A Note in the Great Symphony

It's Memorial Day, which means it's the day I plant my herb garden. Why is today the day? Because Memorial Day weekend is when God's Waiting Room hosts the Garden Jubilee, the official start of street festival season. Now that I've gotten the garden planted, mulched, and watered, it's time to post linky stuff.

The Long Ships, Frans Bengtsson
It's really good.

The Female Persuasion, Meg Wolitzer
This is what it was like to graduate from college in the early 2000s. I wish it hadn't ended the way it did, though.

World of Ptavvs, Larry Niven
Average 1960s sci-fi, but it did get me listening to Monster Magnet again, so that's a plus. SPACE LORD MOTHER MOTHER!

Parasite Rex: Inside the Bizarre World of Nature's Most Dangerous Creatures, Carl Zimmer
Whoever would have thought parasites would be so neat?

Three Hands in the Fountain, Lindsay Davis
Falco hires Petronius as his partner and they chase after a serial killer.

The Marble Faun, Nathaniel Hawthorne
Hawthorne really, really wanted you to know he had visited Italy.

The Goldfinch, Donna Tartt
A modern Dickensian novel. Or as one of my friends put it, "771 pages of drug-addled bad decisions." I was entertained.

The Once and Future King, T.H. White
My favorite Arthurian legend. Featuring the very first Sworn Enemy of the Blog!

Slaughterhouse-Five, Kurt Vonnegut
A modern classic.

King Lear, William Shakespeare
The Shakespearean version of giving up and just going mad for a while. Tempting.

Star Lore: Myths, Legends, and Facts, William Tyler Olcott
How and why we see the pictures we see in the stars.

Longitude: The True Story of the Lone Genius Who Solved the Greatest Scientific Problem of His Time, Dava Sobel
Whoever would have though clocks would be so neat?

Stones: Poems, Kevin Young
My new favorite poet. <3 <3 <3

~*~*~*~*~
And now, some shorts:
Good Eating Habits: The story of Bill's stomachache and the amoeba that stalks him.
Going Steady?: The story of a couple on the verge of breaking up. Featuring everyone's favorite, The Double Standard!
How to Say No (Moral Maturity): It'll make you O_o. Featuring my favorite Coronet actor, Nora!
How Much Affection?: Teenagers in the 1950s were sex-crazed maniacs, apparently.

I have been very angry lately. Why have I been angry? Three reasons: 1) I am female, 2) I live in the United States, and 3) it's May 2022.

But I can't be angry right now. Anger is a useless emotion. Oh, I know there are people who say that anger spurs you on to do what you need to do, but you see there's nothing I can do. The only action I can take that has any meaningful result is to vote in the primary, but it'll only be on the Democratic ballot because I absolutely refuse to touch the Republican one. Even then, I'm not sure how much difference it can make. I live in the district that inflicted Mark Meadows and Madison Cawthorne on you good people. That should explain everything.

Side note: I've been wanting to put up a yard sign denouncing Cawthorne, but I can't keep up with the Scandal of the Week anymore. It would have to be an electronic billboard at this point, and my skills are limited to markers on posterboard.

So what can I do? Well, I can channel this energy. Not in marches and protests and the suchlike. I tried that back in 2003 and fat lot of good it did then. No, I need to do something meaningful, something that makes a difference.

So I cleaned my apartment.

I grew up in a cluttered house. My parents both worked and weren't that interested in cleaning. Neither were my sisters and I. There were always piles of things on things, a layer of dust in the corners, and pet fur all over. Sure we swept and did the dishes and that sort of thing, but it was never what you would call tidy.

When my sisters and I moved out on our own, we all separately came to a realization: that clutter takes a toll on your mental health. We had to learn to be neat. We started picking up things and declaring a place for them and keeping them there. We followed the teachings of FlyLady and UFYH and the such. And eventually we had clean houses. Not "ready for the cover of Better Homes and Gardens" clean, but neat. There are no piles of things on things. Well, there are, but they are small piles and easily contained.

This past Saturday I spent the morning scrubbing. I kind of had to because Samantha Cat decided to have GI issues in non-litterbox locations. After I finished yelling, I scrubbed the spots on the carpet. Then I washed the bedding. Not because of her, I just change the sheets on Saturday. Then I scrubbed the bathroom. Then I straightened up the kitchen and scraped the ice out of the freezer. I vacuumed. I even dusted, that's how intense it got.

And you know what? I felt better. Not just because I was tired and worked off that angry/anxious energy, but because my place was clean. For five minutes until the cats shed all over everything again.

I may not be able to change the world, but I do have the power to change my environs for the better.

Spring has sprung and so have my allergies! Let's close all the windows and hide until the trees have finished pollinating.

Last Act in Palmyra, Lindsay Davis
Falco and Helena go to Syria and join a troupe of traveling actors. Murder ensues.

The First Four Years, Laura Ingalls Wilder
Farming in the Dakota Territory was hard but strangely compelling.

The Island of the Mighty, Evangeline Walton
The origin of my appreciation for ugly 1970s covers.

The House of the Seven Gables, Nathaniel Hawthorne
The best book Hawthorne wrote.

Time to Depart, Lindsay Davis
Falco descends into the seedy underworld of Roman crime syndicates to help his friend Petro.

Postcolonial Love Poem, Natalie Diaz
It was okay.

Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats, T.S. Eliot
The best book Eliot wrote.

Fanshawe, Nathaniel Hawthorne
Dear God this was horrible.

Pioneer Girl: The Annotated Autobiography, Laura Ingalls Wilder
The actual real story of Laura Ingalls and her voyages across the American prairie.

The Blithedale Romance, Nathaniel Hawthorne
The seedy underbelly of the utopian movement of the mid 1800s.

A Dying Light in Corduba, Lindsay Davis
Falco and Helena go to Spain to investigate an oil cartel. Helena has a baby.

*~*~*~*~*~*
And now the shorts! I've been slacking on these.

I Want to Be a Secretary
Because that's the only professional career option open to girls in the early 1940s.
Good Grooming for Girls
How to be pretty in the 1940s. Featuring the infamous (in my family) Cold Cream Picture.

Feeling stressed? Anxious? Overwhelmed? Just plain don't feel good?

Put on a PURR-SUIT!

Doesn't it feel nice when a cat curls up in your lap and purrs? Of course it does! But what if you don't have a cat? What if your cat is not speaking to you? What if you need a purr right in the middle of Kitty Crazy Time ^TM? That's when you put on the PURR-SUIT. Put it on just like a bathrobe, tie the Activation Strap around your waist and the whole thing purrs! Not just on your lap, but all over!

What makes the PURR-SUIT so special? It's our patented Vox Teknologi ^TM woven into the cloth itself! When activated, the entire robe vibrates at the same frequency as a purring cat!

Looks like a bathrobe, purrs like a cat. The PURR-SUIT cures what ails ya!
Statement not verified by the FDA

Get the PURR-SUIT and purr your cares away! Available at fine department stores in Narnia, Oz, Prydain, and Landover!

Oh, wow, it's almost halfway through April and I haven't gotten this posted yet. Guess I should get around to it then.

The American Gun Mystery, Ellery Queen
Ellery goes to the rodeo and witnesses two identical murders.

By the Shores of Silver Lake, Laura Ingalls Wilder
This book destroyed me when I was nine. If you know, you know.

The Marvelous Land of Oz, L. Frank Baum
Another charming Oz story turned into a horrifying movie. Link in the review.

The Iron Hand of Mars, Lindsay Davis
Falco goes to Germany and meets a witch.

The Long Winter, Laura Ingalls Wilder
I wouldn't want to live through that winter, but I love reading about it.

Anne of Windy Poplars, L.M. Montgomery
Filling in the three-year gap between Gilbert's proposal and Anne's marriage.

Caste: The Origins of Our Discontents, Isabel Wilkerson
This was a disturbing read but worthwhile.

I, Claudius, Robert Graves
Ah, ancient Roman gossip. The best kind of gossip.

Angels in America: A Gay Fantasia on National Themes, Tony Kushner
Definitely not a play for a small theater company.

Little Town on the Prairie, Laura Ingalls Wilder
Laura grows up and develops a social life.

The Scarlet Letter, Nathaniel Hawthorne
I gave it one more chance. It's okay, but the prologue is absolutely dire.

The Soul Tree, Laura Hope-Gill & John Fletcher, Jr
The poetry was okay, but the photos were beyond fantastic.

Poseidon's Gold, Lindsay Davis
Falco has to clean up the last mess his brother left behind after he died.

These Happy Golden Years, Laura Ingalls Wilder
Laura starts teaching, Almanzo starts courting, and they end up happily ever after.

The Sword-Edged Blonde, Alex Bledsoe
A hard-boiled fantasy detective novel. I think I'm in love.

*~*~*~*~*~
Let's Share with Others: Little Jimmy starts a lemonade business and learns about exploiting his workers.
More Dates for Kay: The way to get more dates is to stalk all the boys in school until you get a reputation.
Social Acceptability: In which teenage girls are evil.

Trapped in a rock. He trapped her in a rock! She was a creature of air and movement and he put her in the most solid object in the world.

She was furious. She tried to swirl but couldn't. Too constrained.

A bloody rock. She was surrounded by static, crystalline structures. They never shifted to her will. They just sat there, smug and stationary in their regular forms.

But the surface of a rock is not smooth. There are dips and crevices, microscopic cracks, places where water can seep in, freeze, and expand. These actions will expand the microscopic cracks into larger ones. After a few centuries she realized this and began to focus her energy on helping the water do its job.

It paid off. Slowly and far too eventually for her taste, but it did pay off. The rock cracked in half. Air rushed in where solidity was before. She flew out in a whirlwind of glee.

I FEED!


~~~~~~~~

Inspiration: https://www.smithsonianmag.com/sma…

The end of winter is a sad time for me. I love the cold, the frost in the morning, the promise of a snowy day. But the Earth turns, the seasons change, and winter warms into spring. I always see the first really warm day of the year as a personal insult, especially when the winter was as short as this year's was. We had a 70-degree day at Christmas, couldn't we have waited until April for the next one?

No, we couldn't. It's been in the 70s for the last week. Granted, I live in North Carolina so I don't trust that this weather will last. Fool's Spring is a real thing here. It's the time of year people start invoking the specter of The Blizzard of '93. There's a reason conventional wisdom states that you don't plant your tomatoes until Mother's Day up here in the southern Appalachians. The threat of a killing frost hovers over us all until at least mid-May.

Needless to say, I've been in a rotten mood for the last week and a half. Part of this is due to work stress (program "upgrades"), part of it is hormones, but most of it is this darn warm snap. Stupid spring weather, I want to keep wearing my sweaters! But you can't fight Mother Nature. So I put on my short-sleeved shirt and went outside. During my after-work walks at Duck Pond Park, I noticed the big pink-flowered tree by the pond was starting to bloom. I snapped a picture of the blossoms. Not just to enjoy the beauty of the flowers, but because I wanted to know what the heck kind of tree it was. I have an app on my phone that tells me what that plant is and it told me that was a Saucer Magnolia. Now I know.

There are other flowers popping up as well. Tiny spring flowers I've seen my whole life and never knew what they were. I've identified Birdseye Speedwell, Hairy Bittercress, Lesser Celandine (not just an alchemy ingredient in The Witcher anymore!), and Chickweed. There are pussy willows near the broken boardwalk on the greenway. Daffodils galore are popping up all over the yard. The Lenten Rose is blooming right on schedule. Irises and tulips are pushing up leaves. And it looks like the peony survived the winter (such as it was) and we might be getting some big fluffy flowers this summer.

My housemate Irish Storyteller is a gardener to the core. He's spent the last week raking all the dead leaves out of the hillside garden so the phlox and lilies can breathe. There are piles of leaves all along the raised beds and by the front garden. He inspired me to take care of my own little herb garden this morning. I took the rake to it and cleared out all the dead leaves, pulled up the weeds that popped up, turned up the earth a bit, and checked to see what survived. The thyme, the sage, the johnny-jump-ups, and, surprisingly, one of the verbenas. Didn't expect that one to make it.

That got me in the mood for more, so I turned my attention to the melon patch next to my garden. I ripped up all the weeds along the front edge along with the straggly broccoli that almost made it. I got as many of the dead leaves out as I could. I went down to the front garden and raked it out and moved the leaves into a pile. Then I remembered the weather forecast. It's supposed to rain the rest of the week. There are piles of dead leaves and sticks all over the yard from the winter storms.

Time to light up the burn barrel! It's a disused oil drum that a welder friend of Seasonal (Irish Storyteller's wife) had decorated with a Green Man. I filled it up with dead leaves and sticks from the closest stick pile and lit it up. The rest of the morning I spent burning all the leaves and sticks from the closest piles so we can fill it up with the ones from the other parts of the yard.

After spending the morning covered in dirt and smoke, I'm ready for spring. I uncovered lots of tiny shoots and the first crocus of the year. The yard is slowly looking like something. And in a couple of months I can fill in the empty spots in my herb garden. I think I might also know how to keep the [multiple profanities deleted] chipmunk from eating my dill again.

Dirt is seasonal coffee. Get a little bit of that in (or rather on) you early on and you're set for the rest of the day.

I think we've all had quite enough of February, no? Here is a list of books I reviewed this month.

The Sun and Her Flowers, Rupi Kaur
This is not poetry. She has potential, though.

How to Betray Your Country, James Wolff
Lo, we have a successor to John Le Carré!

The Egyptian Cross Mystery, Ellery Queen
In which the cover of the 1969 edition my mom owned lied a lot.

Farmer Boy, Laura Ingalls Wilder
My favorite Little House book.

The Greek Coffin Mystery, Ellery Queen
Ellery Queen's first mystery in which he's a complete prat until circumstances teach him humility in the most humiliating way.

Little House on the Prairie, Laura Ingalls Wilder
The Little House book I've read the least amount of times

The Wood Wife, Terri Windling
Shapeshifters, mystery, and medieval music in the Ol' West

Tender Is the Night, F. Scott Fitzgerald
Still my favorite Fitzgerald

Anathem, Neal Stephenson
As I said in the review, this book is 900 pages long and it feels like it.

The Autumn of the Middle Ages, Johan Huizinga
A survey of a very specific place at a very specific time that explains the difference between the medieval mind and the Renaissance mind.

Venus in Copper, Lindsay Davis
Falco goes into private practice and discovers the downside of Roman real estate.

On the Banks of Plum Creek, Laura Ingalls Wilder
In which the descriptions suddenly get very, very good

Eugene Onegin, Alexander Pushkin\
This review wasn't so fraught when I scheduled it two weeks ago.

*~*~*~*~*~
And now a few shorts!
Law and Social Control: I want everyone to appreciate the fact that I refrained from quoting Semisonic in this. The struggle, it was real.
Capitalism: Featuring a meeting of the Future Boring People of America and their magical record player that shows video.
What Is Business?: WHY IS THE TOASTER ON THE TABLE?
Other People's Property: Featuring the world's most destructive stinkbomb.

"Old Man Torvald? I have your thread."

"Thank you, little Ellie. You can put it here on the table."

Elana put the bits of brightly colored thread next to a pile of chopped-up feathers and a small cup of beads. She climbed up on a rickety chair to better watch Torvald sort through a box of hooks. "What are you doing?"

"Making flies for fishing." He spread out the hooks he selected in a row.

"I thought you were supposed to use worms."

"That's how you fish on the mainland," Torvald explained. "We don't have worms up here on the Isles. Too cold. Ground's too hard."

"Oh." Elana thought about that for a minute. "I guess that's why nothing grows up here. What's that?" Torvald had opened up another box and began putting together a strange contraption.

"Magnifying glass so I can see what I'm doing." He set up a board with a stick in the middle and began screwing on a large circle of glass attached to another stick to the end. "This is delicate work."

"Can I watch?"

"As long as you don't jiggle the table," Torvald replied.

Elana sat very still on the chair, her violet eyes wide with attention as Torvald carefully tied bits of feather on a hook with the thread. He threaded a needle and attached the beads to give the fly eyes. When he finished, he let Elana hold it.

"How does this catch fish?" Elana asked, petting it gently.

"They think it's a bug on the water," Torvald explained. "If you want, I can show you. I'm going out to my fishing spot tomorrow if you want to come."

"If Mama will let me," Elana said doubtfully.

"She'll let you," said Torvald. "Tell her I'll give her part of the catch if you come with me."

The next morning Torvald rowed Elana out to his fishing spot. It was a tiny island covered in ice an hour north of their home isle. He set up a couple of stools on the shore with a small heater between them. Elana sat on her stool watching Torvald tie flies onto two fishing rods. He cast one of them and handed the rod to Elana. She held it tightly in both hands.

"Now what?"

Torvald cast the other rod and settled down on his stool. "Now we wait."

Five minutes passed. Ten minutes passed. Thirty minutes passed. Elana was getting bored. "Are we ever going to catch a fish?"

"Patience," Torvald murmured. "Sometimes they're shy. But they're here. We're right outside their home. Eventually they'll see our bait and go for it. They always do."

Elana counted all the icebergs she could see floating in the northern sea (fifteen). Still no fish.

She tried to count all the different types of pebbles on the shore (too many). Still no fish.

She looked for shapes in the clouds above. Still no fish.

She looked at the sun. Only an hour had gone by.

She sighed. "Are you sure there are fish out here?"

"Patience," Torvald said.

Elana made a moue. Fishing in the ice isles was boring.

Then she felt the rod move. Or did she? No, it did. Something tugged at it. Then the tip began to bend down. "I caught something!" she squealed. She began to reel in her line, but the fish on the end was too strong. Torvald had to help her turn the reel to bring it in. Then his rod began to bend.

Two large grayling lay on the beach. Torvald unhooked them and handed them to Elana to put in the bucket while he rebaited and recast the lines. This time they immediately hooked a fish each. For the next half hour they caught more and more fish until the bucket was overflowing.

"That's enough for today," Torvald said. "We've got enough fish to last both of us a good while."

"That was fun!" Elana said. "It was boring at first, though."

"That's why you need patience," Torvald replied. "That's the most important part of fishing. The fish aren't going to just come and jump into your bucket. You have to be willing to wait. Fish can't be forced. If you try, they'll only run away and you've lost your fishing spot. Life is like that, too. Sometimes you can't do anything but wait. If you try to force things to happen before their time, you'll only make things worse. But if you have patience and wait for the right time, you'll be amazed at what happens."

Elana thought about that as they loaded the boat. "Mama says you have to act or everyone will walk all over you."

"But you have to act at the right time," Torvald said.

"When is the right time?" Elana asked.

"Depends," Torvald said, pushing away from the shore.

"Depends on what?"

"On when the fish decide to go for your bait."

The outer layer is bluish-gray. Cadet blue, Crayola called it. It's the usual place we reside. A soft place. Not too bright, no sharp edges. Indistinguishable from normality because it is normal for us. Joy can reach us here though. A quiet kind of joy, but still.

Next is a darker shade of blue. Like before, but the joy that gets through is quieter, shrew-sized rather than rat-sized. Otherwise, same.

Then a purple-gray. There is no Crayola for this unless you make it yourself. We come here often. It's a dull place where duty reigns supreme. We do what we have to do because we have to do it. Otherwise we're a failure. Joy is something we look at through the window. Our heart is heavier, the clouds are closer. They, too, are soft.

From here there is no color, only gray. The gray of clouds on a sunless day. Sadness is the only emotion that comes through. All our faults take center stage. They're playing the role of the elephant in the room. We pretend they aren't there because everyone else is pretending they're not. But we know we're only faking it to get through the day.

Dark dark gray next. This isn't a place we come to often. Maybe once or twice. It's terrifying here. Only screams and tears and sharpness. Let's not stay too long.

Beyond that is black. Darkness, unrelenting flat black. No colors. No shading. Nothing beyond. It's a lifeless place. Sometimes we like to look at it but...it's too final.

It's the gradation between the colors that's most fascinating. Moving back and forth through them. Backing out completely just to go back in when the brightness is too bright. Going all the way into black is just too much. Once you go that far what else is there? Maybe there's something behind the black but we all get there eventually. Until then, we continue to shimmer even if it's only in shades of gray.

Besides, gray can be beautiful. It has gradations, shades, personalities. And it's a comfortable place to be. Especially since we've been here so long.