| fruited plains |
[Jul. 27th, 2010|09:17 pm] |
Whew! I'm in post-deadline mode, which means scrambling to catch up with all the tasks set aside while deadline crises demanded full attention. There's never a moment without a crisis in publishing. . . it's a good thing I come from a theater background and wouldn't know what to do with myself if there wasn't a crisis.
Lerbylerbylerby is about the level of communication I have to offer. So busy! I'm dancing a lot these days, and still completely in love with my local walk. . . there are blackberries! I love it when people use berries as gerunds. . . "I went blackberrying". I wish it was in more common usage: "I went oranging," or "I went pomegranating". C'mon people, help me out here! Every sentence needs more fruit!
Composite Head, by Antonio Zucchi, 1610 |
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| then she writes some poetry |
[Jul. 16th, 2010|12:13 am] |
all that is lobed, scalloped, ruffled
the common pumpkin
swelling against unseen lines of force
a cold globe exceeding its own meridians
like a fish straining against the sudden net
three pumpkins
one cinnabar, one clay, and one
fingered into the carpeted wall of an elevator
fecund emissaries
that prove their significance
by growing on a fluted vine
everything that is on a vine is significant
because it is repeated
things rumpled, dimpled, pudgy
divine litany
nip tuck, nip tuck, nip tuck,
under the knife to become a delicious pie
is it a knife that nature wields to carve these forms
or an invisible mold into which all is pressed
no, instead it is what is known
that compels
pinch, nipple, pinch, nipple, pinch, nipple
a familiar rhythm that will outlive us
areas of tightness and rondure without end
promiscuous landscape
is there a turtle, a bird, a roach,
that does not know this excess? |
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| On the waking world, which only appears that way. . . |
[Jul. 16th, 2010|12:12 am] |
I keep meaning to share this!
Sometimes when you read certain books together they form a resonance that neither alone could create. . .
Case in point: Marie-Louise von Franz's On Divination and Synchronicity: The Psychology of Meaningful Chance, and Annie Dillard's Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (which I was reading due to my pleasing encounters with a local lake. . .)
From Dillard: ". . . a greater light extinguishes a lesser as though it didn't exist. In the great meteor shower of August, the Perseid, I wail all day for the shooting stars I miss. They're out there showering down, committing hara-kiri in a flame of fatal attraction, and hissing perhaps at last into the ocean. But at dawn what looks like a blue dome clamps down over me like a lid on a pot."
From von Franz: "Probably we dream all the time, not only in the night but also in daytime, but because of the brightness of our conscious life we are not aware of it."
Wouldn't that be wonderful, if in fact we did dream all day? I spend an inordinate amount of time each morning (and night) bewailing the inaccessibility of my dreams, of half of my consciousness. For someone who loves to sleep as much as I do (and values sleep as much as I do, due to its relative inaccessibility), I have little access to my dreams during waking life. Certainly I live a dreamy sort of existence, with my eye on the glitter at all times, but those labyrinthine plots and distant landscapes I achieve at night? Very hard to recall in the light of day.
I slip back into them when I can. . . it reminds me a bit of the premise of Miéville's The City and The City -- two cities that coexist, not merely beside each other, but actually inhabiting the same locality. In order to maintain this illusory separation each "city" must uphold a pact not to see the other -- a premise which mandates a certain amount of "unseeing". Similarly, half of whatever encodes my experience is written in one bright chemical code, and the other half, which inhabits the same damn space, is written in a different and dimmer chemical signature, visible only when the brighter letters dim. But it is comforting to think that, like the Perseid, those other worlds continue about their business during the day, without my conscious attention. |
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| Symbolism |
[Jun. 27th, 2010|06:51 pm] |
My Friday: The Birth of Impressionism exhibit with Raquelita, at the De Young. Conclusion: I love the way the Impressionists handled paint, but I'm still a Symbolist girl at heart. If only they'd imported Delville from the Musée d'Orsay instead of Renoir! As it was, the two Symbolist painters represented, Doré and Moreau, held my attention in a way that the more literal Impressionists failed to do. It may have something to do with being a science fiction girl. Moreau's Galatea, Doré's Enigma: these are two rich, speculative works. Enigma even seems to feature a future city in the background. I've checked. . . no online reproduction captures the dramatic lighting (Doré) or the intricate detail (Moreau.)
In the pre-Impressionist vein, Bouguereau's Birth of Venus was baroque enough to entertain me, perhaps because of its anatomically incorrect dolphins (rococco dolphins have a peculiar anatomy not designed by mother nature.) And then there was, of course, Monet's monumental "Turkeys," which holds the distinction of being the single largest painting I've ever seen, depicting turkeys.
Yes! Yes they are turkeys! We celebrate turkeys!
This was followed by a long talk with emotional genius Lyn Prashant, which was then followed by a contemplative stroll in the SF park. . . a little loopy side-trail that appealed to me. The orange lilies were putting on quite a show, and the fog was gusting through the enormous eucalyptus trees in typical San Francisco fashion. I've missed the outdoors, living in Oakland, and am quite pleased with my discovery of the local Lake Temescal.
Saturday, decompression. Then, on Sunday, Spanish brunch at Sarita's. Monday? A me-day. I don't usually get my two days off per month in succession, but this is a nice post-deadline break. |
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| Bibliomancy |
[Jun. 22nd, 2010|11:23 pm] |
In the office where I work, it's wall-to-wall shelves, and adjacent to my desk lives Charles N. Brown's collection of nonfiction SF & fantasy-related reading. From time to time I practice bibliomancy with the titles of the books on the shelves. . . it only works if I don't intend it to happen. The title that leapt out at me today was "Erotic Universe". I mean, it really leapt out at me - for a moment there, none of the other titles seemed to exist. I think I'm willing to accept this message from the universe.
In other news, still makin' art with Polyvore. A link to my pretties: Polyvore
Picture of the Day: The Orion Nebula |
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| Oh Four Tuna |
[Dec. 22nd, 2009|09:04 pm] |
Yeah, just because.
Orff, orff, orff! |
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| College Musical |
[Dec. 20th, 2009|08:56 pm] |
For those of us mourning the passing of Glee (to return April 2010), I have some alternate entertainment. Now's the time to increase your appreciation for college a capella singing. At Yale, singing groups are BIG. My absolute favorite Yale singing group was Shades; unfortunately none of the videos available online come close to capturing the excitement of their performances. (You can get a vague idea here: More Than a Paycheck.)
I also remember being particularly fond of the Spizzwinks(?), because they actually had a sense of humor. Forget the Whiffenpoofs, it's all about the Spizzwinks(?).
A few sweet Spizzwinks(?) samples:
I Want to Be Like Grace Kelly So cute!
This one's especially for Foo: Steam Heat
Pinball Wizard Great arrangement.
Sixteen Tons Just amazing. I could watch this over and over again.
Song About the Moon
And (alright) one from the Whiffs:
Summertime Incredible arrangement of one of my favorite songs.
This trip down memory lane is courtesy of another Yalie, whose work is making the rounds of the internet: Sam Tsui, the one-man show choir.
Don't Stop Believing Sam Tsui sings a Glee cover. . . with himself.
Michael Jackson medley Sam Tsui sings an arrangement by Kurt Schneider. . . with himself.
He is so cute! Talk about conviction as a performer. |
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| For the Love of Green Sofas |
[Oct. 19th, 2009|12:17 am] |
The couch I long for:
Please, someone stop me from spending over $3 grand on a couch, just because it has hand-embroidered crewelwork tentacles.
I started out looking for something closer to this:
This is perfect, only the dimensions are too small (looking for 72-76 inches width):
Or, if you have $9 large to spend on a frickin' loveseat:
An alligator plummets head-first into an old lady's couch, and this is the outcome of the unholy union. Why? Just, why?
More weird sofas: coolsofa.com. |
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| Porn: The Musical |
[Jul. 29th, 2009|09:40 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| |  amused | ] |
So, appropos of nothing. . . I am not opposed to pornography. I'm certainly opposed to the abuses that go on in the industry, but there is no way you'll catch me saying I'm opposed to seeing sexual images on film. How could I say something like that, in a society that barely blinks at graphic decapitation, decomposition, and defenestration? Along those lines, I must commend to your attention the illustrious PG Porn compositions of James Gunn.
I'm particularly fond of Squeal Happy Whores, with Jenna Haze and Joe Fria, despite some scatological humor (consider yourself warned), and would happily watch "Porn: The Musical" if only James Gunn would direct it.
Also fond of High Poon, and Nailing Your Wife (speaking of substituting violence for sex). Don't forget to watch the "behind the scenes" videos, too. Joss fans will recognize Alan Tudyk and Nathan Fillion having WAY too much fun. Unfortunately not together, sorry girls.
Oh! And watch Twilight with Cheeseburgers, via ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=91.7) norilana. |
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| RIP my crazy, crazy friend |
[Jul. 13th, 2009|07:19 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| |  stunned | ] |
All right. . . those of you that know me know that I've been working at Locus for the past several years, as 1/2 personal assistant to Charles N. Brown, 1/2 Assistant Editor for Locus. That was actually how I was hired -- to work part-time for Charles, part-time for Locus. This distinction rapidly became meaningless in the day to day rush that characterizes any organization that works to deadline. It was impossible to keep track of the shifting needs in those terms. . . like everyone in the office, I just responded to what needed to happen, when it was needed, as fast as I possibly could.
Picture Charles. . . a man who, at 72, still hadn't really retired. An opera-lover, a gourmand (who, by the way, taught me to cook), a bat-out-of-hell backseat driver, an inexhaustible fund of bad Jewish jokes. He was born in 1937 (talk about first fandom!) and although he retained some of the ideas of those times, he was in many ways so young. . . a young, flexible mind, still learning, still seeking, still absorbing as much knowledge as he could. So much respect for that!
He claimed to have retired, and half the time if you came to him with a question about the magazine, he'd say "that sort of thing is up to you now. . ." but I learned quickly not to blink ("don't blink. . . don't ever blink"), because the very next minute he'd come back to you with an opinion about every detail of everything you were working on, had ever worked on, and would ever work on. . . I've never met anyone more knowledgeable about the science fiction and fantasy field, more opinionated, more expansive. . . I first met him while I was struggling with my Mom's health troubles, and I was able to apply some of the lessons learned in that struggle toward his own problems. When Mom died, I think he know how afloat I felt with both parents gone, and he made a real effort to make me a part of his world. I know he really loved being able to share his knowledge (and his terrible, terrible puns and jokes) with a new unsuspecting victim employee. I became so fond of him, and am so privileged to have known him. I really loved the cantankerous old guy. He was family.
Charles died yesterday, on the way back from Readercon, his favorite convention (which he enjoyed tremendously, according to my fellow employee, who went with him and was there with him at the time of his death, for which I am so grateful). He fell asleep on the plane, and simply never woke up again. Really, there could not have been a better death for him. I think those of us that knew him were concerned, as we watched him age, that he would suffer. But he always said he'd die of a heart attack in his sleep. . . and for his sake I'm glad that's how it happened. Still, I think we all expected he'd be with us a little longer. . . RIP Charles, I wish you the best in whatever form that wish can possibly reach you now. |
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