Saved cows and calves by making halves of that famous Lambton Worm

Oh, my God, The Lair of the White Worm (1988) is not a good movie. I mean, nunsploitation with terrible bluescreen effects. Plot exposition plus Freudian crosswords. Peter Capaldi with a mongoose apparently stashed in his sporran. (All together now: or are you just happy to see me . . .) I imagine the anachronistic slander of the Emperor Carausius does not even rank among the problems most viewers have with this film, but what do you want from me? I read The Silver Branch (1957) in high school.

It was, nonetheless, a remarkably entertaining way to spend an evening with two friends who do not have livejournals, even if I may never get those synapses back. Next time, I insist on watching a movie with actual, you know, continuity. And better values of human sacrifice.

I dozed inside the mirror

1. My poem "Sheydim-tants" has been accepted by Not One of Us. For everyone who worried about my last post, it has nothing to do with nuns: it is the poem I wrote on the flight back from Vancouver in November and there are demons in it.

2. Have narcissistic picspam. On Monday, we took my mother to see the Chihuly exhibition at the MFA; I remembered to bring the camera this time, so I have several dozen pictures of stained glass (some of which I may post) and then this one, which I took in between mostly unsuccessful shots of the Charles River on the drive home. It's really the fact that the warning legend on the mirror came out that makes it for me.



3. Happy birthday, gaudior! So many more of the same.

Outside, the stormclouds gathering

Hello, tornado warning in Lexington. That's unusual.

(I was called home from the library: into a smoky green storm-coming sky, lightning cracking pink-hot through it. I love storms. I write poems about them. The wind rising upstairs is astonishing.)

ETA: Lightning you can read by. Sweet.