Jul 4 2007

Ta Da!

Suppose I should actually pipe up about finally figuring out that all I needed to do was switch inkblog to blogspot then use the nifty importer deelio, but that’s too much like actually posting something thus has taken me a while to get around to. As I’m going through my past 6.5 years of posts and categorizing them with WP’s neato category thingy, I am somewhat embarrassed to see how much of my time here has been spent posting quiz results. Geez. I should use LJ for that, or maybe MySpace. Life’s been nuts lo these past months – the most recent item of serious unfun is that my mom finally got off her duff and started the followup series of chemo, only to end up in the hospital night before last with acute renal failure. Le sigh.

Nov 1 2006

Jocularity, Jocularity…

NaNo began today. My totem animal for the duration:

No, I am not writing about pirates. But for NaNo 2006, I vow to write in the spirit of an ungainly little creature who manages to hold its wrinkled snout high in dignified fashion, despite being dressed in an unbecoming, foppish, and cheap costume by a cruel master. Whatever the hell that means. If I spin it right, it totally counts toward my word total for the month. Hey, did you see how long that damned sentence went on for? Waste not, want not. ARR!

Aug 3 2006

Out And Into The Girls In My Basement

Lots of traveling in meatspace, hurling my body to Denver, Atlanta, New York for sundry dayjob and writing conference purposes. In the meanwhile, stuff’s been going on inside.

The Girls have created their own space in my Basement.

They’ve dug out a deep round room with a sunken firepit in the center, and lined it all around the inside with a single, circular fountain. Waves of sea water flow over walls tiled in charms, amulets, and precious and semi-precious gemstone inscribed with prayers and quotations in every language. Strange things swim in the fountain’s moat; some glow, others flicker like fireflies longing for summer love.

I love what They’ve done with the place. Swathes of richly hued silk draperies and cushions are scattered everywhere and candles and oil lamps glimmer and shimmer their light across every surface. Lush ferns push their way up through the floor, thrusting their trunks between the tassels of piled silk rugs. Wind chimes of bone dangle from the ferns’ delicately curled tendrils, stirring to announce the passage of birds to and from the Underworld. The occasional tinkling of the chimes rills counterpoint to drums beating and flutes whirling and violins swaying and cellos bowing, as the mood suits – always, the sound of the waves in the walls stays closer than a lover’s heartbeat. Pale mist flirts with jungle vines dangling from the heavy cedar roof and swirls into the richly scented smoke rising from the flames in the middle of the room. I think They might have burned a writer’s heart or two as sacrifice, turning it into perfume for their own pleasure.

The Girls have collectively assumed the aspect of Clothos and are knitting, crocheting, weaving… one is working on a tatted lace wing-warmer for her pet bat… while passing around a flask of something yummy and chuckling about what happens next. I feel their laughter bubbling through my branches; the rhythm of their passage in my brain reverberates through my roots into the cosmic soil. Every so often they’ll pause and hold something up between them for me to see, at which point it is my mere mortal responsibility to draw down the moon from their flame, call the story from its dancing path of fire, and channel it into many-dimensional words on two-dimensional paper before They get bored with the holding and carry on.

We’re having fun.