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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.
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I grew up with Catwings, but I've never heard of Space Cat. Is it also a book?
Don't recall any Spacecatwings (which inevitably reminds me of Goodspaceguy).
Well, that's a thing.
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Ruthven Todd sounds like an interesting guy: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ruthven_Todd "He was involved with the surrealists at the time of the 1936 International Surrealist Exhibition. During the 1930s, he was friendly with Dylan Thomas, Geoffrey Grigson, Humphrey Jennings, David Gascoyne[3] and Wyndham Lewis, contributing to the Lewis issue of Julian Symons's Twentieth Century Verse.[2] Lewis recruited Todd to keep awake the dozing Ezra Pound, whose portrait Lewis was painting. A character based on Todd was included in Symons' first detective story, The Immaterial Murder Case. Todd's two allegorical novels Over the Mountain and The Lost Traveller both feature protagonists on symbolic journeys; Todd acknowledged the influence of Lewis and Rex Warner on the latter novel.[1] Over the Mountain, a satire on fascism, has its hero travel to a dystopian nation with an oppressive government.[4] During World War II he was a conscientious objector.[2] He moved to America in 1947, where he held a position at a university in Iowa, and ran the Weekend Press during the 1950s."
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