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Clanging from the Severn to the Tyne
Rabbit, rabbit!
I see we have achieved April Fool's Day Blizzard II: The You've Got to Be Kidding Me. When I went to bed, it was just a lot of sleety rain and slushy ice that I shoveled off the front steps in the hope that it wouldn't freeze into a solid glassy layer overnight. By the time I woke up, it was snow. Lots and lots of wet and sticking snow that I am going to shovel off the front steps—and the front walk, and the driveway, and wherever else my mother needs—as soon as I can stomach it. The pussy willow and the forsythia are flowering bewilderedly in the back yard. There is a robin hopping around the broken conifer branches with a sort of reality-defying cheer. Whee.
In the meantime I dreamed about an outdoor production of a Shakespeare play that doesn't exist (with boatloads of numinous greenwood, so I'm sorry—doesn't it feel like Shakespeare should have written a play about Robin Hood, with fairies?) and winged cats going into space (which someone must have written and published in the '80's), neither of which derives obviously from watching Dan Duryea in Cy Endfield's The Underworld Story (1950), re-reading Gypsy Rose Lee's The G-String Murders (1941), and reading half of Lee's Mother Finds a Body (1942) before bed.
We who are about to shovel salute you. This is ridiculous.
I see we have achieved April Fool's Day Blizzard II: The You've Got to Be Kidding Me. When I went to bed, it was just a lot of sleety rain and slushy ice that I shoveled off the front steps in the hope that it wouldn't freeze into a solid glassy layer overnight. By the time I woke up, it was snow. Lots and lots of wet and sticking snow that I am going to shovel off the front steps—and the front walk, and the driveway, and wherever else my mother needs—as soon as I can stomach it. The pussy willow and the forsythia are flowering bewilderedly in the back yard. There is a robin hopping around the broken conifer branches with a sort of reality-defying cheer. Whee.
In the meantime I dreamed about an outdoor production of a Shakespeare play that doesn't exist (with boatloads of numinous greenwood, so I'm sorry—doesn't it feel like Shakespeare should have written a play about Robin Hood, with fairies?) and winged cats going into space (which someone must have written and published in the '80's), neither of which derives obviously from watching Dan Duryea in Cy Endfield's The Underworld Story (1950), re-reading Gypsy Rose Lee's The G-String Murders (1941), and reading half of Lee's Mother Finds a Body (1942) before bed.
We who are about to shovel salute you. This is ridiculous.
no subject
I had to think for a moment before I was certain he didn't. And clearly he should have.
I can think of cats in space (Heinlein, The Cat Who Walked Through Walls), but the closest I can think of for winged cats is Mercedes Lackey doing gryphon kittens, and I'm failing completely on both at once. OTOH I'm certain I've seen illustrations somewhere.
no subject
Thank you! It was indeed aerobic.
I had to think for a moment before I was certain he didn't. And clearly he should have.
Where's that time machine?
I can think of cats in space (Heinlein, The Cat Who Walked Through Walls), but the closest I can think of for winged cats is Mercedes Lackey doing gryphon kittens, and I'm failing completely on both at once.
Ursula K. Le Guin's Catwings are the winged cats I know about; I grew up with the first two books, discovered the second two much more recently. I can't seem to find winged space cats, though, and I'm amazed. Why didn't that happen in the '80's?