Entry tags:
bride of the ten-minute story
Everyone knows that the ahhhtist feeds on beauty alone; if that beauty happens to come in the form of roasted-garlic potato soup, as it did repeatedly for me this weekend, so much the better.
Friday, Bee (not a Honey Bee, exactly, though sweet, nor yet a Spelling Bee, though well-read; a Queen Bee in spirit, but of a more democratic bent; in this circumstance, a Wine Jelly and Chocolate Chip Cookie Bee) came by with bagels (I am trying so hard not to be alliterative and failing so badly) and an array of other delicacies to feed my, er, soul. (But I *do* find the soul is very well-satisfied by milk chocolate. I really do. Dark chocolate is delicious, but it is more of an intellectual substance; or, say, a spiritual *challenge* rather than comfort. Dark chocolate makes me feel bleak and noble.)
Saturday Grumpy Bastard repeated his Hell and Gone feat and we drove out to Bee's Mum's pottery studio for her yearly craft fair. The studio is a gorgeously rambling shake-covered being (surely not just a building) heated by a central woodstove, on which they brewed hot apple cider. Off to one side is the hobbity (or -- more playful -- Barbapapa-y) outdoor kiln. Windows in the downstairs studio framed views of mist-filled trees. Upstairs was the show-room, with slanted attic ceiling and not only Bee's Mum's work, but that of her students as well, and some lovely knobbly-yarn scarves by a Young Artist arcanely connected with Bee. Bee's Mum makes gigantic teapots in the shape of rhinoceri. Everyone else pretty much made bowls, but they were terribly nice bowls.
And if you had gone, you too could have had a marvel of a little pottery cup to take home, for everyone who had cider got to take their cup home. Mine is speckly blue, and I believe G.B.'s had a glossy blue-green glaze. I wandered around repeating "This is wonderful!" every few minutes, and people were in such a good mood that no one hit me with anything heavy (and there were lots of heavy things about.) G.B. more sensibly got a scarf. (The latest incarnation of the Eternal Scarf, but that is not my story to tell.)
Today I spent most of the day doing housework and ironing anything that would lie flat long enough. Tomorrow morning I go for my job interview, and as Caro-mi-caro says, we know not what outcome to pray for. Pray anyway, children. Pray very hard. Every time a bell rings, some poor sod has to answer the phone.
* * * * *
I read the following fragment to Grumpy Bastard last night, after much fretting about whether it was Too Trivial for Words. He pronounced it just trivial enough to suit words very well, but he was annoyed that it was unfinished. I thought I'd finish it today, but unless I stay up all night to do it, no. Since my time is so uncertain just now, I thought I'd post what I had.
I know you've often thought, as I have, that the real problem with A Midsummer Night's Dream is not its lack of narrative momentum, or its excessively prolonged denouement, but its insufficient levels of Gay.
I watched a recent movie of MND in pieces over the last few days. The casting was terrible. (I heart Stanley Tucci, but Puck?) The staging was awkward. (Titiana jumped around magically through the art of poorly cut film.) They used Received Standard Shakespeare Delivery, which means that you can garble your lines completely so long as you emote a lot. And Callista Flockhart... tried.
Still, lots of running around after the wrong person, and I kept thinking that it would be fun to write one of those love-potion-confused-identity comedies, but with more Gay, since that allows for so many more degrees of misunderstanding. (I think we are all agreed that the crossdressing in Twelfth Night is essential to happiness.) (Do we think MND is stronger than TN? I suppose we do. But think how much better it would be with more crossdressing.)
So, then, a midsummer night's ten-minute story. This lumpy little cake is also flavoured by C.S. Lewis, since I just re-read The Magician's Nephew courtesy of Grumpy Bastard, and by Jane Austen, since when I can't think of anything else to do I just copy Jane. Oh, and everyone has made-up fantasy-style names, but I wonder now if it might not be more fun to use the MND ones.
(Apologies to Grumpy Bastard if the horses behave unrealistically for the sake of the narrative.)
never did run smooth
( By noon, the wedding site was a shambles. )
Friday, Bee (not a Honey Bee, exactly, though sweet, nor yet a Spelling Bee, though well-read; a Queen Bee in spirit, but of a more democratic bent; in this circumstance, a Wine Jelly and Chocolate Chip Cookie Bee) came by with bagels (I am trying so hard not to be alliterative and failing so badly) and an array of other delicacies to feed my, er, soul. (But I *do* find the soul is very well-satisfied by milk chocolate. I really do. Dark chocolate is delicious, but it is more of an intellectual substance; or, say, a spiritual *challenge* rather than comfort. Dark chocolate makes me feel bleak and noble.)
Saturday Grumpy Bastard repeated his Hell and Gone feat and we drove out to Bee's Mum's pottery studio for her yearly craft fair. The studio is a gorgeously rambling shake-covered being (surely not just a building) heated by a central woodstove, on which they brewed hot apple cider. Off to one side is the hobbity (or -- more playful -- Barbapapa-y) outdoor kiln. Windows in the downstairs studio framed views of mist-filled trees. Upstairs was the show-room, with slanted attic ceiling and not only Bee's Mum's work, but that of her students as well, and some lovely knobbly-yarn scarves by a Young Artist arcanely connected with Bee. Bee's Mum makes gigantic teapots in the shape of rhinoceri. Everyone else pretty much made bowls, but they were terribly nice bowls.
And if you had gone, you too could have had a marvel of a little pottery cup to take home, for everyone who had cider got to take their cup home. Mine is speckly blue, and I believe G.B.'s had a glossy blue-green glaze. I wandered around repeating "This is wonderful!" every few minutes, and people were in such a good mood that no one hit me with anything heavy (and there were lots of heavy things about.) G.B. more sensibly got a scarf. (The latest incarnation of the Eternal Scarf, but that is not my story to tell.)
Today I spent most of the day doing housework and ironing anything that would lie flat long enough. Tomorrow morning I go for my job interview, and as Caro-mi-caro says, we know not what outcome to pray for. Pray anyway, children. Pray very hard. Every time a bell rings, some poor sod has to answer the phone.
* * * * *
I read the following fragment to Grumpy Bastard last night, after much fretting about whether it was Too Trivial for Words. He pronounced it just trivial enough to suit words very well, but he was annoyed that it was unfinished. I thought I'd finish it today, but unless I stay up all night to do it, no. Since my time is so uncertain just now, I thought I'd post what I had.
I know you've often thought, as I have, that the real problem with A Midsummer Night's Dream is not its lack of narrative momentum, or its excessively prolonged denouement, but its insufficient levels of Gay.
I watched a recent movie of MND in pieces over the last few days. The casting was terrible. (I heart Stanley Tucci, but Puck?) The staging was awkward. (Titiana jumped around magically through the art of poorly cut film.) They used Received Standard Shakespeare Delivery, which means that you can garble your lines completely so long as you emote a lot. And Callista Flockhart... tried.
Still, lots of running around after the wrong person, and I kept thinking that it would be fun to write one of those love-potion-confused-identity comedies, but with more Gay, since that allows for so many more degrees of misunderstanding. (I think we are all agreed that the crossdressing in Twelfth Night is essential to happiness.) (Do we think MND is stronger than TN? I suppose we do. But think how much better it would be with more crossdressing.)
So, then, a midsummer night's ten-minute story. This lumpy little cake is also flavoured by C.S. Lewis, since I just re-read The Magician's Nephew courtesy of Grumpy Bastard, and by Jane Austen, since when I can't think of anything else to do I just copy Jane. Oh, and everyone has made-up fantasy-style names, but I wonder now if it might not be more fun to use the MND ones.
(Apologies to Grumpy Bastard if the horses behave unrealistically for the sake of the narrative.)
never did run smooth
( By noon, the wedding site was a shambles. )