![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
But God only knows, I sold it for a lock of your hair
1. I got home today to find two really neat things in the mail: a card which Dean sent from Maine and my contributor's copy of Mythic Delirium #26. The latter contains my poem "Scythe-Walk," which I wrote for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
teenybuffalo and the afternoon she carried a scythe home from a rummage sale on her shoulder. It also contains her poem "The Sisters," which she wrote for me and her rivers and the ocean. The convergence was neither of our doing and it makes me very happy. (My other favorites from the issue are Rose Lemberg's "The Journeyman in Kestai" and Erik Amundsen's "Under the Asphodel," but one of these is crow-epic and the other a temptation to descend, so please look surprised.) The former is illustrated with a sketch of sea-view. Good by me.
2. Courtesy ofderspatchel, I have a copy of David Macaulay's Great Moments in Architecture (1978). It's the direct precursor to Motel of the Mysteries (1979), which is one of the greatest books about archaeology ever written; if I had to play the comparison game, I'd say the contents resemble a freakish three-way collaboration between Edward Gorey, Chris Van Allsburg, and Charles Addams, although the back-cover text rather beautifully describes them as "the daydreams of a pixilated Piranesi." The captions make half of them. "This plate was formerly believed to represent the meeting of English and Metric."
3. I scalded some of the fingers on my left hand rather badly with hot tea on Wednesday; I went out to dinner that night holding them constantly against my water glass, having wrapped my hand in a bag of frozen broccoli as soon as I got off the bus at Rob's. (Also courtesy: Fuck You, Broccoli. I am actually quite fond of artichokes, but anything with phenylthiocarbamide can fend for itself.) They're healing, but it looks as though the forefinger is going to scar. I need a better cover story. "Very hot ginger tea" just has no experimental cachet at all.
4. I am very charmed by this installment of Wondermark.
5. Did I remember to link the record-breaking Rube Goldberg machine?
I am going to bed. Nobody else had better get sick this week. That includes me.
teenybuffalo and the afternoon she carried a scythe home from a rummage sale on her shoulder. It also contains her poem "The Sisters," which she wrote for me and her rivers and the ocean. The convergence was neither of our doing and it makes me very happy. (My other favorites from the issue are Rose Lemberg's "The Journeyman in Kestai" and Erik Amundsen's "Under the Asphodel," but one of these is crow-epic and the other a temptation to descend, so please look surprised.) The former is illustrated with a sketch of sea-view. Good by me.2. Courtesy of
derspatchel, I have a copy of David Macaulay's Great Moments in Architecture (1978). It's the direct precursor to Motel of the Mysteries (1979), which is one of the greatest books about archaeology ever written; if I had to play the comparison game, I'd say the contents resemble a freakish three-way collaboration between Edward Gorey, Chris Van Allsburg, and Charles Addams, although the back-cover text rather beautifully describes them as "the daydreams of a pixilated Piranesi." The captions make half of them. "This plate was formerly believed to represent the meeting of English and Metric."3. I scalded some of the fingers on my left hand rather badly with hot tea on Wednesday; I went out to dinner that night holding them constantly against my water glass, having wrapped my hand in a bag of frozen broccoli as soon as I got off the bus at Rob's. (Also courtesy: Fuck You, Broccoli. I am actually quite fond of artichokes, but anything with phenylthiocarbamide can fend for itself.) They're healing, but it looks as though the forefinger is going to scar. I need a better cover story. "Very hot ginger tea" just has no experimental cachet at all.
4. I am very charmed by this installment of Wondermark.
5. Did I remember to link the record-breaking Rube Goldberg machine?
I am going to bed. Nobody else had better get sick this week. That includes me.
no subject
All in a small cafe,
A six-foot-seven waitress
To me these words did say:
"I see you are a logger,
Not just some common bum,
For no one but a logger
Stirs his coffee with his thumb."
James Stephens and/or Cisco Houston did the work for me. But I'm glad you like these.
In related news, a couple of weeks ago I was driving through Harvard Square--so obviously I'd made some poor decisions that morning--when I saw a bunch of punks/metalfaces/what-have yous, hanging out in front of Bank of America, dangerously close to traffic, and laughing together. One of them was remarkable for two things: being a pretty young woman, and having a long curly lock of hair at the front of her head while she'd shaved the back bald. She was Fortuna. I did not grab her by the hair, or anything else, as I cherish what good manners I have left, but I would have loved to know if she'd ever seen depictions of Fortune. Probably not.
no subject
Stirs his coffee with his thumb.
I was, actually, thinking of that song. But I would still read your tall tales of New England.
One of them was remarkable for two things: being a pretty young woman, and having a long curly lock of hair at the front of her head while she'd shaved the back bald. She was Fortuna.
Poem!