See the ghost fly over the sea

kraada came to visit on Friday and brought me roses and bread—circus roses, whorled amber-red and yellow, and eight-grain bread from the Hungry Ghost Bakery. This is maybe a perfect description of him.

Last night I watched Casablanca for the third time. I am still in love with Claude Rains. My grandfather remarks that he can't watch even scenes from the movie without remembering how it felt to see Casablanca for the first time in the middle of World War II; how it felt in 1942 to hear "La Marseillaise" drown out "Die Wacht am Rhein." He was a student at the time, but his eyesight kept him out of military service—never mind leaves, he nearly hadn't known trees had branches until he got his first pair of glasses. Hirshke, you're blind as half a bat . . . He worked in an ink-making plant and finished his dissertation and my mother was born in 1946. And by the time I saw Casablanca, this was all family stories: in the past. For me.

This afternoon, since the latest scene was my responsibility, I worked on the collaboration with greygirlbeast. I have no idea how all the pieces of this story are going to fit together; I don't even know the title. But I'm enjoying the process.

I seem to have several songs from Rogue's Gallery: Pirate Ballads, Sea Songs, and Chanteys steadily stuck in my head, on rotation. I may have to buy the entire set after all.

Oh, you pinks and posies
Go down, you blood red roses, go down . . .

Talk to fleurdelis28 about King Arthur.