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And the rain sounds like a round of applause
Over at Jeff VanderMeer's blog, I have walked the plank. Go forth and read the rant, the review, and my five silly answers. It's all valid criticism, and I am very pleased.
. . . still better than ninety percent of the short story collections being published in genre this year.
Last night, I attended a terrific Halloween party. We started out at GPSCY, the grad student club, where I rarely go because it's killingly loud and frankly I don't like the place much; but I put in earplugs, stayed for an hour and a half (an hour and twenty minutes longer than my previous record), and observed the fascinating effects of black light on different costumes. It's embarrassing to realize that the lint on your top is glowing. But far more impressively, who knew that white garters fluoresce visibly underneath a black slip?* (Nothing, however, beats the gin and tonic that turned a luminous, poisonous green, like an irradiated luna moth. I always say, if you can read by the light of your drink, maybe you shouldn't drink it . . .) We were a 1930's starlet, Major "King" Kong, Humphrey Bogart, a Viking princess, a Chicago ganster circa 1920, a goddess in the dark, Munkustrap, a Ghostbuster, and a nonexistent sister: and it was good. We watched Rocky Horror in the rec room, to which no one else fortunately laid claim—I suppose they were all still at GPSCY—and although I was the only person in the room who knew even half of the callbacks, I don't think anyone minded. Tim Curry in a corset. Susan Sarandon in very little. Elbow sex! What's the problem here?
Someone dear to me gave me the naming of a star for my birthday. It's in Orion, which has always been my favorite of the constellations: sky-striding, autumnal and wintry. Last night was so brilliantly clear that I could see the colors in the stars as I walked back to my apartment. The stars don't know or care whose names we fix on them. But here on the ground, it's nice to look up and know.
I have to write the midterm that I will give my Latin students tomorrow. The first of my exams is this Friday. Watch me disappear.
*Because we were watching The Rocky Horror Picture Show later in the night, I attended in my usual dress: black half-slip, black camisole, fishnets, black jazz boots; and pomegranate in hand, because although no one ever asks (until this year, actually), I technically attend every showing as winter Persephone. There will, I hope, be photographs.
. . . still better than ninety percent of the short story collections being published in genre this year.
Last night, I attended a terrific Halloween party. We started out at GPSCY, the grad student club, where I rarely go because it's killingly loud and frankly I don't like the place much; but I put in earplugs, stayed for an hour and a half (an hour and twenty minutes longer than my previous record), and observed the fascinating effects of black light on different costumes. It's embarrassing to realize that the lint on your top is glowing. But far more impressively, who knew that white garters fluoresce visibly underneath a black slip?* (Nothing, however, beats the gin and tonic that turned a luminous, poisonous green, like an irradiated luna moth. I always say, if you can read by the light of your drink, maybe you shouldn't drink it . . .) We were a 1930's starlet, Major "King" Kong, Humphrey Bogart, a Viking princess, a Chicago ganster circa 1920, a goddess in the dark, Munkustrap, a Ghostbuster, and a nonexistent sister: and it was good. We watched Rocky Horror in the rec room, to which no one else fortunately laid claim—I suppose they were all still at GPSCY—and although I was the only person in the room who knew even half of the callbacks, I don't think anyone minded. Tim Curry in a corset. Susan Sarandon in very little. Elbow sex! What's the problem here?
Someone dear to me gave me the naming of a star for my birthday. It's in Orion, which has always been my favorite of the constellations: sky-striding, autumnal and wintry. Last night was so brilliantly clear that I could see the colors in the stars as I walked back to my apartment. The stars don't know or care whose names we fix on them. But here on the ground, it's nice to look up and know.
I have to write the midterm that I will give my Latin students tomorrow. The first of my exams is this Friday. Watch me disappear.
*Because we were watching The Rocky Horror Picture Show later in the night, I attended in my usual dress: black half-slip, black camisole, fishnets, black jazz boots; and pomegranate in hand, because although no one ever asks (until this year, actually), I technically attend every showing as winter Persephone. There will, I hope, be photographs.
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I want to be a Messier object.
Nine
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---L.
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I'm dedicating my NaNo story to you, because you are a star. :)
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Thank you!
Can I be a star in the right hand of Orion?
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ἔσπετε νῦν μοι Μοῦσαι Ὀλύμπια δώματ' ἔχουσαι:
ὑμεῖς γὰρ θεαί ἐστε πάρεστε τε ἴστέ τε πάντα,
ἡμεῖς δὲ κλέος οἶον ἀκούομεν οὐδέ τι ἴδμεν . . .
(Iliad, 2.483—485)
Now tell me, Muses who have Olympian homes:
for you are goddesses and you are there and you know everything,
while we only hear the story and know nothing . . .
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---L.
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Actually, we should find someone in an Irish degree program to do that and see if the professors noticed. If they made the connection and had any sense of humor, they'd probably give them extra credit for it.
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Yeah, I think that might go over better if I were in a program for Anglo-Irish literature . . .
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Meantime, re costumes: Koehler? Original, but rather boring, annd I had to look him up online to be sure how to spell his name. Angie would be much more amusing. And I'd be much more likely to turn up as King Sigismund, holding the golden rose and trying to borrow money off everyone.
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