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The undead overground
The usual: I am heading into a major convention in a state of extreme physical exhaustion and emotional-intellectual despair. I spent nearly my entire day doing laundry and working. The combination always makes me feel like Boober. I am worried about several of my panels. That doesn't help.
I am fascinated by reports of the heat wave in the UK revealing old lines of ancient and medieval earthworks like a letter in lemon-juice ink or a developing photograph. Or in the words of Louise Barker, archaeologist on the scene, "It's like a painting that comes out into the fieldscapes." I thought at once of "The Land," which told me that Kipling must have seen cropmarks in just this field-crisping heat: "And in drouthy middle August, when the bones of meadows show, / We can trace the lines they followed sixteen hundred years ago." Colpeper would have loved them, these tangible traces of resurfacing time. Sapphire and Steel, I suspect, would have done their particular metaphysical equivalent of sighing and rolling up their sleeves.
I am also delighted by the discovery that all you need to recover the image from a daguerreotype too badly corroded to yield much—if anything—to the naked eye is a synchrotron. Specifically a synchroton capable of mapping the distribution of mercury particles on the silver-coated copper plate, but if you can get one of those, then like Madalena Kozachuk and her colleagues at the University of Western Ontario you're in business. I can't imagine Sapphire and Steel will be thrilled about this development, either.
I resigned myself last summer to the fact that most of the discoveries which give me joy are the kind that give Elements grief. I write ghost poems. I like when the past turns up like a lost but not necessarily bad penny. They probably think I have a deathwish.
Case in point: I had never heard of Bouena Sarfatty before I ran into the relevant page of Literature of the Holocaust (2013) ed. Alan Rosen, but now I am going to do my best to get hold of her work:
Poetry and song were always crucial elements in Balkan Sephardic culture, and Bouena Sarfatty (a defiant poet-partisan) began composing under the first Nazi blows, even as starvation and confinement in a ghetto prior to deportation affected the Salonikan community. Employing the traditional genre of satirical rhyming komplas or koplas (couplets), she composed a song about Hitler and Pharaoh, and a parody of the biblical Book of Esther, which tells of a holocaust averted. A kompla about Passover in the ghetto on the eve of deportation goes: "Elijah began to sing, everyone began to cry; the kantigas continued by cursing Hitler . . ." Indeed, she specialized in cataloguing curses (collecting some four hundred), invoking humor, and weaving in proverbs. Alone among Sephardic women, she composed a long epic poem of komplas describing the destruction of the Jewish community of Salonika. Such compositions are the modern expression of a venerable narrative tradition going back to Iberia.
Her biography at the Jewish Women's Archive refers to her "sewing and embroidery talents of the highest order . . . a master of needlepoint and a feisty survivor-partisan-heroine of the decimated but once vibrant Salonikan Jewry." Her trousseau included tapestries. I love that she wove in all the Greek senses, poetry, textiles, lies, like Penelope whom everyone seems to forget practiced like a boss the craft of Athene, the grey-eyed unsexual goddess who loved a complicated man and must have loved the tricky woman he returned to, both of them clever weavers after her own heart. I hope Sarfatty had a worthy Odysseus. The JWA says that Max Garfinkle founded a kibbutz—and left it when she couldn't live there—so maybe he was the one with the olive tree. The trick (this is mine) is never to lose sight of the real lives under the likeness of myth. Like a rayograph of hillforts, like tenacious quicksilver, the people are always there.
I am fascinated by reports of the heat wave in the UK revealing old lines of ancient and medieval earthworks like a letter in lemon-juice ink or a developing photograph. Or in the words of Louise Barker, archaeologist on the scene, "It's like a painting that comes out into the fieldscapes." I thought at once of "The Land," which told me that Kipling must have seen cropmarks in just this field-crisping heat: "And in drouthy middle August, when the bones of meadows show, / We can trace the lines they followed sixteen hundred years ago." Colpeper would have loved them, these tangible traces of resurfacing time. Sapphire and Steel, I suspect, would have done their particular metaphysical equivalent of sighing and rolling up their sleeves.
I am also delighted by the discovery that all you need to recover the image from a daguerreotype too badly corroded to yield much—if anything—to the naked eye is a synchrotron. Specifically a synchroton capable of mapping the distribution of mercury particles on the silver-coated copper plate, but if you can get one of those, then like Madalena Kozachuk and her colleagues at the University of Western Ontario you're in business. I can't imagine Sapphire and Steel will be thrilled about this development, either.
I resigned myself last summer to the fact that most of the discoveries which give me joy are the kind that give Elements grief. I write ghost poems. I like when the past turns up like a lost but not necessarily bad penny. They probably think I have a deathwish.
Case in point: I had never heard of Bouena Sarfatty before I ran into the relevant page of Literature of the Holocaust (2013) ed. Alan Rosen, but now I am going to do my best to get hold of her work:
Poetry and song were always crucial elements in Balkan Sephardic culture, and Bouena Sarfatty (a defiant poet-partisan) began composing under the first Nazi blows, even as starvation and confinement in a ghetto prior to deportation affected the Salonikan community. Employing the traditional genre of satirical rhyming komplas or koplas (couplets), she composed a song about Hitler and Pharaoh, and a parody of the biblical Book of Esther, which tells of a holocaust averted. A kompla about Passover in the ghetto on the eve of deportation goes: "Elijah began to sing, everyone began to cry; the kantigas continued by cursing Hitler . . ." Indeed, she specialized in cataloguing curses (collecting some four hundred), invoking humor, and weaving in proverbs. Alone among Sephardic women, she composed a long epic poem of komplas describing the destruction of the Jewish community of Salonika. Such compositions are the modern expression of a venerable narrative tradition going back to Iberia.
Her biography at the Jewish Women's Archive refers to her "sewing and embroidery talents of the highest order . . . a master of needlepoint and a feisty survivor-partisan-heroine of the decimated but once vibrant Salonikan Jewry." Her trousseau included tapestries. I love that she wove in all the Greek senses, poetry, textiles, lies, like Penelope whom everyone seems to forget practiced like a boss the craft of Athene, the grey-eyed unsexual goddess who loved a complicated man and must have loved the tricky woman he returned to, both of them clever weavers after her own heart. I hope Sarfatty had a worthy Odysseus. The JWA says that Max Garfinkle founded a kibbutz—and left it when she couldn't live there—so maybe he was the one with the olive tree. The trick (this is mine) is never to lose sight of the real lives under the likeness of myth. Like a rayograph of hillforts, like tenacious quicksilver, the people are always there.
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I am quite taken by the "fortlet".
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I bet that's the right word for some of Hestia's smaller hideouts! Like the cardboard box in the closet that due to the jumbling of other cardboard boxes provides just enough room for a small black cat with tucked-up feet and tail. More than one cat can and sometimes does occupy Fort Subterfuge at a time. The fortlet is a redoubt of one.
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Yes! I had seen that. Huge black granite sarcophagus with melted-looking unidentifiable alabaster face. Everyone who encounters this story—including me—appears to respond with some variant of, "Well, this movie can only end well . . ."
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Our ancient defenses are rising from their slumber in our time of need!
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A lot of things give Elements grief. They wouldn't be too keen on me, either. (A librarian who did a history degree, for starters.) I think one of my online friends wins, though - she works in a museum! (And not only that, but sometimes works there nights. And watches TV. Including S&S the first time...
A post that gives Elements grief, though, is usually a good post! (Sorry, Steel.)
Good luck with the Con; I'm sorry life is ranging itself against you again. :-/
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May our president hit your ley lines like the leading soprano in that famous anecdote about Tosca and the trampoline.
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I hope the witches are on it; they have form on this front:
http://mentalfloss.com/article/86145/operation-cone-power-when-british-witches-attacked-adolf-hitler
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https://www.pedestrian.tv/news/sarcophagus-egypt-unopened-alexandria/
The gist: “Haven’t you ever seen a movie?”
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Thank you for sharing this! ^_^
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Is it any consolation that I see you more as Mokey?
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Yes!
Every one of those six million plus lives- six million plus living, breathing, hoping people.
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(I would love for it to get so dry the drowned hundred come back; but the implications for that would probably be super disastrous and unfair. But the drowned hundred!)
*hugs* Please remember only to eat people in dark, cool places suitable for stashing bodies.
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"In the coming weeks", apparently.
Personally, I feel: bring it on. All Ancient Undead Evils rising from their tombs to volunteer are welcome to join us in fighting the Living Evil.
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Surrounded by Time. Nice. I just had my watch stop after the first three assignments.
A post that gives Elements grief, though, is usually a good post! (Sorry, Steel.)
I couldn't decide who the technician for the daguerreotype/synchrotron job should be. Silver and Copper both felt like they might be somewhat—susceptible.
Good luck with the Con; I'm sorry life is ranging itself against you again.
Thank you. I was woken early this morning by a particularly unnecessary phone call, which, just, no, thank you. I'm going to see if I can nap before my panel tonight.
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That's wonderful! Thanks for letting me know. I love the idea of walking the drowned road.
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You're welcome!
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Er. May I ask why?
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Agreed. I don't even think this is a "devil you know" situation. I genuinely think I have more priorities in common with a mummy than with 45. And the mummy almost certainly believed in chattel slavery, so this is serious.
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Still unknown! Hopefully pissed off at this country's president! Why should it stop with the live heads of state?
(I would love for it to get so dry the drowned hundred come back; but the implications for that would probably be super disastrous and unfair. But the drowned hundred!)
Please remember only to eat people in dark, cool places suitable for stashing bodies.
I'm staying at the hotel. I will not be so obvious as to eat anyone in my own room.
*hugs*
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Can you see them out of drought, or are there some that appear every summer?
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At least last year there were reports of American witches working in concert against 45. I hope they're still at it. I don't think it substitutes for voting, protesting, and chasing Mitch McConnell from restaurants with cries of "Turtle Head," but I don't see how it can possibly hurt.
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My feelings exactly. And if it helps morale and freaks out alt-rightists, all to the good.
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I hope you have a great Readercon.
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I thought of you when I read the name.
I hope you have a great Readercon.
Thank you! I hope your vertigo at least rights itself quickly.
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Yep. It's been a while now, but I think she had to stop after A2 and watch S&S in safer places in daylight. And, ha. I showed it to my parents, and then asked my Dad to try and mend my clock. You can imagine the comments.
I couldn't decide who the technician for the daguerreotype/synchrotron job should be. Silver and Copper both felt like they might be somewhat—susceptible.
Hmm, but does susceptible also mean they might have an affinity for it? Or there's Mercury, he's mentioned as a technician a couple of times, too.
Anyway, since life continues to be rubbish, have some Peter Cushing smoking. <3
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That's wonderful! And makes a lot of sense, even though I hadn't known. Now I have the image of ghost railroads even more than ghost trains.
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I couldn't remember if Mercury was a technician. I wondered if maybe one of the unstable transuranics, given the synchrotron.
(This is not going to result in fic, I am afraid, just thinking.)
Anyway, since life continues to be rubbish, have some Peter Cushing smoking.
Thank you! Life with Peter Cushing is always better than not,
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He's definitely a technician. It's been a while, but I'm sure of that. And given that photographs indicate human involvement, you can't bring in a transuranic, since Transuranics may not be used where there is life. (Medium Atomic weights are available! ;-p)
Maybe it'll just need Silver, Copper, and Mercury and they can all argue a lot about how to do it and which one of them is the safest and probably have to have Lead around to make sure somebody actually does do it and is okay?
(This is not going to result in fic, I am afraid, just thinking.)
When I saw this in my inbox, I believed it. JUst thinking is fun! Now I've read your other post, I believe it a lot less. Heh.
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It's still there, under the sand! We just can't see it much any more, but give it another big storm...
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Right, but people don't live inside a synchrotron.
Now I've read your other post, I believe it a lot less. Heh.
I am pretty sure it's still not going to happen, because I have to spend all day on programming and then somehow I have to sleep, but I appear to be thinking.
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No; I just looked it up and now I know it's a thing a Transuranic could go inside and probably nobody else. I just vaguely thought it was a science thing somebody could use on a photograph from the context above (not being a science person at all), and I suppose that's still true, but as usual, the detail is key!
I am pretty sure it's still not going to happen, because I have to spend all day on programming and then somehow I have to sleep, but I appear to be thinking.
Well, as I said, thinking can be fun. :-)