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This is not a drill. There are 41 years left on the duration. Nine have elapsed.

As I've said before, I feel warranties should come with an extension.

Much love on this glorious 25th of May.

(This post has been crossposted from DreamWidth)

Eight. Eight.

(I initially thought about just saying "42!" Which would be the answer to why I am happy, but comes with a whole lot of unrelated associations.)

But yes. Eight years.

Best decision I ever made.

(This post has been crossposted from DreamWidth)

Lest We Forget.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders Fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders Fields.

- John McCrae
      Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned out backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!--An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
Bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

- Wilfred Owen

(This post has been crossposted from DreamWidth)



I am so tired, and there is so much email.

(This post has been crossposted from DreamWidth)

Well, drat.

I need to talk to the store and tell them I want a different pair of glasses.

This would be less stressful if they didn't have a whoops-the-head-came-off-screw that means the plastic "scabbard" on the arm comes off--not because that's a problem, but because I was in yesterday to get the screw replaced and they told me "oh, no, can't replace the screw, we'd need to take the plastic bit off and that'd break the plastic bit."

It feels distinctly weird to be going in to say "Hey, you were wrong, but I don't want the glasses anyway." I know that technically I'm not really being ungrateful and it's perfectly okay to express dissatisfaction with things I paid for, but... ugh.

Oh well. Onwards?

(This post has been crossposted from DreamWidth)



It's been a while, so I made icons again.

Table generated using angelamaria's Icon Table Generator.
Icons by their own makers.

(This post has been crossposted from DreamWidth)


The Knick

We have begun watching The Knick. I confess I went in mildly suspicious; I remembered vschanoes's mentioning a show set in 19thC New York that had a noticeable lack of working-class women who weren't prostitutes. That was a couple of years ago, and since then I've honestly noticed that that's a fairly common thing with period shows.

How did the first episode open? Close-up of the shoes of the protagonist, past which we can see a couple of prostitutes.

I kinda went in expecting it, so it wasn't surprising and annoying, but it is annoying. (Fortunately my mood is currently exceedingly sturdy, due to a measured application of butter, cream, garlic, and potatoes, so it is not more than annoying.)

Aside from that... well, a handful of the characters have admirable qualities. A couple of them seem to be decent people. I think I shall keep watching for a bit. And yet, I am not quite willing to clear time for it.

(This post has been crossposted from DreamWidth)



Okay. Nearly ready. Plans for today, relating to travel, are "pack". I need to add one set of clothes, plus something nice for the Hugos. (Probably just a dressier than usual top; there is a certain shrug-and-carry-on[1] freedom to living out of a bag for most of a week.)

I need to copy out my travel information, and clean out my wallet.

Chargers, toiletries, passport, candied ginger, caffeinated chocolate. Refill on Starbucks card. Travel packets of laundry soap (yes, the hotel has laundry service, but in case). E-reader.


Finalized con schedule.

Possibles: a book I am thinking of getting signed. A camera. My knitting.
[1] Not intended to be a reference to a carry-on bag, but hey.

(This post has been crossposted from DreamWidth)



I am not-quite-bored, so here are dates. Mostly I am curious to see who will recognize which ones; partly I am curious to see if anyone has any others to add.

(For the record, 26 May, 1988[1]

August 29, 1997 (suspect this one will tip several people off... got sunblock?)

12 June, 2070

October 23, 2077 (my favourite)
[1] Arguable! But it's Thursday, 26th of May, which I believe makes 1988 the most likely guess.

(This post has been crossposted from DreamWidth)


Today, I booksed.

I did many other things, and I would like to say I am deeply grateful to the friend who met me for lunch, and to the light of my life for listening and handling dinner and generally being the man I married.

That said. Bookses.

While wandering around downtown, I hit the library, where I picked up Subterranean: Tales of Dark Fantasy 2 and Straight to Darkness. Both are horror anthologies.[1]

Then it turned out there was a United Way fundraising booksale in the place I was meeting a friend for lunch, so we stopped by. I got Bradbury's Long After Midnight, LeGuin's Rocannon's World, Barbara Gowdy's We So Seldom Look On Love, Koontz's The Darkest Evening of the Year, and Special Delivery (which is a coffeetable book on Canada Post's history).

Then on my way back that afternoon, I picked up Ann Leckie's Ancillary Justice, since I have Hugos to vote on and should make an informed decision.

(Also, on Tuesday, I was returning books to the library, and I hit the Book Nook and picked up Two of the Deadliest, a crime anthology, and The Specter from the Magician's Museum. It is a continuation of the John Bellairs series with Lewis Barnavelt--a lovely kid's series from when I was young, featuring necromancy and wizardry and hands of glory and mean witches and beanies and the colour purple.)
[1] Actually, uhm, is anyone able to take a quick look at the names in Straight to Darkness and peg, by name, whether there is a gender mix in the authors? I would normally assume so, but frankly the last three Mythos anthologies I picked up had (1) no women at all, (2) no women at all, and (3) two women out of eighteen authors, so I have gotten a bit cynical. And I am trying to hit gender parity in my reading this year.

(This post has been crossposted from DreamWidth)