I spent most of this afternoon watching the entirety of Russian Doll instead of working on a story submission that's due at the end of the month.
And now I'm sitting here, staring at this story, and the little bastard tells me it's perfectly happy being 1,400 words and doesn't want to be expanded to 3K, the minimum for submissions to the antho I've got my eye on.
I gotta write something, but I'm so fucking tired. And there is nothing to eat in my apartment that doesn't require preparation, which is by far the worst part of Pesach for me. I keep saying "I'll make" and then not making anything.
- food - coffee - schedules (so I know some things that will happen today) - my meds kicking in (so I have a chance of making items on that schedule) - hearing from friends and family (so I know people are taking care of a lot of things ... and, especially, taking care of people) - sunlight - rain - the kind of ornamental crabapple tree with deep purple-red blossoms - the opportunity to add to this list
This spring seems to be an exercise in working jobs in San Francisco interspersed with jobs in Ukiah. This week's emergency came via PG&E our local power provider. PG&E began its corporate life as a utility serving San Francisco with gas for lighting in the 1850's. In general they were a responsible company, aware of both urban and rural needs. In the 1990's that changed. Regulation by the state and some management issues divided the company. Customer needs, especially in rural areas became third class problems. Further problems led to a 2001 bankruptcy. In 2010 a poor maintenance led to a gas main failure in a urban neighborhood. In 2017 and 2018 poorly maintained electrical equipment failed and started devastating fires, both with extensive loss of human lives. So, with that history, PG&E conducted an inventory of the things that needed fixing in its system. A LOT of their equipment needed fixing, including multiple poles on our Ranch. This particular crisis involved two of them. Traditionally PG&E has had a "right of way" across Howell Creek to access 4 or 5 of their High Voltage transmission poles. I no longer want them to cross Howell Creek because the crossing is now planted to new, fragile plants destined to hold the creek banks together. My negotiation with them began: PG&E sub-contractor (Dave): We are coming in with some low impact buggies to ferry tools and people into construction sites. Me: I've spent $40K and 3 years of drip irrigation to get vegetation going on Howell Creek. No you cannot take equipment across it. Dave: But we need to replace poles! Me: (Thinking about the last time PG&E replaced a pole). How about a new gate on the NW corner of the property? Dave: New gate? Sure! Me: Need crew to dig post holes. Dave: Sure, Monday? Me: Friday.
M and I got there on Friday with the new gate on top of the car. The supposed crew wasn't there, they were digging a hole for the second pole. A 15' deep hole. They were really, really glad to come dig four 3' deep holes. I bought them lunch. They bought me 4 posts. It was a good trade. I tried to get them to put in a culvert on the road, but that involves way, way too many permits. Several crews were happy with direct access. The pole setting crew might just get their boom truck in, which will make everyone happy. I'm happy, because this will give me access to a fenceline that I want to work on with the tractor. Recent changes in Howell Creek have made it so even I couldn't get across easily.
Before: Note that the H-brace is really, really short, about 4 feet which doesn't really do much, and that the brace wire is twisted up so it is very hard to tighten. Whatever chemicals were used on the posts were really effective because after 15 or so years in the ground the posts were pretty much in perfect condition.
In addition to getting this gate in M and I trimmed the valley oaks that were hanging into the Arena parking area, and dug one more hole in "deadwood" pasture, the new pasture at Red Barn.
The track continued past the strangler fig, and then began to turn south so that it was no longer headed straight at the short escarpment that marked the western and north-western edges of the royal preserve.The mixed trees of the western edge of the woods gave way to hammurucks, a native tree traditionally associated with kings.At first Liavan simply noted that, presumably through the heavy shade cast with their large soft swathes of needle-like leaves, they discouraged the other plants, but then she found the carpet of nunquils, palest pink and blue in the shade of hammurucks so old that they were tall, squat, hollow stumps sprouting the trunk leaves of senescence.The ancient stumps marched along the track in pairs, marking what must have once been a grand approach to something.
Medication plus sleep and a bit of sun hopefully equals me actually being awake tomorrow? Am quite hazy this afternoon and still not accomplishing much but there is a discernable upward trend in my level of focus.
I've been grabbing a lot of stuff via the promos on Smart Bitches, Trashy Books (smartbitches_feed), which is overtly about romance genre, but also overlaps into all sorts of books and recs that are of interest to me, and alerts when they're on sale. So I've been reading a lot of fiction on my lunch breaks lately, and it's mostly been pretty neat stuff. The whole Broken Earth Series, starting with The Obelisk Gate, which was amazing, and heart-crushing and then hopeful again, and a book about space whale ships and how baby girls from the wrong side of the tracks manage to hijack them <3, and this latest I'm reading, And I Darken, appears to be more or less what happens when you drop a female baby drakthos in a human meat suit into the Ottoman Empire* (Her first word was literally "Mine," you guys. There's no one to teach her how to properly keep things shining, and human society is obviously not her friend, so the trainwreck is basically.... yeah. But she's not dead yet, and she's learning. And of course, it's the first of a series. I didn't notice. Argh.)
Anyway. Much reading. Not much writing. A lot of editing. (Okay, I did manage to rewrite Stone vs. Luce so I at least I know what I'm writing toward, and that got interesting). But yeah, that's about it on the writing/reading end of things.
Srsly though, I need to get a grip. Going to PA tomorrow as Mom owns Easter. Took Monday off after that, because I figure I'd need it. I think we're going to Philly the weekend after that because a friend wants to hang out. I am never opposed to going to Philly. And somehow this day has flown by and I didn't do a single thing to break ground on the part of the yard I was going to move the tomatoes to. Bad me. How you doin'?
Today was a good day. I managed to sleep in, get some stuff done that I've been procrastinating on (laundry and essay work, both taking advantage of the nice weather; I hung the laundry outside and bribed myself to look at the essay by letting myself sit in the garden to do it) and then had a date with Stuart.
We determined earlier this week that we wanted to go to the movies or have a picnic or something, go out in the car some place. So he picked me up and he'd come up with a good idea: we went to the viewing park at the airport. It's a big field where you can see planes land, also see a few they have on display. There's also "British people in a field" stuff like ice cream vans and fairground rides for tiny children. It was really busy today, a sunny warm day in the middle of a long weekend. Nice to see kids running around, people admiring the planes. We had ice cream and sat in the sunshine.
And we went back to his place and watched a movie, The Spy Who Dumped Me, which I'd seen but he hadn't because it does look like it should be terrible but luckily he agreed with me that it's great. We laughed so much.
“You don’t – you can’t – you would – what would you-” Mélanie caught herself and focused very carefully on her breathing for several breaths. “Sir. Jasper.” She looked at him with wide eyes and found that his grin had stuttered into something of a worried expression. She patted his shoulder, not wanting him upset, and cleared her throat. “I’m sorry you, you, ah, you caught me by surprise. What did you mean – what-”
“Oh, Mélanie, my sweetness.” Jasper pulled her into a tight hug, rubbing her back until she could breathe again. “I didn’t meant to upset you, I didn’t. Why does this- what upsets you?”
She peered up at him from the confines of the hug. “I don’t want you to risk yourself. I was so upset when the – when those thugs had you, and I, if you got caught, it would be horrid. I don’t want something like that happening to you!”
“Something like what they did to you?” he asked gently.
“Yes! Yes! It was awful! I don’t want anything like that to happen to you- I said that already, didn’t I?” she finished weakly.
“You did, but that’s understandable. I don’t want to end up in a cage either, my sweetness, I assure you. I just want to hurt them a little bit, to take a little from them. Perhaps a lot,” he pondered, “maybe everything they have.” His smile was fierce. “I want to leave them reeling.”
Mélanie eyed im with a little bit of confusion. “But you – I’m not the first slave you’ve bought, sir.”
“No. No, you’re not. And for a while I was content to just take slaves out of their market one at a time with stolen goods.”
“But you had the information before, didn’t you – couldn’t you?”
“I could, yes. But there were – well. There were things in the way. And I find that I want to do something charming and alarming. And hopefully profitable as well, of course. But I’ll have to move carefully. After all, if someone holds a Kept bond over their slaves, I can’t just open up the cage to free them. But – well. There’s another way to break that bond.” His voice had deepened into a dangerous rumble.
Mélanie looked at him with wide eyes.
“You’re – you’re talking about killing them.”
She tried to make it a question but she was having trouble convincing herself there was any doubt at all about it.
“Yes.” He was solemn and his voice was soft. “It’s not – well. I don’t like dealing with people in that manner. I have not killed many people – more than I wanted to, but always in situations where they were trying to kill me and, before you ask, it wasn’t because I had stolen something they needed.”
“I wouldn’t-” She frowned. “I wouldn’t think that of you. Maybe tricking someone or beating them up, but those two the other day, they were pretty unkind to you because they wanted revenge, and you – you were kind to them in return.”
“I wouldn’t call that kind.” He shifted in his seat. “But it was not as unkind as I could have been. I will grant that.” He studied Mélanie until she shifted in her seat, wondering what he was looking for. “There are. Ah. I don’t want to kill, even slavers. I’m hoping I can talk to them and convince them to give me everything that is theirs, instead.”
Mélanie snorted. “Convince them?”
“You know, trick them, lie to them, sneak in when they’re asleep and steal everything that isn’t the building itself.”
“… You mean slaves.” She blinked twice at him, thinking of the place and the tiny cages. “The House, she’s big – but she’s not, uh, that big?”
“Depends on where they are in their sales cycle, but no – no. I didn’t mean bring them all home. That would be a little bit, urm. Possibly a little strange.”
“It might be a little strange,” she allowed, “but it might be friendly, too – so you just mean, you mean literally to free all of them?”
“And take all of their stock of any sort that isn’t slaves. Barter goods, food.”
“That’s, ah. That’s not so bad. Well, that’s interesting. Freeing slaves doesn’t get you anything.”
“Ah,” he grinned widely at her. “That’s what you think. What it does get me is: a disruption that could be used as a distraction for any number of things,” he checked things off on his fingers, “a general sense of well-being and being a good person, which my Kept here appears to approve of, and a bunch of people – again, depending on where they are in that sales cycle – who owe me a favor and will be inclined to think positively about me. And let me tell you, that’s nothing to sneeze at, especially for someone like me who makes a living out of irritating people.”
Mélanie blinked. “You’ve been thinking about this.”
“Well, of course I have.” He cleared his throat. “That is, I mean – well – small things I do like breathing. Little cons, small thefts, that sort of thing. Big cons, big thefts, those take a lot of planning, a lot of scouting out, and a lot of, well, preknowledge. Otherwise, I’d end up on the wrong side of a collar mys…”
Forbidden Fruit (288 words) by meridian_rose Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Smallville Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Clark Kent/Major Zod Characters: Major Zod, Clark Kent Additional Tags: Season/Series 09, community: superhero-land, Community: trope_bingo
Summary: For the superhero-land prompt ""I thought our story was epic, you know? You and me." (Veronica Mars) A season 9 au/what-if from when Clark was infected with red kryptonite.
Welcome to the eightieth Crowdfunding Creative Jam! This session will run Saturday, April 20-Sunday, April 21. The theme is "Identity Crisis."
Crowdfunding Creative Jam
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The afternoon didn't drag on, but Saylie did pull out a puzzle book and some pens so she had something to do aside from gazing out the window. The sun was getting lower in the west and the shadow of the train was making the details of the near fields more difficult to see. There was more pasture in among the crop now too and Saylie noted that there were separate herds of black or white cows in some of those pastures. Darkness came as the train was pulling into Morphelstone and she realised that she couldn't see the colour of the buildings.
“You know, we could probably live here pretty comfortably forever.” Carrone looked at the door of the cabin and back to Deline before setting his pack on his shoulders. “I’d get better at hunting eventually.”
“I’m not sure you’d say that in winter.” Deline smirked at him, although she could guess easily enough what was going on in his head. They were leaving, which meant they were going to the capital. When they got there, everything could change.
“In winter-” he pulled her into an embrace which surprised her and, from the look on his face, might have surprised him as well “-we could keep each other warm.” He planted a kiss on the side of her head. “And that bed would keep us toasty.”
“We’d still have to get out of bed eventually.” Deline’s protest was rendered less effectual by her chuckles. “Eventually. Come on.” She squeezed his hand. “We still have a ways to go before we can reach the capital, and we’re burning daylight.”
Carrone sighed. “I suppose,” he agreed. “Just remember, when we get back there and you’re thinking how nice it would be to have some peace and quiet, that I offered.”
It was her turn to kiss his cheek. “I know. It’ll be all right.” She didn’t release his hand. She didn’t need to; she didn’t want to. “The good news? It’s almost all downhill from here.”
“Almost.” He made a face. “I find I’m not all that encouraged by that.”
“Well, there’s a few hills still. I mean, the Imperial complex is in the middle of a mountain range.” She started along the path, glad that he followed without being pulled, even if he was still complaining.
“Is there anything in your nation that isn’t in the middle of a mountain range?”
“The parts that are in the middle of a group of lakes?” she offered. “Or, I suppose the parts that are valleys.”
“Those are still in the middle of mountain ranges, though.” He wrinkled his nose at her. “Everything around here is either climbing up or going down just to get up again.”
“Well, that’s a metaphor for life, isn’t it? Even when something is easy for a while, you end up having another climb ahead of you.”
He snorted. “No wonder everyone thinks Bear people are so tough. You think life is a mountain instead of a nice, sensible river.”
“Well, maybe if we had nice, sensible rivers, we might think differently.”
“See, that’s what’s wrong with your people-”
It was nice to banter with him, nicer to walk with the sun on her face and be heading home. She didn’t rush them, but she found she was walking at a comfortably fast pace as they headed downwards in a casual zig-zag that took them down the mountainside in a much more sedate way than they’d originally gone up it.
“Should’ve come this way in the first place,” Carrone commented at one point, but even he noticed that they were going further and further north as they went down the mountain.
As the sun started its descent, Deline scoped out a camping site for them, but, as he had done before, Carrone found them a place, a small cabin wedged between two upshoots of rock. It was unoccupied by anything but mice and looked like it’d been that way for some time, but the mostly-stone construction and doors and shutters thicker than her wrist had kept the weathering out.
It was dark inside, and tight, clearly not designed for more than one person, but they cuddled close on the narrow bed, having chased out bugs and mice, and Deline found herself smiling. “This is almost as good as the imperial bed,” she murmured. “Close, comfortable – and on the way home.”
“Home,” Carrone repeated. “You’re quite happy about that.”
“Well, yes.” She kissed his cheek in almost an apology. “It will be fine. It will be! But I want to go back to my own place. I want to report. I want -” She sighed, her happiness slipping away. “I want to figure out what I’m going to do next.”
“And what I’m going to do next, too,” he reminded her. “Since that’s also in your hands.”
“It is,” she agreed slowly. “At least partially.”
“What do you mean, partially? Did you forget this thing you locked around my wrist?”
“I did not.” She wrinkled her nose at him. “I assure you, I remember that quite clearly. Especially after our run-in with that Harloran spy. But I’m not going to make any of these decisions unilaterally. You’ll have a say, too.”
“So you keep saying, and I don’t understand why.” He glared at her, but it was a weak expression with no real heat behind it. “You trapped me. As you pointed out, I was trying to kill you at the time. The trap I walked you into – Teshone – nearly cost both of us our lives at least one more time, maybe more. Depends if you count the bear or not, and I do.”
“The bear was a risk of life and limb,” Deline agreed, feeling like she was picking her footing more with her words than on the smooth path down the mountain, “but probably not Teshone’s fault, except really peripherally.”
“We were running from bounty hunters at the time,” he countered. “So I’ve risked your life several times and cost you a nice smooth trip home-”
“I’m willing to blame much of that on the Deklegion and not you,” she argued.
“Be that as it may.” He set his shoulders and stared at her. “My life is still in your hands, and I did try to kill you.”
Waiting at a bus stop listening to the new Lizzo album which I'm already in love with.
It's so sunny out I don't have any pockets -- I didn't even bring a hoodie with me. I'm waiting at the bus stop to meet diffrentcolours for a drink, after an afternoon in the sunshine eating Japanese food with haggis.
A lot of things are really tough but right now the world feels nice and sounds nice and smells nice and I'm enjoying it. I figured that was worth making a note of.
As bibliofile promised, the Hubbard Street Dance Chicago performance was fantastic. Their first two pieces, in particular, were -- of all the art I have seen in recent memory -- the most exciting for me (and likewise for my viewing companion J). Both were choreographed by Crystal Pite. I am no kind of scholar of dance, but on the strength of these examples I would follow her work wherever I could find it.
(Hey! She's Canadian!)
The first work was "A Picture of You Falling." It began with a voice that would iterate and elaborate phrases throughout the work, reminding me a little of Laurie Anderson circa the 1980s, though less preoccupied with cliche.
"This is your voice," a female-coded voice, British. "This is a picture of you." Enter a man in a suit, an almost disappointing sign for "the generic" -- then his path is crossed by a woman in a similar suit -- again, that sense of almost-disappointment -- oh, will she only enter the centre of the narrative through his signification? Will he still define the terms of this dance? -- but then the coat comes off and she begins an exploration of movement, extension -- "This is a picture of you leaning back" -- it becomes her dance -- and she gives a solo performance of such strength.
Another dancer. "This is a picture of you, falling. Knees, hip, hands, elbows, head. This is how you collapse. This is the sound of your heart hitting the floor." A kinetic, impossibly flexible performer abstracts and -- yes, again -- elaborates and iterates -- the phases of falling, through some kind of half-narrated dreamlike repetition, like trauma, relived and distorted -- the noise of traffic, metallic crunch, door slam -- I really felt, watching nothing but this solo dancer's body jolt on a bare stage, that his body might fly into pieces. It was terrifying.
Later there is a room, a relationship, a pas de deux of striking equality of power and movement, seeming (to me at least) largely cleansed of the gendered tics of dance roles -- "they danced each other," said J., and I thought that was perfect.
The second piece, "The Other You", is a mirrored work for two male dancers -- uncanny, comic, destabilizing. J. thought it was about depression and I thought it was about power.
To be honest I am not much affected, beyond a kind of abstract regret, by the fire at Notre Dame. Until I went back just now and looked through my photo album, I wasn't even sure if we'd visited the place on the school trip to Paris I took in the late 1980s (it would seem we did). I would much more regret the loss of the Musee D'Orsay or the Centre de Pompidou both of which I recall far more vividly from the trip.
I asked on Discord what I should blog about this week, and the suggestion that came back way my cats.
Okay, I can talk about them pretty much endlessly!
… crap, what do I say?
If you’ve missed it, T. and I have three cats.
The slightly-older two are white-and-grey fluffbucket Norwegian Forest Cat mutts. They are loud, they are affectionate, demanding, and they chew on everything. Furniture. Firewood. They commonly eat their way out of cardboard boxes. Sharp teeth! Oli (Oligarchy) is a bit bigger, longer-furred in the “ruff” and “pantaloons”, more likely to be demanding in the food department. He sleeps on my feet at the beginning of the night and usually by my shoulder when he thinks I ought to be getting up.
Theo (Theocracy) is a little quieter than his brother but not by a lot. Of the three, he’s least likely to eat people food, but really, really likes plants. He’s the one that ate seedlings down to the dirt two years ago and ate the tips off of asparagus. (Oli just eats bread. Tunnels into the loaf). Theo likes to burrow and any pile of clothes or rags or well, anything is immediately his.
We got the boys about a month after our elder kitty Drake died. I was not dealing well without a cat in the house.
(Note to self: Just because your diabetic cat needs to be fed at 4 a.m. is no reason to encourage this behavior in new kittens. )
After looking everywhere for brother-cats (and having the Humane Society try to sell me two black kittens who had been sharing a cage but were unrelated), we found them on Craigslist, from a place just a few miles away from our house.
Merit (Meritocracy) came along a year after the boys. She was one of a litter of three, presumably from our neighbor’s barn cat, and the shyest of them at the beginning. We don’t know what happened to her more friendly siblings but I tell myself they ended up in a nice home.
Merit started spending more time around our yard as she got bigger, hunting in our hedgerow and sleeping in piles of leaves (and in the doghouse, but I don’t think she liked that because it had no back door). I knew I was keeping her when I found myself cooking meat scraps before I put them out in the compost bin (Yes, I know cats can handle raw chicken, but it bugged me). Then she got her own bowl and kibble, and knew she was going to be ours.
T. spent a lot of time convincing her that he was okay, moving closer and closer. Of the two of us, he has patience. I have… lots of things that are definitely not patiences. She would sit on the boulders in the hedgerow and shout at him (such a loud miaw): Put the food down and back away slowly. Naow.
As the weather got colder, she started suggesting maybe she could come live in the warmer place with the roof where we lived. And maybe some more food?
Eventually we managed to get her into a cat carrier, took her to the vets, and left her there for three days (vaccinations, spaying, checkup, etc.).
The vets love Merit. She’s shiny (short-haired black cat, nothing but shine), she’s well-behaved, and she’s friendly. “You’d never know she was feral!”
(Especially when she sleeps on me at night.)
Sometimes she still likes to pretend, though, shying away from people and running around like a madwoman. Madcat.
The cutest/weird thing about Merit is her eyesight. Or, um, slight deficiency thereof. I mean, as far as I’ve ever been able to discover, cats do not have great very-close vision to start with – but Merit has notably more trouble with things close-up than our other cats have.
She’s fine with things that are moving (caught a bird out of mid-air), seems to know Husband and I vs. strangers when we’re nearish, and can navigate the house with no problem; she knows “black” as a color because she is black and she prefers sleeping on things that are black, and is 90% absolutely fine with the world.
But her food just confuses her.
If we put her food in a bowl she doesn’t like getting her face down and covered. If we put it on a plate that’s dark, she has trouble finding it. She needs high contrast and no obstruction.
So I went to the Re-Use store and found her a melmanie (has to survive Oli throwing it on the floor) mostly white Holly Hobby plate with a lip (so she can chase her food around the plate)
This pleases me more than I can explain, because my childhood quilt, the one my mom and grandma and aunt made for me when my parents were building our house – I was 5 – has Holly Hobby prints on it, so it’s like my childhood coming home to my kitty.
Also, now Merit can find her food, so that (plus sometimes heating it up when she’s feeling fussy) means there’s a much greater chance she’ll eat it.
Unless we’re having turkey.
Then the only thing that Merit will eat, ever, forever and ever, is turkey.
Speaking of, I walked into my bedroom this morning to find said pile of fluffy tubers rolling himself up in the rug. When he saw me, he unrolled and skittered away.
When I walked back in a few minutes later, he was rolling himself up in the rug again, and the other two cats were sitting nearby, watching.
I sorta stepped around them and over him and got my sweater and went to work. I have no idea what that madness is about and I want nothing to do with it.
Jareth, in the meantime, will leap up on the dining room, stuff his paws in your bowl of ramen and KNEEEEEAD the noodles if you leave it unattended for longer than 10 seconds. Squish. Squish. Prrr.
But he's been my writing bro of late, and a devoted laundry support bro, as well as being a pen-stealing stoner jerk that demands belly rubs at the most inconvenient times, so I can't trash talk him too hard. ...Dude, please stop gnawing on my laptop. Thanks.
My cat, however, is a precious murder baby who never does anything wrong and always falls off the cat tree 100% on purpose.
three sister trees upon a hill each the same in height turn to leaf, and leaf to red and gold offset: three times in one each showing different sums of sun upon the spot the space they own in height above the hill
they seem to hold the season stretched between them
moem's comment to the post I wrote yesterday got me thinking. After asking how something is pronounced, it went "I'm worried that you will only be able to reply in those characters that I can't read, the ones that indicate how words sound... I don't even know what they are called."
I wanted to reply not just to explain the pronunciation but to answer the question of what those characters are called, and maybe give a little basic info. So I googled "International Phonetic Alphabet" and...I was surprised not to find anything useful. Everything seems to be just the charts, with at most a little history but I don't expect anyone cares what year the IPA was invented or whose idea it was. And the charts aren't much use if you don't know how to read them.
I find it really frustrating that I was exposed for years in high school to, say, the periodic table -- I had to memorize the first twenty elements, I can recognize a bunch of the symbols still, I know the chart's organization tells you stuff about electron shells and similarities between elements' properties, I knew what atomic number and atomic weight are -- and, no shade but...I can't recall it having been useful to me since. Whereas I long for a wider knowledge of the IPA every time people talk about accents, or about unfamiliar words, or even how unfamiliar a familiar word can sound sometimes.
I can imagine a high-school level linguistics knowledge, but it doesn't really exist. There's this frustrating gap: practically nothing's out there between the level of (often uninformed and bigoted) rants about personal langauge peeves and undergrad-level linguistics. Sure there are some cool podcasts and twitter accounts and stuff (that's how I ended up inspired to do a lingulistics degree, after all!) but I think there's a lot of potential for more interested-layperson level stuff, and I thought a good place to start might be by talking about how to read the IPA chart. I promise it's way easier than a periodic table.
Reading:The Glass Bead Game by Hermann Hesse. I genuinely have no idea why this is on my to read pile. Someone must have recommended it but I'm struggling think in relation to what. Its kind of interesting but doesn't seem like the sort of thing I would particularly seek out - and it very much feels like an SF-reaction to Germany in 1943 (though weirdly by way of blaming the Romantic movement for everything - though, I suppose, Wagner). I don't particularly dislike it, but I'm not sure I particularly see the point it is trying to make, and it is obviously trying to make a point.
Listening: I got name-checked in the Verity Podcast (by way of making a suggestion on Twitter). It was very exciting.
Watching: A random Netflix trawl netted us R.I.P.D last night. We read the description (Undead Cops police the Undead) were, as a result, surprisingly impressed by the cast list: Kevin Bacon, Ryan Reynolds, Jeff Bridges and concluded that it might be a bit like Tremors on the strength of which supposition we agreed to give it 10 minutes. It opened with a distinctly dodgy CGI special effect and proceeded to be considerably more serious than Tremors for the next 10 minutes and we were starting to debate whether to stick with it but then Jeff Bridges turned up, the whole thing planted its tongue firmly in its cheek and off it went. I guess its sort of Tremors meets Ghostbusters and you need to be in the mood for that kind of thing, but if you are then it does more or less what it says on the tin.
My LJ was created 4 November 2007. While it makes me a little sad to think of all the ex-friends, lost communities, etc over the years, I'm grateful for that time and for the current friends and communities there, and at DW which wouldn't exist without LJ. I'm currently in three landcomms after not having any for some time and I love them and the interaction and push to create I get from them. I love the bingo comms. I love the personal stories shared. I love having somewhere that's less public than tumblr and twitter to share my own stories, fictional and personal alike.
Signed a lease on a new apartment, to be moved into this August. The building in question is rather less... um ragged around the edges, not that there's anything truly wrong with my current one except the wonky street door lock (it spins within its housing). By the sound of it, there'll be fewer ganja-smoking college dudebros stomping around the new place, which is a definite positive. New apartment is bigger than current one, and with somewhat more storage space. I may have room for a few important things I haven't yet had places for since moving to the city. New rent is more than current rent, but manageable.
... Wow, this is bittersweet. I truly do like Newbury Place, creepy dudebro neighbors and their pot fumes notwithstanding. My landladies are complete sweethearts, and I suspect we'll be friendly long after I've moved out. I've already been told not to be a stranger. :)
... Ow. Dang. This smarts. It's probably a good move, but it still smarts.