Intermission

I'm getting married!! So as you can imagine, my brain is fried. This morning, Dave watched me stand on the sidewalk next to his car, looking for him and talking to myself. I hope he's ok with batshit crazy. Conversely, I hope I get my brain back. I'm scared it's lost to me forever.

All that to say, I'll be back, but pardon the interruption. We've got things to do!

Lies "breathed through silver"?

A tribute to Myth, as eternal, as archetype, as reminder of what was and what we hope for:

Man, Sub-creator, the refracted light
through whom is splintered from a single White
to many hues, and endlessly combined
in living shapes that move from mind to mind...

Blessed are the timid hearts that evil hate
that quail in its shadow, and yet shut the gate;
that seek no parley, and in guarded room,
though small and bate, upon a clumsy loom
weave tissues gilded by the far-off day
hoped and believed in under Shadow's sway.

Blessed are the men of Noah's race that build
their little arks, though frail and poorly filled,
and steer through winds contrary towards a wraith,
a rumour of a harbour guessed by faith....

Be sure they still will make, not being dead,
and poets shall have flames upon their head,
and harps whereon their faultless fingers fall:
there each shall choose for ever from the All.

From JRR Tolkien's "Mythopoeia"

Remember that picture adage?

Our writing exorcisms at work this morning turned up a particularly interesting result. My mind is squirrely and probably works too hard on all the wrong things, but my bent is clearly fiction. Sometimes it's not a bad thing to have worlds inside your head, I suppose.

Prompt: Write 145 words using the picture below as inspiration.

The neighborhood was old – older than my Pappaw’s Pappaw. Buildings had cracked and broken, been repaired; and the repairs had broken. The people who lived there had grown to be like their houses, their cars, the neighborhood itself: they were grained and lined and worn around the edges, but sturdy, lasting. Spider-webbed window panes were washed weekly, no paper bits lined the gutters, no leaves rotted on the sidewalks. The old neighbors lived on the blurred verge of the past, when things were slower, quieter. TV’s shone dimly through hand-tatted lace curtains, flowered aprons polished old speckly silver spoons. They stood in the gentle golden sunshine and stirred the dust on their stoops, calling to each other in voices that creaked with use. Their ancestors carved out this close, concrete haven two lifetimes before and now it was theirs – to maintain, with tender, curatorial pride.

Zorro has no power over the weather.

I recently started reading Isabel Allende's Zorro and was surprised at how easily I fell into it. It's a delightful book, the characters are endearing, and the plot moves along at a good clip with pleasant surprises in store. My only complaint was that the 3rd person omniscient narrator suddenly interrupts on page 89 with his own voice and alludes to his role in the story. It's terribly abrupt, and (I looked) the only other place he speaks is literally the very first sentence. Jarring.

But my complaint against the narrator is beside the point. The book had been recommended to me over and over, and I finally read it, loved it, and couldn't wait to see what happened next.

That's when we had a week or so of violent thunderstorms. And this little guy

got frightened while the fiance and I were at the gym. And he took it out on Zorro:

Of course, I immediately tried to find which page I'd been on and see if I'd lost any valuable story information. The two main characters have a pivotal experience in the ten pages between where I stopped reading and where Puck deemed I should pick back up. I'm off to Grumpy's this week to find another copy and finish that story. And the house has been puppy-proofed - mostly.

Words: A History Lesson

Today could not be any wetter if we dunked it in the ocean. Fortunately, I have a new and lovely pair of rainboots! They are navy and hot pink plaid on a cream background and solidly waterproof. They even have a cozy, hot pink fleece lining. I amused myself on the way to work thinking of other words for rainboots. Shall we?

Wellies: British, from Wellingtons or Wellington boots. Named after Arthur, First Duke of Wellington (1769-1852). He apparently was a dashing, well-dressed fellow who set many fashion trends, and thus had boots, trousers, coats, hats, and even a few trees named after him.

Rubbers: also British; relatively modern slang for rubber boots or rubber waders.

Mukluk: also "muckluck." Eskimo word for sealskin, describing the material of their traditional footwear: waterproof and often lined with fur.

Galoshes: Latin for "Gallic shoe." A wooden sole strapped to the foot with leather. However, there's an alternate (and more interesting) etymology: Greek from the word for "shoemaker's last;" the shoemaker had run out of expensive leather and resorted to the cheaper, last-resort wood.


Whoo! That was fun. And I've branded myself a perma-nerd.
[Thanks to the Online Etymology Dictionary for my info.]