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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)


Seven years, and the lilacs are blooming

Seven years ago today.

We had silk lilacs at the ceremony, because plant lilacs are just terrible for everyone's allergies.

Seven years and I don't think I could have made a better decision.

To unused warranties.

(This post has been crossposted from DreamWidth)

Oh my goodness.

elisem has put up a comprehensive list of all her jewelry, here.

I pass this along for those of you who like shiny things, and might be moved to at least look at things titled "Threnody for a Lindworm" or "Space Opera with Tentacles", on the general theory of loveliness.

(This is so much better than looking at the state of the back yard, today. Ugh.)

(This post has been crossposted from DreamWidth)


Fun with linebreaks

I am feeling odd tonight,
and cold. It was a warm night;
they liked my hair
--cold purple, warm purple, amethyst and plum--
better than I thought,
and it was good to listen,
and Sarah left me a spindle and a bag of fiber
I don't even know the name of.
It's not-white and faintly scratchy. A princess
would spin it into diamonds. Gold only comes from straw.

But I have
so many things to do, so many nearly done
and books begun
and cleaning undertaken
and rooms and jobs and plans and good intent
that I can feel them teetering above me
just one more
just one more
and they will come down and paralyze me in a pile.
The word is tsundoku. I think of time in terms of books.

and so tonight I will finish one step. Just one.
And go to sleep, and waken lighter in the morning
and feel the sillier for writing all this down
with line breaks studding it like beads
in an enthusiast's first clumsily assembled earrings.

(This post has been crossposted from DreamWidth)

Sock elephant!

Sarah Monette (author of the Kyle Murchison Booth stories, which I have probably bent your ear about if we've talked books in person in, oh, the last year or so) is having a contest to name her sock elephant. Go. Comment. Celebrate. Be kind.

(This post has been crossposted from DreamWidth)


Plans and excuses

I need to head in to work at some point in the next few days.

I was planning to head in today, because it is scheduled to get quite warm.

It is not yet "quite warm"; the weather forecast has a freezing rain warning in effect, which may well turn the world into a glossy little ice slick, possibly with a coat of water on top. I dislike walking on wet ice slicks.

I am trying to remind myself that the weather maybe being unpleasant is not a good reason to stay inside, because that way lies four months of being a shut-in.

ETA: have looked outside and the rain does not appear to have hit here yet, at least not hard enough that I can see the tree branches encased in little ice bubble-suits, so suppose this is a plus in terms of reminding myself to not overmuch focus on the weather reports as an excuse. Or something.

(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)



Starting to make noticeable progress on clearing physical living space.

Inbox is up to 450 e-mails.

*sighs and rolls up sleeves*

(This post has been crossposted from DreamWidth)


That time of year.

Specifically, it seems, that time of year when I start getting very unhappy about stuff. I realize it's been more or less a constant thread for a while (this is okay--unfucking one's habitat is a process, and I am making progress), but it feels more acute now than it did, say, a few weeks ago.

*cue the "oh my god, books, why do I have so many books, argh argh argh flail" screed. Am sure many of you can fill it in from context and past experience*

I am coming to think that one of the absolute best things about Farthing party was the lack of a dealer's room.

I'm trying to catch up, and clean up (which is interesting with the occasional dermatographia flare-up, I will just say), and carry on. Please be patient.

(This post has been crossposted from DreamWidth)