That I may lay down and take a long sleep for twelve months and a day

[sovay]

I appear to be rather tired. Possibly this is because I spent the afternoon walking around the Middlesex Fells with ratatosk—I'm not sure our level of activity was strenuous enough to qualify as hiking, but we did climb over some wonderful granite outcroppings, shining as sea-pebbles under that slightly luminous overcast you get on certain days that are almost rain. The lichens were wet and very bright. There was a waterfall. I talked a lot about Mythago Wood. We are definitely going back.

Possibly I am also tired because this week has been so far—and likely to continue—much more social than I was planning when we got back from New York. Monday, I met Dean at Tealuxe after my voice lesson and discovered they serve decaf chai that does not give me a migraine, which was a pleasing surprise. Tuesday was mostly yardwork in the rain and reading slush for Strange Horizons until I had to run an errand in Davis Square in the late afternoon, as a result of which I had dinner with derspatchel at Pizzeria Posto. (Goat ragout. Oh, my God.) I can't remember the last time I had a sundae before Wednesday, but I got one from J.P. Licks with Matthew that was coconut yogurt with hot fudge and mango and we talked a lot of Mel Brooks movies; stopping by the Diesel netted me an unexpected five minutes of audioboy and in the evening lesser_celery showed me a Pixies concert from 1988 and the first episode of Six Feet Under (2001), both of which I quite liked. Today, Fells and brief sightings of Rob and Abbie the Cat. Tomorrow I am making a gazillion samosas with rushthatspeaks because Sassafrass will need to eat them on their road trip to a wedding in Virginia.

So I should probably not be surprised that I passed out on the bus back from Somerville and had half-dozing, disconnected dreams: a man pulling yards and yards of red silk from his slit unbleeding wrist, a woman's voice singing in the winter war for his country, always a soldier against a drum-machine backbeat, something about angels and orange trees. The line a ghost from the sticks, which I couldn't decide if it meant also the underworld river. I haven't been able to get my brain to shut off before four or five in the morning the last few nights—although staying up for The More the Merrier (1943) was totally worth it—and it would be nice if tonight's the night that alters. I still think I'm doing all right. I've been happy. I'd just like to be able to say the same by Monday.

Comments

[selidor]

I was surprised by how little Robert Holdstock's books worked for me. I'm glad they work for others. It might be because my ur-forest-of-Europe looks much more like Hexwood, and I should have read his works earlier in life. I was expecting to like Mythago Wood et al, but the complete lack of awareness of the characters about the mythic history of their own area kept being tooth-rattlingly jarring.

[sovay]

It might be because my ur-forest-of-Europe looks much more like Hexwood, and I should have read his works earlier in life.

I was in college: I had a slightly under-the-table position teaching Latin at a summer school, so every day I was walking home past the same little used book store on Mass. Ave. and seeing the U.S. editions of Mythago Wood and Lavondyss with their Thomas Canty covers in the sci-fi and fantasy, looking at once like crystally Celtic twee-fey and like something that might be messier and wilder, with more earth and blood; I would open one at random and get a passage about a flight of birds from within the ribs of a creature made of holly-jags, but then I would read the back-cover text and it all sounded too Jungian for words. I was finally curious enough to go home with Mythago Wood and I did love it, even if I have my doubts about the historicity of Holdstock's Bronze Age. I like the strangeness of the books: the way Mythago Wood feels almost like a pre-Tolkien throwback with its explanatory mad science and old hauntings moving under the surface, then breaking through; I have never encountered anywhere else quite the atmosphere he evokes for Ryhope Wood and he repeats the trick with Lavondyss, adding masks and shamanism. Everything is dirty enough to feel like archaeology. You don't recognize anything entirely. And he really does write a good autumn, which counts for something with me.

Hexwood is a good point of comparison, though.

I was expecting to like Mythago Wood et al, but the complete lack of awareness of the characters about the mythic history of their own area kept being tooth-rattlingly jarring.

I don't think it jarred for me: Mythago Wood because one of the points is how disconnected its characters have become from the ghosts-in-the-land they are carrying around in their heads, Lavondyss for similar reasons of excavating the myth underneath the ribbons and the mumming ritual. The Hollowing lost me completely once it attempted to introduce Greek heroes into the British mythscape, though.

[selidor]

You've sold me. I will give it another try, perhaps with the Merlin codex ones, which I'm sure I've seen around. /me inspects local library catalogue

Twee-fey is one of those excellent words that should lead to something else. People summon the twee-fey by placing one too many dyed agates on a knotwork-patterned tablecloth, and they proceed to stab the summoner with tiny jags of quartz crystal, laughing in high-pitched squeaks of whalesong.

[sovay]

the Merlin codex ones, which I'm sure I've seen around.

I haven't read those! You'll have to tell me what you think.

People summon the twee-fey by placing one too many dyed agates on a knotwork-patterned tablecloth, and they proceed to stab the summoner with tiny jags of quartz crystal, laughing in high-pitched squeaks of whalesong.

What an appalling and yet incontestable image.