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When you're raised on the river, washed in the blood
This is a logical train of thought. It starts with Pamela F. Service's Tomorrow's Magic—the recent omnibus reprint of Winter of Magic's Return (1985) and Tomorrow's Magic (1987)—which I picked up from the bookstore this afternoon and have just begun to re-read. The last time I read the books was age eleven, at the latest; I had remembered the post-apocalyptic Arthuriana, but completely forgotten that it takes place in Wales. This reminds me again that between the Prydain Chronicles, The Dark Is Rising, The Crystal Cave, The Owl Service, the Mushroom Planet books, and Howl's Moving Castle, it's probably some kind of miracle I ever realized that Wales was not in fact synonymous with the otherworld. Time out for a fragmentary, tangential recollection of the dream I had last night, which contained Merlin and Nimue (and someone had stolen my face), which zigzags back to wondering whether magical talent / sensitivity in novels and stories usually is ethnically tied: not to pick on Peter S. Beagle, Julie Tanikawa's ability to summon the goddess Kannon in The Folk of the Air; whether that's orientalism or merely a reasonable expectation that a god will listen most attentively to its traditionally affiliated kin-group; e.g., there are not many goyishe golem stories. I am too tired to draw up a proper list in my head (either for or against) and decide to stare at my bookshelves tomorrow. Nonetheless, the sentence that still resolves at the end of this contemplation is: I totally resent my genetic inability to sing golems into being. It's a good thing I like my brain.
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Interesting dream, that.
which zigzags back to wondering whether magical talent / sensitivity in novels and stories usually is ethnically tied:
Hmm... it does tend to be. At best, it... well, it somehow fits. Seems appropriate. Makes sense.
At worst... it's mock ethnic kitsch, and annoying as Hades on a pogo stick. Except Hades on a pogo stick wouldn't be annoying, he would be rather funny. Sorry, my simile generator is broken the now.
Nonetheless, the sentence that still resolves at the end of this contemplation is: I totally resent my genetic inability to sing golems into being.
It would be nice to be able to do that sort of thing, I suppose. Hmm, for some reason I didn't realise and/or remember that the process of making a golem required singing.
It's a good thing I like my brain.
Indeed.
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No, no. You win at simile. I picture the bouncing Hades with a stonily resigned expression.
Hmm, for some reason I didn't realise and/or remember that the process of making a golem required singing.
I don't think it does. Just if music is traditionally Welsh* and golems are traditionally Ashkenazic? There must be some way to fuse the two.
*Claimed by virtue of last name, despite the fact that I don't think I've had anything resembling ancestors there since the eleventh century . . . Eh. Ireland's also associated with music. I'm way too tired to figure out another combination. It still works.
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Thanks!
I picture the bouncing Hades with a stonily resigned expression.
I picture him with very much such an expression. I wish I could draw.
He'd not be annoying, I suppose, but definitely he'd be annoyed. And I'd feel sorry for whomever had forced him to get on the pogo stick, once he figured out a way to get back at them.
I don't think it does. Just if music is traditionally Welsh* and golems are traditionally Ashkenazic? There must be some way to fuse the two.
Oh, I see what you mean. Sorry about that; I'm tired as well.
It still works.
That it does.
And I rather hope do you find a way of singing them into existence.
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This sounds a lot like the Haiti-Sweden pipeline (this being the construct of an old boss of mine who was a world music buff - apparently there's a lot of musical collaboration going on [or there was] between artists in those countries, and for a while, Voudoun practice was growing rather quickly in the nation in which you would not expect Voudoun to be prevalent).
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See, that's wonderful.