Tuesday, February 28, 2012


So, apparently at the 2012 Oscars, Jennifer Lopez may or may not have had a "wardrobe malfunction".

I don't care.

I'm tired of the term wardrobe malfunction. I'm tired of people being scandalized by body parts. The whole thing is ridiculous.

Because, nipples? Everybody has them (barring genetic anomaly, accidents, and operations). They're there. Under your shirt right now. Lurking. Will they burst free and embarrass you? Will they stay hidden?

Why does it matter?

Sunday, February 26, 2012

Book Review: The Glass Demon, by Helen Grant

I see a lot of books at the library. Some good, some bad, some really bad. Fortunately (or not?) I'm getting pretty good at spotting the really bad ones, regardless of their position on the NY Times Best Seller list. Some, I truly never heard of until a patron requested them from another library and they passed through my hands. 

Sometimes, those "accidental" books are really good. The Glass Demon, by Helen Grant, is one of those for me.

Thursday, February 23, 2012

Library Insanity: 2 Vignettes

The library can be busier some days than others. Also more sane than others. These three stories are all from the same day. The picture from the week prior, of one of the library puppets, discarded corpse like on the floor of the children's room.

Wednesday, February 22, 2012

Ash Wednesday- by T. S. Eliot


Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
Desiring this man's gift and that man's scope
I no longer strive to strive towards such things
(Why should the agèd eagle stretch its wings?)
Why should I mourn
The vanished power of the usual reign?

Because I do not hope to know
The infirm glory of the positive hour
Because I do not think
Because I know I shall not know
The one veritable transitory power
Because I cannot drink
There, where trees flower, and springs flow, for there is
nothing again

Because I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place
I rejoice that things are as they are and
I renounce the blessèd face
And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice

And pray to God to have mercy upon us
And pray that I may forget
These matters that with myself I too much discuss
Too much explain
Because I do not hope to turn again
Let these words answer
For what is done, not to be done again
May the judgement not be too heavy upon us

Because these wings are no longer wings to fly
But merely vans to beat the air
The air which is now thoroughly small and dry
Smaller and dryer than the will
Teach us to care and not to care Teach us to sit still.

Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death
Pray for us now and at the hour of our death.

Lady, three white leopards sat under a juniper-tree
In the cool of the day, having fed to satiety
On my legs my heart my liver and that which had been
In the hollow round of my skull. And God said
Shall these bones live? shall these
Bones live? And that which had been contained
In the bones (which were already dry) said chirping:
Because of the goodness of this Lady
And because of her loveliness, and because
She honours the Virgin in meditation,
We shine with brightness. And I who am here dissembled
Proffer my deeds to oblivion, and my love
To the posterity of the desert and the fruit of the gourd.
It is this which recovers
My guts the strings of my eyes and the indigestible portions
Which the leopards reject. The Lady is withdrawn
In a white gown, to contemplation, in a white gown.
Let the whiteness of bones atone to forgetfulness.
There is no life in them. As I am forgotten
And would be forgotten, so I would forget
Thus devoted, concentrated in purpose. And God said
Prophesy to the wind, to the wind only for only
The wind will listen. And the bones sang chirping
With the burden of the grasshopper, saying

Lady of silences
Calm and distressed
Torn and most whole
Rose of memory
Rose of forgetfulness
Exhausted and life-giving
Worried reposeful
The single Rose
Is now the Garden
Where all loves end
Terminate torment
Of love unsatisfied
The greater torment
Of love satisfied
End of the endless
Journey to no end
Conclusion of all that
Is inconclusible
Speech without word and
Word of no speech
Grace to the Mother
For the Garden
Where all love ends.

Under a juniper-tree the bones sang, scattered and shining
We are glad to be scattered, we did little good to each
Under a tree in the cool of day, with the blessing of sand,
Forgetting themselves and each other, united
In the quiet of the desert. This is the land which ye
Shall divide by lot. And neither division nor unity
Matters. This is the land. We have our inheritance.


At the first turning of the second stair
I turned and saw below
The same shape twisted on the banister
Under the vapour in the fetid air
Struggling with the devil of the stairs who wears
The deceitul face of hope and of despair.

At the second turning of the second stair
I left them twisting, turning below;
There were no more faces and the stair was dark,
Damp, jaggèd, like an old man's mouth drivelling, beyond
Or the toothed gullet of an agèd shark.

At the first turning of the third stair
Was a slotted window bellied like the figs's fruit
And beyond the hawthorn blossom and a pasture scene
The broadbacked figure drest in blue and green
Enchanted the maytime with an antique flute.
Blown hair is sweet, brown hair over the mouth blown,
Lilac and brown hair;
Distraction, music of the flute, stops and steps of the mind
over the third stair, 
Fading, fading; strength beyond hope and despair
Climbing the third stair.

Lord, I am not worthy
Lord, I am not worthy

               but speak the word only. 

Who walked between the violet and the violet
Whe walked between
The various ranks of varied green
Going in white and blue, in Mary's colour,
Talking of trivial things
In ignorance and knowledge of eternal dolour
Who moved among the others as they walked,
Who then made strong the fountains and made fresh the springs

Made cool the dry rock and made firm the sand
In blue of larkspur, blue of Mary's colour,
Sovegna vos

Here are the years that walk between, bearing
Away the fiddles and the flutes, restoring
One who moves in the time between sleep and waking, wearing

White light folded, sheathing about her, folded.
The new years walk, restoring
Through a bright cloud of tears, the years, restoring
With a new verse the ancient rhyme. Redeem
The time. Redeem
The unread vision in the higher dream
While jewelled unicorns draw by the gilded hearse.

The silent sister veiled in white and blue
Between the yews, behind the garden god,
Whose flute is breathless, bent her head and signed but spoke
no word

But the fountain sprang up and the bird sang down
Redeem the time, redeem the dream
The token of the word unheard, unspoken

Till the wind shake a thousand whispers from the yew

And after this our exile

If the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spent
If the unheard, unspoken
Word is unspoken, unheard;
Still is the unspoken word, the Word unheard,
The Word without a word, the Word within
The world and for the world;
And the light shone in darkness and
Against the Word the unstilled world still whirled
About the centre of the silent Word.

O my people, what have I done unto thee.

Where shall the word be found, where will the word
Resound? Not here, there is not enough silence
Not on the sea or on the islands, not
On the mainland, in the desert or the rain land,
For those who walk in darkness
Both in the day time and in the night time
The right time and the right place are not here
No place of grace for those who avoid the face
No time to rejoice for those who walk among noise and deny
the voice

Will the veiled sister pray for
Those who walk in darkness, who chose thee and oppose thee,
Those who are torn on the horn between season and season,
time and time, between
Hour and hour, word and word, power and power, those who wait
In darkness? Will the veiled sister pray
For children at the gate
Who will not go away and cannot pray:
Pray for those who chose and oppose

O my people, what have I done unto thee.

Will the veiled sister between the slender
Yew trees pray for those who offend her
And are terrified and cannot surrender
And affirm before the world and deny between the rocks
In the last desert before the last blue rocks
The desert in the garden the garden in the desert
Of drouth, spitting from the mouth the withered apple-seed.

O my people.

Although I do not hope to turn again
Although I do not hope
Although I do not hope to turn

Wavering between the profit and the loss
In this brief transit where the dreams cross
The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying
(Bless me father) though I do not wish to wish these things
From the wide window towards the granite shore
The white sails still fly seaward, seaward flying
Unbroken wings

And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices
In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices
And the weak spirit quickens to rebel
For the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell
Quickens to recover
The cry of quail and the whirling plover
And the blind eye creates
The empty forms between the ivory gates
And smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth

This is the time of tension between dying and birth
The place of solitude where three dreams cross
Between blue rocks
But when the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift away
Let the other yew be shaken and reply.

Blessèd sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit
of the garden,
Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still
Even among these rocks,
Our peace in His will
And even among these rocks
Sister, mother
And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea,
Suffer me not to be separated

And let my cry come unto Thee.

Sunday, February 19, 2012

Blogging block?

You may have noticed, I don't update here very often.

Well, sometimes I do. I've been doing pretty well since, say, Wednesday. Not daily, but I don't know that I want this to be a daily blog. Maybe thrice a week is a good benchmark? Or four times, if Wordless Wednesday is cheating. Which it might be.

Sometimes, I just don't know what I want to postulate on. Is writing important to me? Hell yeah. Is writing about writing important to me? Less so.

Saturday, February 18, 2012

God gives you one face, but you paint another on top of it

I'm a different person online than I am in person.

Really, I'm kind of a different person when I talk about writing than I am when I talk about dogs.

I'm a different person when I sit down at a gaming table (and, depending on the day, the variance in the person I set out to be increases as well).

I'm a different person at work from when I'm at home.

I'm a different person with my family than with my friends.

I'm a different person alone at Wal-Mart than walking Elka (my Doberman) at the park.

All of these people are me. Any one of them are me.

So, who are all of these people?

Which one of these is the person the stories come from?

Or is it all of them?

Friday, February 10, 2012

Literary tattoos

I don't have any tattoos. Yet.

I've seen quite a lot of bad tattoos. Quite a lot of good ones. I like looking online at various pages listing them. I don't want a tattoo that somebody else has. I want a tattoo for me, that's mine. I haven't settled on a design yet that I love for long enough to actually go through with it.

Then, I saw a post on Neil Gaiman's blog: literary tattoos. Is there a reason I hadn't thought of this before? I hadn't seen one before, anyway. So, duh. Of course getting a quote would make fantastic sense. Of course, now the problem is what quote? Contrariwise.org is (or rather, was...they haven't updated in a year or more) a blog of literary tattoos. It's cool to see the ink people have gotten, and the quotes people have gotten. It's amazing how many Kurt Vonnegut "Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt" tattoos you'll see, with web search. How many The Giving Tree tattoos. The Lorax. Shakespeare, of course, and while I dearly love the Bard, none of his words are my words.

In The Order of Things I talked about my poetry preferences, citing Adrienne Rich specifically. A poem of hers, Snapshots of a Daughter-in-Law, has great imagery and a few really good lines in it, notably, "A thinking woman sleeps with monsters".  I'd just heard of a website, StrayTats.com, where you can create a fake tattoo (or multiples), and decided I'd try it out.

In the end, forearm is not the place for that tattoo for me. But, I still really like the quote.

Really, anything from Ginsberg's "Howl" would be lovely; also, too long. Just "Howl" from the cover of the collection wouldn't be bad, but a single word is too easily misconstrued. I don't want it to be looked at as though I'm wearing a wolf t-shirt, after all.

Maybe one day, when I have something published, I'll pick a phrase or word from that, so that it is mine. But for now, I'm still looking. Or, still rowing, if I want to quote Anne Sexton, and frequently I do.

What is it with people and rocks?

Headed to Salvation Army on a break from work, I glanced through a wrought iron fence I'd looked through before, and saw something I hadn't seen before: a few rocks, stacked up. I continued on my way but, amused, I took a picture on my way back. It's either artsy or crappy, I'm not sure which; I took it with my cell phone, forgive me.

Friday, February 3, 2012

Thoughts While Doing Dishes

I need to start washing pans the night I cooked. I'm so lazy.

Of course, if you wash them while they're still warm, you can warp them. This cast iron baking dish is always warm for so long, that's why I wait.

Crap, I just put soap in the cast iron baking dish. No, it's enameled, that doesn't matter. The cast iron is encapsulated, I don't need to worry about seasoning. Man, that mac and cheese was good. I love this peppermint castille soap. I should get the bigger bottle next time.

This thing is heavy and bigger than the sink. That's another reason I put off washing it. Ah well. It's still lighter than the dog. And that mac and cheese was good.

Oh look, the neighbor's boyfriend's labby dog. Off leash. And next to the road. I really hope nobody runs a stop sign right as he decides the road is AWESOME. That would ruin my life. Oh, the dude's right there. Good. And now they're out of the road. I wish they'd stop doing that.

Wednesday, February 1, 2012

Fun with CAPTCHA

Before I started my dog blog over at The Elka Almanac, I was frequently a CAPTCHA failer. I had to listen to the audio, or try over and over until, by some miracle of the Internet, I got it. A lot of comments require the CAPTCHA completion to know that you're a person, though, and I've gotten much "better" at it, if such a thing could be considered a viable skill. Really, it is a viable skill; leaving comments and suchlike is instrumental in the "social network" (see what I did there?) that brings traffic to blog, shares info about contests and upcoming publications, and gives you cred in the field of your choosing.

(image from Wikipedia)