As a species, we are dedicated to post hoc rationalisation: the tidying away of inconvenient emotion the reduction of the self to an ordered sequence of steps. If this, then that. Well, no: everything happens for a reason. The reason, though, does not come carved deep into stone (every conceivable dictator being characterised by sublime indifference): but is rather what you make of it. This is what it means to tell the story of your life: to take your whys and somehow give them form. This is the solid ground of poetry: two roads diverged; think, two things, both at once: and every meaning you create is true or true enough for now. Is this about...? Yes. Yes, it is. If only for this moment, we are mirrored mirror twins.
Rare chance to get a photo of the main flock, and I didn’t have my good long-range camera on me. (15.10.14) Mind you, a few nights ago I found them all standing on this boat ramp at 11pm at night, stock still and STARING AT PEOPLE - and I had no camera at all to document the unnervingness of it all.
At the front, the Ruddy Shellduck and the Muscovy Duck - if ever they are parted, the shellduck floats around honking sadly.
The Muscovy Duck likes to hang around with this gang of geese - mostly greylags, but if you count the seventh goose from the front, that’s a bar-headed goose, and the black sploge further up is some sort of weird hybrid piebald goose thing.
The swans and gulls are just hangin’ around, the real troublemakers are the geese + muscovy duck gang.
thank you for writing a story for me! I have no doubts whatsoever that I will love the pants off of whatever you write :)
I'mma talk about canons first and then get to general reading preferences.
( Frankenstein )
( The Fall )
( Vorkosigan Saga )
( Smoke Signals )
( general info about what I like to read )
My mother will be in Rome next weekend.
My mother, who remembers me rhapsodising about this place, asked me if I could recall the name.
... as it happened, I could remember (1) that the name started with an N and (2) the approximate walking route to get to it from San Clemente. Ergo five minutes with online maps later I had identified La Naumachia as the most plausible candidate, despite a rebrand having apparently done away with the very memorable logo of a ship. I look forward to hearing her report on it.
(Having explained how I found it, she responded: HAH!!!! That's the sort of thing I do. Indeed it's how the rat I ever found the same hotel I stayed in back then.... you come out of the back gate of the Inquisition past the best water fountain in Rome, go under a bridge past a dubious bus stop and up the hill most of the way to the next metro station....)
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, hills, and fields
Woods or steepy mountain yields
And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks
By shallow rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
And I will make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flower, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;
A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold
With buckles of the purest gold;
A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs;
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me and be my love.
The shepherds' swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.
In general I'm a massive queermo and very much in favour of Queers Being Awesome and Trans Folk Being Awesome and Ladies Being Awesome etc etc. I also have a lot of feelings about families lost and found and chosen. I'm not terribly interested in sex (er, in general, though also reading about it); I don't object but please do not feel obliged! By mid-winter I tend to be feeling a bit miserable so happy endings are much appreciated, but getting there the hard way isn't a problem.
I am sure I will love whatever it is you write! I am only too pleased for you to follow your own muse and will adore the result. (Tell me if I'm being too effusive?) However, slightly more specific notes on requests follow if you want something to bounce off.
( Read more... )
Thank youuuuuuuu <333
Blenheim isn’t a National Trust or English Heritage property, so we don’t have memberships that cover it. It’s also an eye-watering £22.50 per adult for a day admission. However, once you’ve paid it, you can convert this to an annual membership and come back any time you like for the subsequent year. Since Humuhumu had a lot of energy to run off by the time we got there (it’s over an hour’s drive from home) and we didn’t get to spend any time indoors, we’re determined to go again in a couple of weeks to at least attempt to see the sculptures that are housed inside the Palace.
It was a blowy, blustery day and Humuhumu loved dashing around the majestic grounds, helping us to hunt down the sculptures. The symmetrical shiny blue-purple stones were the hands-down favourites.
[Image of Humuhumu running through one of Ai Weiwei's sculptures at Blenheim Palace.]
( More words and pictures )
Hours of fresh air and exercise tired everyone out, so I’m afraid poor Bloke had to drive home with only the dulcet tones of Radio 4 playing “Under Milk Wood” by Dylan Thomas* to drown out the snorkeling of his passengers.
* NB: I do not recommend listening to this whilst dozing unless you enjoy having very strange dreams.
The next day everyone had a lie-in, even Humuhumu, who slept until almost 8 AM. (Note to Daughter: More Sundays like this please.) Once we were up, we went to the garden centre to get wallflowers and pansies to plant in our front pots, as the geraniums were beginning to flag in the cooler weather. We are once again keeping up appearances in our village, to the relief of the neighbours, I'm sure.
In the afternoon, we headed to the Avoncroft Museum nearby for Trebuchet and Cannon Reenactment Day. We texted some other parents on the off-chance that they were at loose ends for Sunday activities, and to our immense surprise, everyone turned up. Humuhumu was delighted at the company. The four-year-old girl pretty much adopted Humuhumu, and cried when her Daddy tried to take her away before she could give her a goodbye cuddle and kiss.
The other children didn’t much care for the noisy cannon demonstrations, but Humuhumu’s response to every firing was a passionate demand for “MORE BANG!” and “Nani do it!” Oh dear.
Also filed under Oh Dear: Humuhumu has got quite a strong Brummie accent at the moment. Here is an attempt to record her pronunciation of a few words/phrases. I need to get some video of this for posterity before she loses it, which she very probably will when she’s older. She doesn’t hear any Brummie at home or from our friends and relations.
Bye Bye = “Buh Boy”
Like a diamond in the sky = “Loik a doymund in da skoy”
Bus = “Booss”
Daddy = “Dah-doy”
[Humuhumu and Dada at the trebuchet & cannon-firing display at the Avoncroft Museum. She’s in the middle of a request for “MORE BANG” here.]
Yuletide is one of my favourite things about fandom, and I hope you have a great time writing this story. If you offered one of these fandoms/characters because you have a particular story burning a hole in your imagination: WRITE THAT ONE. Optional details being optional, I'd rather you enjoy yourself thoroughly.
All further (and seriously: optional) details are below cuts:
( Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries )
( Lord Peter Wimsey - Dorothy L. Sayers )
( The Hour )
( Tiffany Aching series - Terry Pratchett )
Recycling from last year, more or less:
I like humour and clever use of language, I like magic with a light touch to it, I like families (blood or found). I like slow-build romance and lightning attraction. I like mythology, and science, and Shakespeare.
I'm fine with any rating from complete gen to filthy porn, and with any combination of het/slash/none of the above (and despite the fact that my requests this year are skewing quite het-OTP, I am ALL ABOUT functional threesomes as a general rule). I'm not looking for anything strongly kinky, but I do enjoy stories that explore and play around with the control and power dynamics between characters, or obedience (although I don't like humiliation to be a feature). Happy endings preferred.
I don't like very graphic descriptions of violence, especially torture. (I'm fine with you writing about blood and injuries; it's the deliberate infliction that I'd prefer not to see.)
You can find most of my own fic archived on AO3.
Finally figured out why, every time I see her, my reaction is ‘that can’t be a real boat, what’ - look how low her sides are! You couldn’t even toddle that around Port Jackson without risking flooding, let alone take her to sea. Mostly Lac Léman reminds me of home (I grew upon a fairly calm stretch of Port Stephens), but sometimes… not so much.
In the top picture she looks a lot like story-book bible pictures of the fishing boat of James and John, though.(4.10.14)
We lived in so many houses, Gloria: Indiana Avenue,
Summit and Fourth, the double on Hudson Street.
And that upstairs apartment on North High we rented
from Armbruster's. Mother thought it Elizabethan,
romantic, with its leaded glass windows and wood-beamed
ceilings. Our entrance was at the side, at the top of stairs
that creaked late at night when we came home from our dates.
You had more of these than I did, even if I was older.
It was 1943, and our brother Harry was in the Navy.
I'd had a year away at college, and you were
still in high school. On this particular night
in the kitchen, doing the supper dishes, you
drying while I washed, you told me that your friend
Monabelle had a premature baby, and you'd been there,
helped to find a shoebox to put the baby in. I tried
to imagine this, kept seeing the cardboard box
with the baby, Monabelle bleeding and crying.
You didn't want our parents to hear, so we talked
softly while we put the dishes in the drainer
on the sink and hung the towels to dry.
The pilot light on the range burned purple blue
and I saw both of us new in that light, you
with so much to teach me, my self-absorbed
studious life, so intent on saving the world.
Anya Krugovoy Silver
Pain perdu: lost bread. Thick slices sunk in milk,
fringed with crisp lace of browned egg and scattered sugar.
Like spongiest challah, dipped in foaming cream
and frothy egg, richness drenching every yeasted
crevice and bubble, that's how sodden with luck
I felt when we fell in love. Now, at forty,
I remember that "lost bread" means bread that's gone
stale, leftover heels and crusts, too dry for simple
jam and butter. Still, week-old bread makes the best
French toast, soaks up milk as greedily as I turn
toward you under goose down after ten years
of marriage, craving, still, that sweet white immersion.
We come to hear the endings
of all the stories
in our anthology
of false starts:
how the girl who seemed
as hard as nails
how the athletes ran
out of races;
how under the skin
our skulls rise
to the surface
like rocks in the bed
of a drying stream.
Look! We have all
For you I undress down to the sheaths of my nerves.
I remove my jewelry and set it on the nightstand,
I unhook my ribs, spread my lungs flat on a chair.
I dissolve like a remedy in water, in wine.
I spill without staining, and leave without stirring the air.
I do it for love. For love, I disappear.