second brother of mine. He's been in Iraq for the last six months. He's on two weeks' leave right now, and I wouldn't have seen him if I hadn't come up this weekend: so I'm not sorry I did; though I had originally planned to take a later train . . . Mostly I want him to come back as safe and sane as he can. He's a beautiful storyteller and funnier than any one human should have the right to be, and I've never heard anyone else use Tolkien's Lord of the Rings as an analogy for on-base / in-sector attitudes. (The term "fobbit" is his invention; and also, I believe, "the Shire behind the wire.") And he doesn't sleep much at night right now.

On my way home from South Station, I stopped into the Harvard Book Store for nineweaving's Vericon signing, for which I was rewarded with a lovely improvised sketch of an autumn tree with the moon entangled in its branches. Also the reprint of D'Aulaires' Book of Norse Myths (née Norse Gods and Giants), the book that changed my elementary school life. The first illustration of Loki, all flame and charcoal and his wide, sly, sidelong smile, is exactly as I remember it: I am most pleased. That was also all worth getting up early for. Especially the look on nineweaving's face.

Lastly, I can't believe I'm currently listening to a German rock musical based on Roman Polanski's horror-spoof The Fearless Vampire Killers or, Pardon Me, But Your Teeth Are In My Neck—which I saw for the first time a few nights ago, and I don't think my head's been right since—but there it is. Over break, I'd tracked down a live recording of the short-lived Broadway translation, Dance of the Vampires, for my parents who'd heard one of the songs on Standing Room Only; but I'd been aware of the source material only in the vaguest academic way. Now I own the film (cheap on the used DVD rack at Cutler's), this afternoon I came home to discover my father listening to the original German cast album, and I'm currently comparing German and English lyrics for the Vienna and Broadway versions. Some of it's damn catchy!

Wo man eine Gans rupft, gibt's bald einen Braten
Wo Eis ist und Schnee, wachsen keine Tomaten
Wo nächtlich rumort wird, da kann man nicht schlafen
Und wo einer buckelt, da gibt's einen Grafen . . .

Look, it makes perfect sense if you're in Überwald. Ask any Igor.