sovay | 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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

To a certain extent, it is what it is, embrace or reject, it remains the same... unless someone had the means of retroactively altering their own heritage.

I still want gills and retractile claws. Evolution has failed me.

Did you ever read a Dr. Seuss book called I Wish That I Had Duck Feet? By the end of the book, the protagonist had decided that he really doesn't want duck feet, a blowhole, antlers, a prehensile tail, he's happy just being himself. Which while this is a valuable lesson to teach small children, I always thought was a bit of a cop-out from a transformative point of view.

He's made it through most of Phantom Menace, but when he looked at Clones I think he just started crying.

Oh, God. Last night I watched the first forty-five minutes of The Fall of the Roman Empire (1964), lately remade as Gladiator (2000). It's a great film whenever the supporting cast—Alec Guinness, James Mason, Christopher Plummer, Sophia Loren—are onscreen. Unfortunately, Stephen Boyd cannot act his way out of a grocery bag. And being the protagonist, he's onscreen a lot more than they are. My disbelief finally suspended to the point of snap when the dying Marcus Aurelius betrothes his daughter Lucilla (Sophia Loren) to the King of Armenia (Omar Sharif) and we're meant to take this as cause for grieving, because she's in love with our hero Livius (Stephen Boyd), the plain commonsense general, veteran of a hundred campaigns, whom Marcus Aurelius would rather see govern the empire after him than his own unstable son, etc., etc., and all I could think was: Come on. This is Omar Sharif. I've just seen you and Stephen Boyd play a love scene that gave Attack of the Clones a run for its money, which I didn't think was physically possible. You'd throw over Omar Sharif for a man who can be out-acted by a toaster? I despair of humanity.

See I had this dream where I was looking at an advance copy of a novel I wrote, entitled Jukebox Hero with the cover art being a person with a long coat and guitar, in sillhouette, jumping between two buildings, against a midnight blue sky.

Your dreams have the best publisher.

Come on. This is Omar Sharif. I've just seen you and Stephen Boyd play a love scene that gave Attack of the Clones a run for its money, which I didn't think was physically possible. You'd throw over Omar Sharif for a man who can be out-acted by a toaster? I despair of humanity.

Oh dear. That sounds dreadful, though the rest of the movie sounds awesome.

I have vague memories of I Wish That I Had Duck Feet, and lots of dreams in which I get to alter my shape a little, but it never goes back exactly the way it came. I have to wonder if my dream self resembles Clayface by now.

The retroactive heritage change struck me as a sort of Yekl (sp?) transformation. In that book the main character keeps saying he is various and sundry different ways that are demonstrably untrue. A recurring line about "my people do/are X" that changes as the character changes came up while I was thinking of it.

Your dreams have the best publisher.

I wish I had gotten a chance to peek inside. I want to know what that book was about.

That sounds dreadful, though the rest of the movie sounds awesome.

I taped it off TCM. My plan is to watch as much of James Mason, Sophia Loren, and Christopher Plummer as possible, while skillfully avoiding the same of Stephen Boyd. I remain floored that in 1964 they couldn't find an actor with at least a modicum of charisma to carry off the part.

The retroactive heritage change struck me as a sort of Yekl (sp?) transformation. In that book the main character keeps saying he is various and sundry different ways that are demonstrably untrue. A recurring line about "my people do/are X" that changes as the character changes came up while I was thinking of it.

By Abraham Cahan? I have never read the book; it looks like something I need to.

I want to know what that book was about.

Write it and find out?

The very same. Read it in college. It was good.

Write it and find out?

Oh, it's on the queue. Definitely on the queue.

When you're raised on the river, washed in the blood

no subject

no subject

no subject

Yekl