radfrac_archive_full: (dichotomy)
Poetry group today was partly discussion and partly writing. I found the discussion tiring -- different expectations in the group for the time spent on analysis vs. writing -- but I did get a sonnet out of it. (We all wrote sonnets entitled Winter).

Winter

Last gold, red, gold leaf-lenses blinking
Flashing the small signals of the rain
The storm-weight drops around the house, sinking
Dead leaves into the muddy concrete drain.

Last winter, wishing desperately for snow
We peeled back layer by layer the days of rain
Scraping for the cold kernel lodged below
The murky plastic wrappers on our brains.

Last longer. Last the winter, or tonight
With supplements and therapeutic steam
Douse yourself with brute full-spectrum light
And dredge your mind up from its nine-hour dream.

Wake and know the morning by its quiet;
Lie back beneath the winter's rising stream.


(And stuff).

I cheated the couplet and made an eccentric sestet instead, and it hasn't really got a turn, just various flickerings, but I like bits of it.

Cooler than this is that me and Belfast made a spoken word track tonight -- something he's wanted to do for a while but I was too nervous to try. He sent me a couple of atmospheric musical passages he wrote, just modulations (or um whatever I don't know what music things are called) -- and I set spoken word overtop -- some overheard dialogue I'd copied out and adjusted and put through a filter. We both really liked the result, even with my crappy staticky recording. So that's a thing we do now, maybe.

Oh, Belfast. Yes, Belfast. I didn't explain about him. No. I did not. Well.

{rf}
radfrac_archive_full: (oscura)
The rabbits are feral today. The crust of last night's little snow, gridded with round holes by the heat of grass blades, is making them nervous. They horded to me like seagulls. They almost fought over the crumbs of my scone, and I nearly tripped over one up on its hind legs examining my headphone cord. If I'd been a little smaller, I think they would have swarmed me.

Orion at last, banded with cloud from shoulder to waist like a bandoleer. Sirius still obscured under the horizon clouds.

The ground keeps slipping out a little from my feet here and there, reminding me that I usually pay little attention to my balance.

{rf}
radfrac_archive_full: (green grid)
Some cold white bird died last night. The sky is all scattered with feathers and bones, and the ground is covered with a heavy down of ice.

Heat yourself at your coffee. I met the best guy over coffee yesterday. I remembered that the Market has Saltspring coffee for a dollar in its vending machine. A real live small pleasure. There's one guy ahead of me, 35ish, baseball cap and vaguely workish clothes.

"Oh, sweet brown giver of life." he says. I grin. He stirs. "My girlfriend calls it my cup of personality."
"I like to think of it as my liquid brain." I say.
"I was visiting my brother," he tells me, "And on my last day we decided to get one more round of golf in. So we're up at five o'clock. His wife's one of those people who can actually function in the morning. She comes downstairs and sees us standing in the kitchen, just kind of slumped against the counter, staring at each other's shoes. 'You haven't said one word to each other, have you?' She says. 'Shh,' says my brother, 'Coffee's brewing.'"

Kilshaw's auction house had a gin jar in the window today. I've never seen one before. It's not unlike a coffee urn.

{rf}
radfrac_archive_full: (green grid)
Stars this morning like frost in the branches of the trees. Just a few in the mesh of dark twigs, like last flowers. Venus bright as a fist in the east. The dipper upside down, spilling a cold sky over us, chest and shoulders, shivering, wishing for a sweater. But no Orion, and no dog-star. Waiting.

(rf)
radfrac_archive_full: (Harold Ross of the New Yorker)
The Hurt Penguin sale at the UVic Bookstore left me unimpressed. It was a series of smallish heaps of contemporary remainders, average price about $6.99, their main injury being the black marker strike that indicated their status as remainders. The advertisement suggested books "From $1" but all the ones I saw were several times removed from that ideal unity.

I realize one ought not to be surprised by this sort of wan intellectual betrayal, but when you advertise with clever variations of the Penguin logo in various states of injury -- water and smoke damage, fading, etc. -- I expect to see said logos upon said books. There weren't above three Classics in the lot. I was hoping for, you know, obscure Jacobean dramatists. Secondary gothics. Modern near-classic oddities. Not fourteen copies of a low-carb cookbook and one Catherine Parr Traill.

The Shakespeare class discussion today was about The Question of Authorship, which made an interesting 10-minute presentation but a tedious discussion, since none of us have the scholarly background to say anything useful or even identify the chief arguments.

My knee kept going out as I tried to walk to class. And I burnt my mouth on my coffee. I hate everything.

{rf}
radfrac_archive_full: (oscura)
I don't know enough about weather to know if this is a common thing with clouds, or a feature of living surrounded by ocean, but I notice that the horizon tends to be clear at sunrise and sunset, even when the rest of the sky is covered in a dense grimy grey-brown fleece. If you're lucky, you get a pair of brief moments of light, and a little of that happy jittery feeling of impending grace that is the birthright of a spring or summer day.

Hardly saw daylight these last two days, sunset having hit the five o'clock range. I don't know how anyone can call November autumn, in this part of the world.

{rf}
radfrac_archive_full: (Default)
I hit the dark today. Walked to work in that low light in which everything is still perfectly visible. It gets lighter as you go, of course, moment by moment, and that means you can't quite fix on the apeparance of anything -- you just decide what it looks like, and then you realize it has brightened another grade, shed another layer of shadow.

{rf}
radfrac_archive_full: (Ben Butley)
Frost on the grass now, two mornings running.

Monday in Vancouver was a day clear like ice cubes melting into your blue Kool-aid. I wandered Commercial Street, triangulating nostalgias. It's easy to love Vancouver on a sunny day. It's the other three hundred fifty one and a half days that kill you.

The ritual itself was excellently well organized. Three cheers for Linabeet. I will try to post an account (and the great history of Tacoma, too. And the dance. All the bright gifts I promise you & give you so little always never enough.)

For now, though, I want you to think on this, and tremble with envy. I have the best of all possible roommates. [livejournal.com profile] inlandsea has gifted me a year's paid LJ account. Oh, the icons. O. I only hope I can be worthy.

In other business, NaNoWriMo starts tomorrow. After much discussion with [livejournal.com profile] stitchinmyside, I have opted for the half marathon, that is, 25,000 words by the end of November. That way I hope I can also finish the year-end gift project. I may try to post as I go, just to make myself extra tense.

Lastly, a warning. We are coming up to my grey time, beloved comrades. After my birthday, All Soul's Day, I am officially unfit for human consumption until about mid-March, and not really fully human again until May. So if I huddle in the gloom, if I shun you, if I seem to lose all ability to put a sentence... um... anyway, it's not you. It's the sun who hides his face from me who makes me wane, moonlike. Just pretend I'm my dreary changeling until spring.

{rf}

Did anyone see the Zombie Walk?
radfrac_archive_full: (Default)
[earlier]

I am drinking the last of my Blackberry Port, and am all warm and foolish in the face. It's been around a little too long, so it isn't the dumbfounding nectar it is when you first open it, but there was nothing objectively wrong with the two small glasses that remained, and quite a lot of subjective pleasure lingering in the bottle.

Caro, the next time we're both on the island, we must drink some of this. It will go pretty well after our Noodle Box, I think, with some very dark chocolate. It's one of those things that will make you glad you came back.

[later]

It is now past the hour when I can reasonably expect to get something useful done. I'm the opposite of a vampire. The lack of light destroys me. This is very bad news for my kitchen, since when it's light out, I don't want to waste time cleaning it, and when it's dark I can't muster the energy.

I have to be careful. If I lie down after work, I stay down. Actually, whatever position I put myself in is the one I tend to remain in for the rest of the evening. It's like my personal gravity increases fourfold. I've been sitting in front of the computer now for three and a half hours. In this time I have made two LJ icons and read a lot of things I don't remember.

There are very few things I'm capable of doing in this state. In order of likelihood from least to most:
1. clean up (I assume I can. I haven't tried lately.)
2. take baths (but turning on the water is too much effort. and then you're damp, and dampness has very little attraction these days)
3. read books and take notes for Projects (try to trick brain into thinking it's doing something meaningless)
4. read books and not take notes (especially books read before)
5. watch tv in bed
6. pass out

I'm going to shuffle into the kitchen now and stare at it all, then shuffle out again and attempt #6, since it's the only one that will give me a sure sense of accomplishment.

{rf}

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