Eavesdropping

Justine: I’m always irritated when people tell me I’m just like one of my characters. Which happens rarely (fortunately) for the people who say it ’cause I usually hit them. Even though violence is wrong.

I’ve been lurking on a site called Fantasy Magazine and was rewarded with another great interview – between Justine Larbalestier and Ekaterina Sedia, whose The Secret History of Moscow looks really intriguing (Her next book, The Alchemy of Stone comes out in June 2008). Their fascinating conversation is funny (it is two writers, and one of them Justine Larbalestier, after all), informative and intriguing. They talk about what it’s like to be writers in America coming, as they do, from other cultures and countries, how their readers react to them as immigrants, the stereotypes about Russia and Australia and the ones they’ve found out about the U.S., too. Did I say ‘fascinating?’ I meant it.

Paging through a bit of news, I came across this bit of graphic novel. It’s in German, and yes, it’s an historical graphic novel intended for German kids. According to the article in the Guardian, “In Germany, which this week marks the 75th anniversary of Hitler’s elevation to German chancellor, many fear that young people are disinterested in or misinformed about this important chapter of history.” Seventy-five years ago the insanity began. Though none of us were even born then, can you imagine the Holocaust ever going out of the public memory, ever being just a bump on the road of history? Never, never, never, never, never. In the words of Maya Angelou, History, despite its wrenching pain, cannot be unlived, but if faced with courage, need not be lived again.”

From our mouths to God’s ear.

Everything I Ever Needed to Know I Learned from Sesame Street

Y’know, I’m an idiot.

Okay, in some ways, that’s just a given: most people are. But I’m an idiot because I think I sucked up most of my available brain width between the ages of 3-5 with television. The square-headed, one-eyed sitter was my constant companion as my mother toiled ceaselessly in the kitchen and my two older sisters utterly ignored me. I must have watched hours, and it impacts my life still.

I mean, seriously. Mac asks if I need anything from the store, and I invariably say, “A loaf of bread, a container of milk, and a stick of butter.” After the first couple of years we were together, he finally asked why I always said that… and thanks to the magic of Youtube, I could not only explain it, but show him.

But the Sesame Street sinkhole otherwise known as my brain often sneaks up on me. Mac made pie, and though the lemon filling was tasty, the egg content (in the meringue, too) gave me and our guests who’d never had lemon meringue pie (which I thought was a British dessert, but Scotland — is so not part of GB. They pretty much let you know that every day) the shudders. I’ve been plotting to recreate a pie we can all enjoy, and instead of making lemon, use lime… and coconut.

Of course, I had to do a little cha-cha and sing, “you put the lime in the coconut and eat it all up.”

To which Mac said, “What?”

Me: “It’s a song.”

Him: “Is that from Sesame Street again?”

Me: “Um, no…?”


Oh, snap. Yes it is. The HOURS I must have spent when I could have been playing Baby Einstein or taking Suzuki violin lessons and becoming a child prodigy. But no. I was dancing in the living room and learning all the words to The Rainbow Connection by heart.

Guess that’s not a bad trade-off, when it all comes down to it.

Poetry Friday: A Blood-Nipt, Greasy Foulness

This is a winter poem.

It uses the words ‘foul’ and ‘staring,’ and mentions blood and greasiness. For those reasons, I simply adore it.

When I quit trying to win prizes as Perky Positive Girl, UK, I note that the wind last evening was up to gusts of 50 mph and I got home exhausted, battered and soaked to my knees and the S.O. trod in some kind of hideous puddle that left his socks sopping, and the so-called “rain” was solid and stinging pellets of ice, and my winter coat is now so huge (a good thing, weight loss, but an annoying thing when you’re in the mood to be annoyed) it’s a virtual sail, and my scarf flipped up completely over my head, obscuring my view while I was creeping down icy stairs — and the wind pinned the door to the stoop and I couldn’t close it, then changed direction and ripped it out of my hands… well, last night I caught myself muttering “Tu-whit! Tu-whoo!”

Thus, I give you:

Winter
by the incomparable and beloved William Shakespeare

WHEN icicles hang by the wall
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
And Tom bears logs into the hall,
And milk comes frozen home in pail;
When blood is nipt, and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl
                                      Tu-whoo!
Tu-whit! tu-whoo! A merry note!
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

When all around the wind doth blow,
And coughing drowns the parson’s saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
And Marian’s nose looks red and raw;
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl—
Then nightly sings the staring owl
                                      Tu-whoo!
Tu-whit! tu-whoo! A merry note!
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.


Ways are foul! Blood is nipt! ‘Tis the last throes of a really cold winter storm, but all inside are safe and warm. If you’d like to further keel the pot of poetry, visit The Blog with the Shockingly Clever Title. Cell photo was taken last night at Glasgow Uni, those lovely arches make an amazing wind tunnel.