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A current under sea picked his bones in whispers
My poem "Day, Sun, Night" has been accepted by Not One of Us. It was written last summer for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rose_lemberg and owes a debt to Frank O'Hara's "A True Account of Talking to the Sun at Fire Island." These last couple of days have been very good for my writing ego, provided I can finish any of the projects I am currently engaged in.
nineweaving came over this afternoon and met the cats, who were their charming furry selves. Hestia prowled and observed. Autolycus demonstrated his spectacular twenty-eight-claw salute. Greer had brought Tyrone Guthrie's Shakespeare: Ten Great Plays (1961), with illustrations by Alice and Martin Provensen. I have further confirmation that the olive-oil cornbread with maple syrup was as good an idea as I thought.
I saw this headline and thought it was the plot of a novel: "TS Eliot's restless ghost finds home in seaside idyll." I admit to some disappointment that it is instead a matter of real estaste. Not going to argue with the innate numinousness of the Atlantic coast, though. Or Eliot's attunement to the sea. [edit] It has been suggested that I write at least the poem myself. I should have seen that coming.
rose_lemberg and owes a debt to Frank O'Hara's "A True Account of Talking to the Sun at Fire Island." These last couple of days have been very good for my writing ego, provided I can finish any of the projects I am currently engaged in.nineweaving came over this afternoon and met the cats, who were their charming furry selves. Hestia prowled and observed. Autolycus demonstrated his spectacular twenty-eight-claw salute. Greer had brought Tyrone Guthrie's Shakespeare: Ten Great Plays (1961), with illustrations by Alice and Martin Provensen. I have further confirmation that the olive-oil cornbread with maple syrup was as good an idea as I thought.I saw this headline and thought it was the plot of a novel: "TS Eliot's restless ghost finds home in seaside idyll." I admit to some disappointment that it is instead a matter of real estaste. Not going to argue with the innate numinousness of the Atlantic coast, though. Or Eliot's attunement to the sea. [edit] It has been suggested that I write at least the poem myself. I should have seen that coming.
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Thank you! The issue is really getting enough time—I am very tired and I have deadlines all over the place and I lost last night to multiple computer crashes, which I consider totally unnecessary. I may send you scenes if you're interested, though.
Would you be tempted to use 18 Edgemoor as a retreat? (Stupid question, I guess.)
It's not a stupid question: the answer is hell, yes!
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I'd love that, thank you! Hope you're crashless tonight.
*the answer is hell, yes!*
I would be chuffed if that happened for you!