tricia868

It was helpful of Adrian Tchaikovsky's Elder Race (2021) to include a dedication to its inspiration of Gene Wolfe's "Trip, Trap" (1967), since I would otherwise have guessed Le Guin's "Semley's Necklace" (1964)/Rocannon's World (1966) as its jumping-off point of anthropological science fiction through the split lens of heroic fantasy. As far as I can tell, my ur-text for that kind of double-visioned narrative was Phyllis Gotlieb's A Judgment of Dragons (1980), some of whose characters understand that they have been sucked down a time vortex into the late nineteenth century where a dangerously bored trickster of an enigmatically ancient species is amusing himself in the Pale of Settlement and some of whom just understand that Ashmedai has come to town. I got a kind of reversal early, too, from Jane Yolen's Sister Light, Sister Dark (1988) and White Jenna (1989), whose modern historian is doomed to fail in his earnest reconstructions because in his rationality he misses that the magic was real. Tchaikovsky gets a lot of mileage for his disjoint perspectives out of Clarke's Law, but just as much out of an explanation of clinical depression or the definition of a demon beyond all philosophy, and from any angle I am a sucker for the Doppler drift of stories with time. The convergence of genre protocols is nicely timed. Occasional Peter S. Beagle vibes almost certainly generated by the reader, not the text. Pleasantly, the book actually is novella-proportioned rather than a compacted novel, but now I have the problem of accepting that if the author had wanted to set any further stories in this attractively open-ended world, at his rate of prolificacy they would already have turned up. On that note, I appreciated hearing that Murderbot (2025–) has been renewed.

Current Music: Michigander, "Giving Up"

sovay

Last night's eight hours of sleep were more disrupted and fragmentary than the previous, but my brain wasn't wrong that in life Kenneth Colley was only a little taller than me and a year or so younger when he first sparked a fandom for Admiral Piett.

I read later into the night than planned because I had just discovered Irene Clyde's Beatrice the Sixteenth (1909), which would fall unobjectionably toward the easterly end of the Ruritanian romance were it not that the proud and ancient society into which Dr. Mary Hatherley awakens after a kick in the head from her camel while crossing the Arabian Desert has zero distinction of gender in either language or social roles to the point that the longer the narrator spends among the elegantly civilized yet decidedly un-English environment of Armeria, the more she adopts the female pronoun as the default for all of its inhabitants regardless of how she read them to begin with. Plotwise, the novel is concerned primarily with the court intrigue building eventually to war between the the preferentially peaceful Armeria and the most patriarchally aggressive of its neighbors, but the narrator's acculturation to an agendered life whose equivalent of marriage is contracted regardless of biological sex and whose children are all adopted rather than reproduced puts it more in the lineage of Theodore Sturgeon's Venus Plus X (1960) or Le Guin's The Left Hand of Darkness (1969) even without the sfnal reveal that Mêrê, as she comes to accept the local translation of her name, has not merely stumbled upon some Haggard-esque lost world but actually been jolted onto an alternate plane of history, explaining the classical substrate of Armerian that allows her to communicate even if it bewilders her to hear that the words kyné and anra are used as interchangeably as persona and the universal term for a spouse is the equally gender-free conjux. If it is a utopia, it is an ambiguous one: it may shock the reader as much as Mêrê that the otherwise egalitarian Armeria has never abolished the institution of slavery as practiced since their classical antiquity. Then again, her Victorian sensibilities may be even more offended by the Armerian indifference to heredity, especially when it forces her to accept that her dashing, principled, irresistibly attractive Ilex is genetically what her colonial instincts would disdain as a barbarian. Children are not even named after their parents, but after the week of their adoption—Star, Eagle, Fuchsia, Stag. For the record, despite Mêrê's observation that the Armerian language contains no grammatical indications of the masculine, it is far from textually clear that its citizens should therefore all be assumed to be AFAB. "Sex is an accident" was one of the mottoes of Urania (1916–40), the privately circulated, assertively non-binary, super-queer journal of gender studies co-founded and co-edited by the author of Beatrice the Sixteenth, who was born and conducted an entire career in international law under the name of Thomas Baty. I knew nothing about this rabbit hole of queer literature and history and am delighted to see it will get a boost from MIT Press' Radium Age. In the meantime, it makes another useful reminder that everything is older than I think.

As a person with a demonstrable inclination toward movies featuring science, aviation, and Michael Redgrave, while finally watching The Dam Busters (1955) I kept exclaiming things like "If you want the most beautiful black-and-white clouds, call Erwin Hillier!" We appreciated the content warning for historically accurate language. I was right that the real-life footage had been obscured for official secrets reasons. The skies did look phenomenal.

Current Music: Haim, "Down to Be Wrong"

sovay

Probably because it has been weeks since I slept more than a couple of hours a night and months since I had what would be medically termed a good night's sleep, I spent at least ten hours last night unconscious enough to dream and it was amazing. Under ideal circumstances I would devote my afternoon to reading on the front steps until the thunderstorms arrive. Under the resentful circumstances of realism I have already devoted considerable of my afternoon to phone calls with doctors and will need to enact capitalism while I have the concentration for it. I may still try to take a walk. I have a sort of pressure headache of movies I managed to watch before I ran completely out of time and would like to talk about even in shallow and unsatisfactory ways. I heard Kaleo's "Way Down We Go" (2015) on WERS and am delighted that the video was shot in the dormant volcano Þríhnúkagígur. I will associate it with earthquake-bound Loki. My brain thought it should dream about nonexistent Alan Garner and what I very much doubt will be the second season of Murderbot (2025–).

[edit] Taking a walk informed me that the sidewalk of the street at the bottom of our street has been spray-painted with a swastika, visible efforts to scrub it out notwithstanding. The sentiment is far from shocking, but the placement is rather literally close to home.

Current Music: Kaleo, "Way Down We Go"

sovay

In the appendices of Alzina Stone Dale's 1984 edition of Dorothy L. Sayers and Muriel St. Clare Byrne's Busman's Honeymoon (1936), reproduced for the first time from a handwritten sheet by Sayers with an additional scribble from Byrne, I have found perhaps the greatest production note I have read in a playscript in my life:

Warning

The murder contrivance in Act III Scene 2 will not work properly unless it is sufficiently weighted. It is therefore GENUINELY DEADLY.

Producers are earnestly requested to see that the beam, chain & attachments & the clearance above the head of the actor playing CRUTCHLEY are thoroughly tested at every performance immediately before the beginning of the Scene, in order to avoid a POSSIBLY FATAL ACCIDENT.

How is it that in this our era of infinite meta when See How They Run (2022) was a real film that came out in theaters and not someone's especially clever Yuletide treat no Sayers fan has ever worked this note into a fictional production of Busman's Honeymoon where the blasphemed aspidistra exacted a worse revenge than corroded soot? I don't want to write it, I'm just amazed no one's taken advantage of it. I wouldn't mind knowing either if the 1988 revival with Edward Petherbridge and Emily Richards found a way of reproducing the effect without risking their Crutchley, since Byrne's "Note to Producers" describes the stage trick in technical detail down to the supplier of the globes for the lamp and she still agreed with Sayers—she wanted the warning inserted before the relevant scene in the acting edition—that it could wreck an actor if not set up with belt-and-braces care. Otherwise I am most entertained so far that according to Dale, while the collaboration between the two women was much more mutual than an author and her beta-reader, Byrne characteristically put in the stage business and directions which it seems Sayers was less inclined to write than dialogue. This same edition includes Sayers' solo-penned and previously unpublished Love All (1941) and testifies to the further treasury of the Malden Public Library, whose poetry section when we were directed to it turned out to be a miscellany of anthologies, plays, and biographies shading into what used to be shelved as world literature. I have three more Christies for my mother, another unfamiliar Elizabeth Goudge, another unfamiliar Elleston Trevor, some nonfiction on an angle of women's war work and the Battle of the Atlantic that I actually know nothing about, and the summer play of Christopher Fry's seasonal quartet. I am running on about a fifth of a neuron at this point, but

rushthatspeaks bought me ice cream.

Current Music: Frank Turner, "Recovery"

sovay

From an apparent radiant in Arcturus, which made it either a straggler of the Boötids or just passing through, just as

spatch and I were getting up from our summer-hazed star-watching under the three-quarter moon, we saw a slow fireball of a meteor streak south and westward. All we had seen until then were the familiar blinks of planes and what we less happily took for satellites crawling steadily across the body of Ursa Major. We lay on the granite blocks that were installed six or seven years ago in commemoration of the eighteenth-century farm that became first a field of victory gardens and then the public park where I would spend my childhood sledding in winter and setting off model rockets in summer. The jeweled string of the Boston skyline has built itself considerably up since then. I used to dream of finding a meteorite in a field. It seemed statistically not impossible.

Current Music: Of Monsters and Men, "Empire"

sovay

I screamed in dismay in the middle of the night because I had just seen the news that Kenneth Colley died.

I saw him in roles beyond the megafamous one, of course, and he was everything from inevitable to excellent in them, but it happens that last week

spatch and I took the excuse of a genuinely fun fact to rewatch Return of the Jedi (1983) and at home on my own couch I cheered his typically controlled and almost imperceptibly nervy appearance aboard the Executor, which by the actor's own account was exactly how he had gotten this assignment stationed off the sanctuary moon of Endor in the first place, the only Imperial officer to reprise his role by popular demand. In hindsight of more ground-level explorations of the Empire like Rogue One (2016) and Andor (2022–25), Admiral Piett looks like the parent and original of their careerists and idealists, all too human in their sunk cost loyalties to a regime to which they are interchangeably disposable, but just the slight shock-stillness of his face as he swallows his promotion from frying pan to fire would have kept an audience rooting for him against their own moral alignment so long as they had ever once held a job. It didn't hurt that he never looked like he'd gotten a good night's sleep in his life, not even when he was younger and turning up as randomly as an ill-fated Teddy-boy trickster on The Avengers (1961–69) or one of the lights of the impeccably awful am-dram Hammer send-up that is the best scene in The Blood Beast Terror (1968). Years before I saw the film it came from, a still of him and his haunted face in I Hired a Contract Killer (1990)—smoking in bed, stretched out all in black on the white sheets like a catafalque—crossbred with a nightmare of mine into a poem. Out of sincere curiosity, I'll take a time machine ticket for his 1979 Benedick for the RSC.

He played Hitler for Ken Russell and Jesus for the Pythons: I am not in danger of having nothing to watch for his memory, as ever it's just the memory that's the kicker. No actor or artist or writer of importance to me has yet turned out to be immortal, but I resent the interference of COVID-19 in this one. In the haphazard way that I collected character actors, he would have been one of the earlier, almost certainly tapping in his glass-darkly fashion into my longstanding soft spot for harried functionaries of all flavors even when actual bureaucracy has done its best for most of my life to kill me. I am glad he was still in the world the last time I saw him. A friend no longer on LJ/DW already wrote him the best eulogy.

Current Music: Slumber Party, "Soldier"

sovay

On the normality front, our street is full of cracks and bangs and whooshes from fireworks set off around the neighborhood, none so far combustibly. Otherwise I spent this Fourth of July with my husbands and my parents and eleven leaves of milkweed on which the monarch seen fluttering around the yard this afternoon had left her progeny. My hair still smells like grill smoke. Due to the size of one of the hamburgers, I folded it over into a double-decker with cheese and avocado and chipotle mayo and regret nothing about the hipster Dagwood sandwich. A quantity of peach pie and strawberries and cream were highlights of the dessert after a walk into the Great Meadows where the black water had risen under the boardwalk and the water lilies were growing in profusion from the last, droughtier time we had passed that way. I do not know the species of bird that has built a nest in the rhododendron beside the summer kitchen, but the three eggs in it are dye-blue.

On the non-normality front, I meant it about the spite: watching my country stripped for parts for the cruelty of it, half remixed atrocities, half sprint into dystopia, however complicated the American definition has always been, right now it still means my family of queers and rootless cosmopolitans and as most of the holidays we observe assert, we are still here. It's peculiar. I was not raised to think of my nationality as an important part of myself so much as an accident of history, much like the chain of immigrations and migrations that led to my birth in Boston. I was raised to carry home with me, not locate it in geography. I've been asked my whole life where I really come from. This administration in both its nameless rounds has managed to make me territorial about my country beyond the mechanisms of its democracy whose guardrails turned out to be such movable goalposts. It enrages me to be expected not to care that I have seen the pendulum swing like a wrecking ball in my lifetime, as if the trajectory were so inevitable that it absolves the avarice to do harm or the cowardice to prevent it. It is nothing to do with statues. The door to the stranger is supposed to be open.

The wet meadows of the Great Meadows are peatlands. They were cut for fuel in the nineteenth century, the surrealism of fossil fuels: twelve thousand years after the glaciers, ashes in a night. The color of their smoke filled the air sixteen years ago when some of the dryer acres burned. If you ask me, there's room for bog bodies.

Current Music: Japanese Breakfast, "Picture Window"

sovay

Because Hanscom hasn't held an air show in years, I have no idea what the hell passed over my parents' yard behind the unrelieved overcast except that it sounded like a heavy bomber, but not a modern one: an air-shaking piston-engined roar like who ordered the Flying Fortress, which were not to my knowledge even tested at the base. It suggested lost psychogeography and worried me.

Japanese Breakfast's "Picture Window" (2025) came around again on WERS as I was driving this afternoon. The line about ghosts and home keeps resonating beyond the pedal steel guitar.

I see we will be celebrating the Fourth of July out of spite this year. So go other holidays. Af tselokhes, John.

Current Music: The Dropkick Murphys, "Who'll Stand with Us?"

sovay

I was so transfixed by the Bittersweets' "Hurtin' Kind" (1967) that I sat in the car in front of my house listening until it was done. The 1965 original is solid, stoner-flavored garage rock with its keyboard stomp and harmonica wail, but the all-female cover has that guitar line like a Shepard tone, the ghostly descant in the vocals, the singer's voice falling off at the end of every verse: it sounds like an out-of-body experience of heartbreak. The outro comes on like a prelude to Patti Smith.

If I had a nickel for every time I heard two songs about mental unwellness within the same couple of hours, actually I'd be swimming in nickels, but I appreciated the contrast of the slow-rolling dread-flashover of Doechii's "Anxiety" (2025) with Marmozets' "Major System Error" (2017) just crashing in at gale force panic attack. Hat-tip to

rushthatspeaks for the former. I must say that I am missing my extinct music blogs much less now that I spend so much time in the car with college radio on.

"Who'll Stand with Us?" (2025) is the most Billy Bragg-like song I have heard from the Dropkick Murphys and a little horrifically timely.

Non-musically, I think I might explode. The curse tablets are not cutting it.

Current Music: Marmozets, "Major System Error"

sovay

Rabbit, rabbit! I had to go for my annual physical this afternoon, but I stopped by Porter Square Books afterward to collect a book for my mother and look what was part of their summer sea-display:

I had wanted to write about so many queer films for June, but the month disappeared. Fortunately before we ran out of the formal observance of Pride,

rushthatspeaks and I made it to Rainer Werner Fassbinder's Querelle (1982) at the Coolidge. It was adapted from the 1947 novel by Jean Genet, but I have never seen anything onscreen that more resembled the novels of Chip Delany. Meant in sincere compliment, it is one of the sweatiest films I have ever seen. It looks like it smells like a porno theater. Its antihero is straight out of Tom of Finland with his sailor's tight, tight white trousers and muscular cleavage revealed by the barest excuse for an A-shirt, his boyish, chiseled, louche face under his insolently cocked bachi in the sullen, enticing haze that never varies from the sodium-smoke of just after sunset or just before dawn, a perpetual cruising hour. The sea-wall of its fantasized Brest is studded with stone phalli, anatomically complete with slit and balls. All graffiti in town is dicks. The chanteuse of the dive bar sings Wilde like Dietrich, but some of the construction workers with their buff hard hats are playing video games while the naval lieutenant who pines for Querelle records his poetically criminal obsessions into a portable tape recorder. The bare-chested, leather-vested cop at the bar actually is a cop outside of it, where he looks just as fetishistic in his fedora and black leather trenchcoat. Every interaction between men looks like a negotiation or a seduction whether it is one or not, although on some level it always is, regardless of the no-homo excuses manufactured to allow their bodies to meet. Constantly, metaphysically, literally, this movie fucks. Its hothouse, bathhouse sexuality must have come in just under the cutting wire of AIDS. I have no idea what it would offer a viewer with no sexual or aesthetic interest in men except its philosophy, although as my husband notes the philosophy is actually quite good, deconstructing its hard masc signifiers as much as it gets off on them, dissolving in and out of the words and ultimately the life of Genet; the theatricality of its interlocked sets and swelteringly flamboyant lighting would look entirely natural on the stage. It quotes Plutarch and stages a hand job that without a glimpse of cock would have caused mass apoplexies in the Breen office. (Send it back in time, please.) It was my introduction to Fassbinder and if I had seen it as an adolescent, I imagine it would have had much the same effect as Tanith Lee. It was introduced by the series programmer wearing leather in its honor and a T-shirt for Kenneth Anger's Scorpio Rising (1963). It made a superb date movie.

Current Music: Les Cowboys Fringants, "Marine marchande"

sorcyress

I am at Pinewoods, is I think the way these entries start, and they are always happy entries to write.

I arrived at camp, and swung past my cabin in and amongst other tasks in order to open the windows and get it ready for me to bring all my stuff up. And upon opening the door, found the entire place covered in beautiful hanger fine art. There were probably about 50 hangers scattered across any hangerable surface, and a lovely wire sculpture dangling through the middle. My friends know me well, and I genuinely did use some of them to hang some of my clothes, so truly a win-win.

Unpacking was aided by a SamSam coming to say hello, and then off to the staff meeting, and then off to the porch. There are many people I adore here --more than I could easily spend time with all at once. That is one of the downsides of ESCape being so good and so popular. My affections have been a bit ADHD today, but I think I haven't left anyone feeling abandoned.

Dinner was delicious, dessert was vegan chocolate cake (I chose not to try and break my record from LCFD weekend, and only ate four pieces). And then there was some beautiful English dancing --I missed the first one but caught the other three, with kateface, then mom, then Robin. And then announcements. And then...

...my first night of calling, like as a serioustimes staff caller, holy shit. This is the biggest teaching assignment I've ever had, like, this could make or break my Scottish Country Dance career. (It's not gonna, there's enough other things I do that will also help, but this is a pretty serious event. It's still not the Big Goal, but it's well in the right direction).

And I nailed it. I got a _ton_ of compliments, including some from extremely well established callers themselves, and some of them with really lovely details that showed good attention and observation to what I try to do. At least one person told me I did a good job of not over-explaining, which is extremely funny to me to consider, given that I want to talk all the time endlessly about everything. But I do try and keep the dance floor flowing real fast --some of this is my training from my tutors, and some of this is my own kinesthetic learning (I want to _do_ the dance, not talk about the dance!)

I was a healthy four minutes under on my time limit, and they asked for an encore for the last one, and I said "yeah, this is a good thing to explain to the dancers anyways". I think I might've been just maybe a minute over after that, but not anything more (so I apologize if the dancers got a four minute break instead of five, or if Ben lost a minute of the contras). I will keep being hyperaware of the timing. I like trying to keep track of how long it takes to do things.

And then I was through the calling, five solid and rapidly done dances (and a very slight sense of smugness, because a week or two ago I got an email from the organizers being all "oh yeah, there are first night announcements and therefore your set needs to be a little shorter timewise than it normally would be, do you want to cut anything?" And I decided to be brave and sassy and said "you know, I _could_ cut the fourth dance if I need, but numbers two and three are 6x32 anyways, and I think I've got this. And I did!)

And the last dance I called was a bit of a stretch goal, a dance I absolutely _adore_ (Lords of the Wind), but felt like would maybe be tricky? And everyone did great! I called it well and clearly, and so the walk-through zipped along, and then we just did it and it went well and like I said, encored! I am getting more and more evidence for the fact that I can and should take the really fun slightly complex flowy dances and go ham on them, even with extremely mixed-level floors. Because I'm surprisingly good at calling them, and my confidence is carrying over so that my dancers can dance them.

(and my music was so good already, and I have three more days to listen to this! Amazing!!!)

After I finished, I got to look at a cool bug (putting a line in my bio that said "I love cool bugs show them to me" ACTUALLY WORKED!) and I chatted with mom some and I determined that I was extremely sticky and hot, despite not having dancing, so I'd better do a couple contras to really commit to being hot enough to jump in the pond after. A lovely one with Myles where we exactly crossed the floor from first to last couple, and then the last contra I danced with Mo and we did a social experiment around carcinization.

(It started as the usual kinda goofing around, with some nice gremliny deep knee squats on the petronella. I'm not sure who in the walk-through turned it into crab hands and sideways prancing around to the next place. But Mo and I committed, and did it every single time our way around, even though it was _exhausting_. It was a ton of fun, and I'd say over 75% of the neighbor couples did at least a little crabbing with us! And after, singleSam¹, who had been the couple just in front of us, complimented us on the fact that they were chased by the delighted laughter of couples becoming crabs with us for the whole dance).

Austin and I waltzed, which was lovely lovely lovely, and then I managed to squeze between Austin and Tess for the song. Into the pond go I, which was surprisingly perfect. I still didn't stay long, but I didn't jump in and start cussing (which happens a lot to me) and when I came out, I was not immediately shivering.

Party and admiring tinfoil costumes and a polycool meeting and back to my cabin relatively on time to sleep. If I hurry, I could get six hours solid before having to go to breakfast! That'd be keen. Just have to dip down to the wifi shed to upload these, and then go brush my teeth.

Happy happy happy!

~Sor
MOOP!

1: "bells Sam" is not actually a differentiator, because SamSam also does bells.

alierak posting in

dw_maintenance

We're having to rebuild the search server again (previously, previously). It will take a few days to reindex all the content.

Meanwhile search services should be running, but probably returning no results or incomplete results for most queries.

sovay

As I hollered after the inapposite license plate of the SUV that had blown through the crosswalk without even thinking about stopping while we were in it, "Psalm 23? With that driving?" I am informed by

spatch that the driver who actually had stopped for us like a normal person let out one of those whoaaa sounds as at a game of the dozens, which was extremely good recompense for almost being run over by an SUV whose Lord may have been a shepherd, but obviously not a crossing guard.

(The rest of this weekend has been different temperatures of garbage; I take my victories where I can. We were in West Medford to eat tamales on the bleachers of Playstead Park.)

Current Music: The Heavy Heavy, "Feel"

sorcyress

I finished all my packing for Pinewoods _surprisingly_ early --I was done a bit before 2:30pm, which was surprisingly charming. It meant that mom and Robin and I could go out to Boda Borg for the afternoon! We did a lovely four hour run, in which we got three stamps (Quiz Show: Quotes, Star Trails, and the weather one) and morally got a fourth (the last room of Area 51 is _much_ harder with three than with five, and even when we temporarily joined with another group, we still couldn't quite get it, but we know the _idea_). It was jolly!

I'm somewhat unsettled by being fully packed, and reassuring myself with the fact that I still have a bunch of MC/teacher prep work I can/should do, and a fair chunk of printing that needs to happen (after the prep work). I did find my _critically_ important Rowan¹ notebook, which has my ESCape teaching notes for every year starting when I got my full certificate in 2019. It was extremely lost, and I probably spent a total of 20-30 minutes trying to find it, sigh.

I am excited and pleased to leave for ESCape tomorrow. I'll be in the camp in the woods until the 12th or 13th of July or so, so probably not a lot of posting, and definitely continuing my horrid streak of not reading very well. I really ought to figure out a way to work reading dreamwidth into my day-to-day life at times other than part of Standard Morning Routine, because all this traveling and adventure nonsense means my standard routine hasn't been.

I've definitely mentioned somewhere here that I'm teaching at ESCape, right? I am _psyched_ for that. Really strongly looking forward to it, and kinda wicked excited that I will then be going to Scottish sessions and having very few responsibilities so I can just kinda kick back and actually relax for a tickyboo. Maybe I will even wind up working at camp a skootch, who knows!

Anyways, today has been pretty good, even if I've been Very Tired (it is possible I was up _stupid_ late last night in order to do most of my packing, but it's okay, I've had a lot of days in a row of getting eight or nine hours of sleep. I've got backup sleep! Which is very very good to go into Pinewoods with.)

I hope you are well and happy and having good adventures. I hope that we can have a better world than the one that is actually happening. I wish I had anything more useful to say than that.

~Sor

MOOP!

1: Rowan is the mascot of the RSCDS youth branch. They are a sheep and they use they pronouns and they are extremely important to me. I have cosplayed them! Carefully, since specifically they are a Scottish Blackface Sheep.

sovay

After many travails and an extra plague year in transit, the latest of the Paleozoic Pals has made landfall from the Carboniferous.

My father adores his Diplocaulus salamandroides. My niece has been sent a picture of hers with its accompanying book, to be held in trust until her next visit. My mother has been presented with its enamel pin form, which is done in bands of lighter and darker purple instead of newt-like red and black. I had forgotten entirely about the stretch bonus of Bandringa rayi, whose spoonbill suggests the Amazon river dolphin of the Pennsylvanian period. I really am invested in the continued existence of the Paleontological Research Institution, which is one of the reasons I have gladly thrown in to its Kickstarters for almost ten years. The present being so very full of horror and stupidity, it is important that it can also produce such snuggable plush of the past.

Current Music: Soul Asylum, "Somebody to Shove"

sovay

Actually the temperature crashed by a solid thirty degrees Fahrenheit and with any luck will stay this moderately cool and dampish until everyone has rehydrated. Or we could just skip the next heat dome entirely.

I had worked up an entire rant about the scaremongering of this article and especially its anti-intellectual characterization of Zohran Mamdani as automatically out of touch because his father teaches at Columbia and his mother has directed films in Hollywood as if he were a Cabot who talks only to God when both of these professions especially in these days of DEI demonization mean something very different without whiteness and then I discovered that the author's big shtick is that she "came out" as politically conservative while an undergraduate at Harvard, at which point her already tenuous right to slate anyone for attending Bowdoin fared poorly on the pot-to-kettle scale. Anyway,

spatch liked Monsoon Wedding (2001).

The Europeans (1979) turns out to have been the first foray of Merchant Ivory into costume drama and its modest budget gives it a slight, wonderful ghost-look of New England, nineteenth-century carriages on twentieth-century streets, the tarmac dirt-roaded over, telephone poles discreetly out of shot, the dry stone walls tumbledown in the picturesque rather than practically maintained day. I got such déjà vu from the Federal style of its historic houses—and the occasionally more modern construction of their neighbors—that I was reassured to see it actually had shot in Waltham, Concord, and Salem which I recognized from the red-bricked back side of the Customs House. Its autumn is the sugar-red drift of maple leaves, the pale punctuation of birches. Its actors have an indie air with their precisely characterful period clothes doing half the worldbuilding. Robin Ellis sports a moss-bronze corduroy coat and a waistcoat in pheasant paisleys I should like to bid for and a creditably mid-Atlantic accent, cast ironically on the colonial side of the plot of two sets of American cousins and their entanglement with a third, European set. I have not read its particular source novel by Henry James, but it has the light, sharp, not overly mannered observations, a sweet-sour bite in the chocolate box. In light of the setting, variations on "Simple Gifts" and "Shall We Gather at the River?" may have been unavoidable contributions to the score.

Because I had showed

spatch a clip of a trumpet played into Jell-O, my attempt to explain Chladni figures netted us a 1989 Christmas lecture by Charles Taylor, after which we went through Delia Derbyshire's "Ziwzih Ziwzih OO-OO-OO" (1967), Belbury Poly's "Caermaen" (2004), and finally thanks to what must have been a very confused sidebar landed on Les Luthiers' "Rhapsody in Balls" (2009). Today has been generally breaking-down-tired, but during the part of the evening where I was still working on implementing a bagel for dinner, WERS had the decency to play the Dead Milkmen's "Punk Rock Girl" (1988).

Current Music: The Chats, "Smoko"

sorcyress

Today started with a goodly long walk.

Well no, it started with floppiness and a slow wake-up and close cuddling of my beloved, and then helping finish the last few pieces of a puzzle and breakfast and things like that. But the walk was the first thing of note!

We saw a frog -very exciting, it was green headed and brown bodied in a somewhat surprising way- and a number of wee little waterfalls and at least one house hidden in the woods looking abandoned and a grand number of interesting flowers. I ate some sorrel and probably didn't wind up in any poison ivy. And I got to hold hands with Tuesday, and pull ker close against me and snuggle as we walked and that was all extremely good.

Then there was lunch and a bit of trivia, and hugs goodbye, and Cameron and I got in the car and performed the long drive back home to Maryland. It was a bit over five hours total driving, but actually a quite jolly adventure. There was much exchanging of music! I heard some very good Mariana and the Diamonds and Enya in exchange for Kate Nyx and Vienna Teng. We mutually grooved to Chappell Roan, the place our venns diagramed. Later, as we drove through some quite hard rain and a splashy sort of thunderstorm, we exclaimed over the rainbow chasing alongside us, occasionally joining in the spray of the water on the road to look like it was landing just in front of our car.

And very good conversation, including swapping stories of how we wound up entangled with our sweeties. It's really damn nice to have a partner's family I can groove with, is what I'm saying.

Mom and Barb picked me up in Baltimore, and there were hugs all around which was lovely to happen. And more driving and a stint in the grocery store and bringing in some heavy bags of salt from the car (why carry the 40# bags yourself if you've got a childe to do it for you?) and my bags. Before I did all the carrying, I stopped on the lawn to watch the grove of fireflies flickering across the driveway. That was a magical moment --maybe I should go out again and check if they're still there? It might be too late now, being as it's well past eleven. Still, nothing ventured etc. BRB.

Okay there were still a few, mostly up in the treetops instead of at knee height, but as I was standing there looking, I heard a bit of a noise and I was like "huh, that sounds like rain but it's....it's getting louder and closer. OH SHIT" and run run run back up the drive. I did beat most of it --but only most. It was very jolly, especially since there was at least one pale flash of lightning as I moved. It's been a very good day for storms!

At mom's house, I curled up on the internet with Tailsteak for our regular Taskmaster date, which we haven't had in _ages_ and won't be able to have again for _more ages_. But it was good to get a couple episodes in! Gradually catch up, as it were.

Now mom's doing some scanning and I'm writing my words, and it's a good close to the day. I hope your days are also nice!

~Sor

MOOP!

If life is what we make it, then why's it always breaking?

But I lost my heart and the future's gone with it

'Cause they will run you down, down to the dark

Cider and some kind of smelling salts

Comes a river running wild that will create an empire for you

I'm a mercenary soldier and we all look the same

All of my ghosts are my home

Through crime and crusade, our labor it's been stolen

You think one plus seven seven seven makes two

J'm'installe sur le rivage pour te voir mon gros gars t'éloigner vers le large

First night of ESCape!

Rebuilding journal search again

I don't change, I don't even notice the scene

Ready for camp!

Waiting for you to call me up and tell me I'm not alone

It's two in the afternoon and thirty-four degrees

(no subject)

Profile

May 2014

Most Popular Tags

Page Summary

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags