Rain makes the road such a dangerous place

There's half a rainstorm still going on. Earlier there was air-splitting thunder and rain pelting down, so that I retrieved the mail in a sizzling downpour, and now the rain has mostly slowed to a tropical drizzle and the thunder only rumbles crankily around the blocks. It's no cooler than it was before, and about as humid. My hair is observing hygrometrical experiments of its own. I want my temperate climate back.

This afternoon's mail, however, brought three books that automatically improved my mood: Caitlín R. Kiernan and Poppy Z. Brite's Wrong Things, which I have set aside as a reward for myself when I've finished the day's translations; and from Papaveria Press, Joel Fried's Genesis and Catherynne M. Valente's Ghosts of Gunkanjima. The latter two are miniatures, so I polished them off in a matter of minutes. All are beautiful artifacts. And the words inside aren't bad, either.

Back to Greek.

To the Mother of the Gods

Of the mother of all gods and all peoples
sing, clear-voiced Muse, daughter of great Zeus—
whom the noise of crotals and drums and the wail of flutes
pleases, and the cry of wolves and bright-eyed lions
and mountain echoes and forested haunts.
And so hail to you and all goddesses in my song!