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I need to go to Vancouver sometime and scout out the landscape.
Preferably after the Olympics.
Preferably after the Olympics.
Guerrilla agriculture, at home and abroad.
Jul. 8th, 2009 01:26 pmAnother article on delicious land reclamation for the purposes of sexy urban farming; this time, in Cleveland. I could not tell you why reading about projects of this type gives me such mad utopian joy, but there you go.
In other news, the beans were out of flower and growing themselves mightily when I checked on them this morning, and my first batch of small spicy death-radishes will be ready to go very soon. Perhaps pictures tonight, once I'm packed for Readercon.
In other news, the beans were out of flower and growing themselves mightily when I checked on them this morning, and my first batch of small spicy death-radishes will be ready to go very soon. Perhaps pictures tonight, once I'm packed for Readercon.
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time_shark informs that both Amazon and Barnes and Noble have Clockwork Phoenix 2 in stock, even though the official release date is July 1. This shiny book includes fiction from Claude Lalumiere, swan_tower, Ian McHugh, ann_leckie, maryrobinette, Saladin Ahmed, Tanith Lee, Joanna Galbraith, yuki_onna, experimeditor, handful_ofdust and Stephen J. Barringer, Kelly Barnhill, Barbara Krasnoff, and Steve Rasnic Tem, as well as my "Six", which you all may know as the story about gardening, roof-sheep, and the apocalypse.It got a really shiny review from Publishers Weekly. I think you should read it.
That is all.
Thing the first: I have partially reprised my ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
helpvera auction offer over at con_or_bust, where I have some professional-grade critiques on the block. If this is relevant to your interests (or you think someone else's) hop over and bid.
Thing the second: SHEEP!
Best. Sheepthing. Ever.
That is all.
helpvera auction offer over at con_or_bust, where I have some professional-grade critiques on the block. If this is relevant to your interests (or you think someone else's) hop over and bid.Thing the second: SHEEP!
Best. Sheepthing. Ever.
That is all.
One step closer to apocalypse preparedness
Feb. 6th, 2009 01:18 pmFrom today's National Post: Farms in the city win backing -- but not pigs in the city.
(And come on, could we not all write a tidier headline than that drunk with one arm tied behind our backs and typing with our noses?)
But anyways. Never mind that. This means despite their constant taking-away of my hypothetical awesome balcony chickens, check this out:
It's like they looked in my head under "Paradise."
*swoon*
(And come on, could we not all write a tidier headline than that drunk with one arm tied behind our backs and typing with our noses?)
But anyways. Never mind that. This means despite their constant taking-away of my hypothetical awesome balcony chickens, check this out:
Corn stalks growing along the Gardiner Expressway, tomato plants lining University Avenue, and chicken coops in thousands of backyards.
...
To nurture the brainstorming process for the city farm policy, due in the coming months, the city's parks and environment committee invited gardening activists to plant seeds of inspiration. A panel discussion produced suggestions ranging from turning more parks into community plots, edible landscaping and markets to sell off produce raised in leased-out backyard gardens.
...
Richard Butts, the deputy city manager, said untangling a nexus of zoning regulations that hamper the plowing-over of parking lots and bylaws that complicate rooftop gardens are expected to be a major part of getting Toronto growing.
It's like they looked in my head under "Paradise."
*swoon*
And a sale.
Dec. 15th, 2008 06:09 pmAnnouncements appear to be happening, so I will announce too:
"Six", which some of you will know as a story about gardening, roof-sheep, and the apocalypse, will appear in Clockwork Phoenix 2.
Since the other acceptances I've seen announced on the friendslist includeswan_tower and maryrobinette (ETA: and experimeditor, ann_leckie, and handful_ofdust), consider me composed of chuffed with a side of pleased and some yay! to go.
"Six", which some of you will know as a story about gardening, roof-sheep, and the apocalypse, will appear in Clockwork Phoenix 2.
Since the other acceptances I've seen announced on the friendslist include
swan_tower and maryrobinette (ETA: and experimeditor, ann_leckie, and handful_ofdust), consider me composed of chuffed with a side of pleased and some yay! to go.Outquisiting
Jul. 13th, 2008 12:49 pmCory Doctorow and Alex Steffen coin The Outquisition, an alternate notion of the apocalypse:
My first impression of this is that their catastrophic apocalypses clearly contain more power generation capacity and a stronger resource base than any of mine. Which is not to say people can't be nice at the apocalypse -- in fact, considering the nature of agriculture these days you'd sorta have to be nice, as you're not going to make it long-term in anything smaller than a small community -- but does this seem a bit pie-in-the-sky to anyone else?
Any ideas on making it practical?
I noticed that while there's a whole ton of stories -- and people who emulate them -- about heavily armed survivalists bravely holding off the twilight of civilization after the Big One, there are damned few stories about super-networked post-apocalyptic Peace Corps who respond to the Great Fall by figuring out how to put it all back together. I even came up with a name for it: the Outquisition; the opposite of the Inquisition -- missionaries who come to your town to remind you of how awesome it can all be, leave behind a bunch of rad, life-improving systems and tools, and generally get on with the business of being happy, well-fed and peaceful.
My first impression of this is that their catastrophic apocalypses clearly contain more power generation capacity and a stronger resource base than any of mine. Which is not to say people can't be nice at the apocalypse -- in fact, considering the nature of agriculture these days you'd sorta have to be nice, as you're not going to make it long-term in anything smaller than a small community -- but does this seem a bit pie-in-the-sky to anyone else?
Any ideas on making it practical?
May 31, 2008 Progress Notes:
"Roses My Colour, and White"
Words today: 600.
Words total: 1050.
Reason for stopping: I need to think. And to find out definitively what's north of Finch Station, on the track level.
Untitled Roof-Sheep Novel
Words today: 250.
Words total: 250.
Reason for stopping: Not! Supposed to be writing this! Dammit!
Liquid Refreshment: Evil Deathy Cold Tea.
Munchies: Sushi. With lots of wasabi.
Darling du Jour: The trains were dead all the way to the edge of the world: more dead trains than anyone could ever stuff with greens and fabric and necessaries. Enough dead trains to keep up a selling empire. And none of them, Angie saw, none of them were painted black.
Words Matthew Won't Admit to Knowing:
Mean Things: Familial fracture, past and present.
Research Roundup: TTC track-level photos, at which I failed tonight. Vancouver's susceptibility to hurricanes.
Books in progress: Mike Carey, Dead Men's Boots; textbooks.
The glamour: Sniffling, blowing noses, and coughing.
Yes, Jane, it will kill me to write a story that doesn't involve a subway tunnel somehow. :p
I was stuck on this for an hour, until I realized that what was pinging in my head was not in fact this story, but the story of its protagonist's parents -- the ones who walked across half the continent in the wake of an unspecified apocalypse and managed to get themselves an agricultural monopoly. Once I gave in and opened up a new file they told me all sorts of juicy things, which will be of use in the story that I am still writing, dammit.
Said file is apparently a novel. Like everything else is lately.
It can go in the pile with the rest of them.
Considering how many of its friends Above has sent over to my house to lure me away? I am keeping the next book locked up in the attic and not allowing it a social life. :p
"Roses My Colour, and White"
Words today: 600.
Words total: 1050.
Reason for stopping: I need to think. And to find out definitively what's north of Finch Station, on the track level.
Untitled Roof-Sheep Novel
Words today: 250.
Words total: 250.
Reason for stopping: Not! Supposed to be writing this! Dammit!
Liquid Refreshment: Evil Deathy Cold Tea.
Munchies: Sushi. With lots of wasabi.
Darling du Jour: The trains were dead all the way to the edge of the world: more dead trains than anyone could ever stuff with greens and fabric and necessaries. Enough dead trains to keep up a selling empire. And none of them, Angie saw, none of them were painted black.
Mean Things: Familial fracture, past and present.
Research Roundup: TTC track-level photos, at which I failed tonight. Vancouver's susceptibility to hurricanes.
Books in progress: Mike Carey, Dead Men's Boots; textbooks.
The glamour: Sniffling, blowing noses, and coughing.
Yes, Jane, it will kill me to write a story that doesn't involve a subway tunnel somehow. :p
I was stuck on this for an hour, until I realized that what was pinging in my head was not in fact this story, but the story of its protagonist's parents -- the ones who walked across half the continent in the wake of an unspecified apocalypse and managed to get themselves an agricultural monopoly. Once I gave in and opened up a new file they told me all sorts of juicy things, which will be of use in the story that I am still writing, dammit.
Said file is apparently a novel. Like everything else is lately.
It can go in the pile with the rest of them.
Considering how many of its friends Above has sent over to my house to lure me away? I am keeping the next book locked up in the attic and not allowing it a social life. :p
Thud: Short Story, Garden
Apr. 25th, 2008 01:53 amApril 24, 2008 Progress Notes:
"Roses My Colour, and White"
Words today: 300.
Words total: 450.
Reason for stopping: That took hours, and it's 2am.
Liquid Refreshment: Water.
Munchies: A yellow mango. Yellow mangoes are one of the better things on earth.
Darling du Jour: Aunt Jenny hadn't known anyone when she left her own kin for Uncle Aristophanes, thirty years her senior and living most nights with the Scholars because Father couldn't abide his bookish ways. The wedding lasted three full days at midsummer: one at the homestead, one at the lakeshore where her kin had their great flywheel train, the last at the heart of the Scholars' District in their road-round courtyard stuffed with gardens.
Words Matthew Won't Admit to Knowing:
Mean Things: Familial fracture, past and present.
Research Roundup: Chinese women's names, electric trains, flywheel energy storage, University of Toronto botany facilities. It should now become evident why those 300 words took hours. :p
Books in progress: China Mieville, Un Lun Dun.
The glamour: Seed-starting, kitchen-cleaning, baking, cooking, tidying up, and the payment of what should be my last tuition to this school of mine.
katallen said something this afternoon, when we were discussing the apocalypse stuff two posts down, that cracked this story wide open for me. The conversation later digressed into which academics would get eaten and which would live once the apocalypse came down (final score: archaeologists, engineers, and anyone in life sciences probably lives. Liberal arts scholars are by and large dinner). Hopefully over the next few days I will have the time and brain to get the thing down to paper.
Did some garden work today: there are peas, green beans, spinach, lettuce, cucumber, and strawberry seeds started in my little cheap plastic seed starter. Next step: hose down the balcony and set up the big tubs and buckets of dirt outdoors. Survivalist updates will be provided as they occur.
Now, having said I wouldn't talk much, I will cease to spam LJ for today and go to bed. :p
"Roses My Colour, and White"
Words today: 300.
Words total: 450.
Reason for stopping: That took hours, and it's 2am.
Liquid Refreshment: Water.
Munchies: A yellow mango. Yellow mangoes are one of the better things on earth.
Darling du Jour: Aunt Jenny hadn't known anyone when she left her own kin for Uncle Aristophanes, thirty years her senior and living most nights with the Scholars because Father couldn't abide his bookish ways. The wedding lasted three full days at midsummer: one at the homestead, one at the lakeshore where her kin had their great flywheel train, the last at the heart of the Scholars' District in their road-round courtyard stuffed with gardens.
Mean Things: Familial fracture, past and present.
Research Roundup: Chinese women's names, electric trains, flywheel energy storage, University of Toronto botany facilities. It should now become evident why those 300 words took hours. :p
Books in progress: China Mieville, Un Lun Dun.
The glamour: Seed-starting, kitchen-cleaning, baking, cooking, tidying up, and the payment of what should be my last tuition to this school of mine.
katallen said something this afternoon, when we were discussing the apocalypse stuff two posts down, that cracked this story wide open for me. The conversation later digressed into which academics would get eaten and which would live once the apocalypse came down (final score: archaeologists, engineers, and anyone in life sciences probably lives. Liberal arts scholars are by and large dinner). Hopefully over the next few days I will have the time and brain to get the thing down to paper.Did some garden work today: there are peas, green beans, spinach, lettuce, cucumber, and strawberry seeds started in my little cheap plastic seed starter. Next step: hose down the balcony and set up the big tubs and buckets of dirt outdoors. Survivalist updates will be provided as they occur.
Now, having said I wouldn't talk much, I will cease to spam LJ for today and go to bed. :p
It is probably apparent to long-term readers of this journal that I am a little apocalypse-junkie survivalist. This probably started from reading too many second-world fantasy novels -- if you're the girl from another world there will likely not be a dispossessed royal who'll set you up with a solid standard of living, so best learn to garden and develop that language faculty -- but it's really about the apocalypse these days. I devote a good chunk of my time to acquiring apocalypse-ready skills. We bake here at the Casa. We are vegetable-gardening. We know how to knit and hand-sew clothing, and we focus on skills, not stuff. People can bash in your head and take your stuff. Your skills require you whole and fed.
So I have a mixed reaction to stuff like this. On one hand, I am going to be entering the job market during what's shaping up to be the next Great Depression. A great deal of my employable skills are in the arts and tertiary/quaternary industry (depending on how you read the Three-Sector Hypothesis). Economic downturns provide the most stability to primary industry. Read: I have been entertaining the hypothesis that I'm so fucked right now.
On the other hand?
When the apocalypse shows, I'm gonna have fresh sourdough. *g*
(In other news: no, didn't blog this week. I had two finals to write this week and a whole pile of bullshit to shovel over the weekend that's left me fairly triggery. When I figure out how to get entirely untriggery, I will talk more.)
So I have a mixed reaction to stuff like this. On one hand, I am going to be entering the job market during what's shaping up to be the next Great Depression. A great deal of my employable skills are in the arts and tertiary/quaternary industry (depending on how you read the Three-Sector Hypothesis). Economic downturns provide the most stability to primary industry. Read: I have been entertaining the hypothesis that I'm so fucked right now.
On the other hand?
When the apocalypse shows, I'm gonna have fresh sourdough. *g*
(In other news: no, didn't blog this week. I had two finals to write this week and a whole pile of bullshit to shovel over the weekend that's left me fairly triggery. When I figure out how to get entirely untriggery, I will talk more.)
Thud: Short Story, Sheeps!
Apr. 9th, 2008 01:32 amApril 8, 2008 Progress Notes:
"Roses My Colour, and White" (working title)
Words today: 150.
Words total: 150. Just laying the foundation.
Reason for stopping: Have an exam tomorrow morning and must to bed.
Liquid Refreshment: Water.
Munchies: Nachos.
Darling du Jour: "I'll gut you with it if you touch," she whispered to her big sister Lucinda before shutting the wire hanger away, and so Lucinda didn't touch or tell. Luci was bigger, but Angie had Grandmama's bright green eyes, and Grandmama's mad-dog anger made them brighter when she was crossed. The rose hung in the closet until it tightened, petals pulling in and leaves rustle-dry. Angie crept inside with it at night, half-shut the door. She turned her face up to the spinning, dangling petals and shut her eyes.
If she imagined hard when she breathed in, she breathed roses.
Words Matthew Won't Admit to Knowing:
Mean Things: Lack of privacy. No more roses.
Research Roundup: Canadian rose varieties, Toronto botanical gardens, rose-drying, links between early menarche and nutrition.
Books in progress: Nick Sagan, Everfree.
The glamour: Did a bunch of spring cleaning today: laundry, kitchen-scrubby, a massive haul of the cardboard recycle out to the bins.
Angeline is Six and Joe's older sister. She might have been someone in the city where Bell, Book, and Candle live, but the urge to write more apocalypse gardening stories in the city where the roof sheeps are won out.
She has the last rose in the world.
I suppose this means this setting needs a tag. Which cannot actually be "roof-sheeps!". :p
(For years after, pinch-faced and bereft of roses, they did not put the place on maps.)
"Roses My Colour, and White" (working title)
Words today: 150.
Words total: 150. Just laying the foundation.
Reason for stopping: Have an exam tomorrow morning and must to bed.
Liquid Refreshment: Water.
Munchies: Nachos.
Darling du Jour: "I'll gut you with it if you touch," she whispered to her big sister Lucinda before shutting the wire hanger away, and so Lucinda didn't touch or tell. Luci was bigger, but Angie had Grandmama's bright green eyes, and Grandmama's mad-dog anger made them brighter when she was crossed. The rose hung in the closet until it tightened, petals pulling in and leaves rustle-dry. Angie crept inside with it at night, half-shut the door. She turned her face up to the spinning, dangling petals and shut her eyes.
If she imagined hard when she breathed in, she breathed roses.
Mean Things: Lack of privacy. No more roses.
Research Roundup: Canadian rose varieties, Toronto botanical gardens, rose-drying, links between early menarche and nutrition.
Books in progress: Nick Sagan, Everfree.
The glamour: Did a bunch of spring cleaning today: laundry, kitchen-scrubby, a massive haul of the cardboard recycle out to the bins.
Angeline is Six and Joe's older sister. She might have been someone in the city where Bell, Book, and Candle live, but the urge to write more apocalypse gardening stories in the city where the roof sheeps are won out.
She has the last rose in the world.
I suppose this means this setting needs a tag. Which cannot actually be "roof-sheeps!". :p
(For years after, pinch-faced and bereft of roses, they did not put the place on maps.)
I never have to think about Phonology of L2 Accent or Poetry 1900-1960 ever again. I handed in the term paper for one and wrote the exam for the other yesterday. And then I got some sushi, ate it, and slept in this morning, and I am feeling an appropriate degree of lightness for the removal of two courses from my shoulders.
(No, I still don't have the e-mail which is supposed to tell me what's on the exam I'm to write tomorrow morning. Nobody in the class does, I think. But I could drive myself mad about that or...I could not.)
The balcony door has been open all afternoon, and the apartment is not yet cold. Also, the sun is shining, and all my avocado plants seem to know the season's turned. They're sprouting like crazy, as is the teeny money tree and the sage. And I woke up with a first line in my head: "For years after, (something four beats long)*, they did not put the place on maps." The post-apocalyptic city of "Six" has been eating my head since I subbed that story, to the point where I was reluctant to let it go, and I dreamed about it last night. Y'know, in case I didn't get the memo that the place wanted another story or three.
Specifically, running through the ruined garment district with China Mieville, since he had made himself a meta-author insert character and people were mad at him about it. We went to the bookstore. It was untouched and clean. Nobody loots books after the apocalypse, apparently, but also because books have their own magic and are self-protecting. We turned on the back light and ran our hands over the spines on the shelves, and I started thinking how I might live there in all the quiet ruined beauty of an abandoned Queen West. And for years after, weary with matters of chickens and salt, they did not put the place on maps.**
*Yes, I construct my sentences on the most fundamental level based on rhythm.
**That is not the right four beats.
(No, I still don't have the e-mail which is supposed to tell me what's on the exam I'm to write tomorrow morning. Nobody in the class does, I think. But I could drive myself mad about that or...I could not.)
The balcony door has been open all afternoon, and the apartment is not yet cold. Also, the sun is shining, and all my avocado plants seem to know the season's turned. They're sprouting like crazy, as is the teeny money tree and the sage. And I woke up with a first line in my head: "For years after, (something four beats long)*, they did not put the place on maps." The post-apocalyptic city of "Six" has been eating my head since I subbed that story, to the point where I was reluctant to let it go, and I dreamed about it last night. Y'know, in case I didn't get the memo that the place wanted another story or three.
Specifically, running through the ruined garment district with China Mieville, since he had made himself a meta-author insert character and people were mad at him about it. We went to the bookstore. It was untouched and clean. Nobody loots books after the apocalypse, apparently, but also because books have their own magic and are self-protecting. We turned on the back light and ran our hands over the spines on the shelves, and I started thinking how I might live there in all the quiet ruined beauty of an abandoned Queen West. And for years after, weary with matters of chickens and salt, they did not put the place on maps.**
*Yes, I construct my sentences on the most fundamental level based on rhythm.
**That is not the right four beats.
Thud: Short Story
Mar. 26th, 2008 10:30 pmMarch 26, 2008 Progress Notes:
"Six" (working title)
Words today: 3000.
Words total: 3450.
Reason for stopping: Draft. *collapses*
Liquid Refreshment: Water.
Munchies: Pasta with basil marinara sauce, oranges.
Darling du Jour: Their robes rustle like pigeon wings, like the wind going through the tall pasture, and their hands are clean-nailed but rough as any farmsman's. Their walls are covered, lined, padded with books and books and books. Their eyes are dark. Their eyes are dark as stars, and the smell of their hands and books and eyes is burnt cinnamon toast and the devil.
Words Matthew Won't Admit to Knowing:
Mean Things: Alchemists: Threat or Menace? Understanding why you've been thrashing for attention and everyone's been all uptight for ages. Making the hard choice.
Research Roundup: Converted subway cars; green roof weight limitations; seventh son of seventh son mythology.
Books in progress: Textbooks.
The glamour: I spent the last seven hours doing this, mostly because I'm waiting for that Inferno essay assignment to come through e-mail like the professor promised it would this morning (since he just assigned it today)before he sulked about my not coming to class this same morning and practically shut the door on me. I'm...yeah. If it doesn't show up and it's still due on Wednesday next? There are going to be words.
Oof.
This is a crappy crap crap first draft indeed and I had to squeeze it out of my brain like a lemon and corner it repeatedly to get it to go. But at least that's one thing off my giant to do list.
I'm gonna go turn off my brain and look at some cats.
"Six" (working title)
Words today: 3000.
Words total: 3450.
Reason for stopping: Draft. *collapses*
Liquid Refreshment: Water.
Munchies: Pasta with basil marinara sauce, oranges.
Darling du Jour: Their robes rustle like pigeon wings, like the wind going through the tall pasture, and their hands are clean-nailed but rough as any farmsman's. Their walls are covered, lined, padded with books and books and books. Their eyes are dark. Their eyes are dark as stars, and the smell of their hands and books and eyes is burnt cinnamon toast and the devil.
Mean Things: Alchemists: Threat or Menace? Understanding why you've been thrashing for attention and everyone's been all uptight for ages. Making the hard choice.
Research Roundup: Converted subway cars; green roof weight limitations; seventh son of seventh son mythology.
Books in progress: Textbooks.
The glamour: I spent the last seven hours doing this, mostly because I'm waiting for that Inferno essay assignment to come through e-mail like the professor promised it would this morning (since he just assigned it today)before he sulked about my not coming to class this same morning and practically shut the door on me. I'm...yeah. If it doesn't show up and it's still due on Wednesday next? There are going to be words.
Oof.
This is a crappy crap crap first draft indeed and I had to squeeze it out of my brain like a lemon and corner it repeatedly to get it to go. But at least that's one thing off my giant to do list.
I'm gonna go turn off my brain and look at some cats.
We scoff at critical interpretation.
Mar. 26th, 2008 03:55 pmcristalia: (Okay, the alchemist library-salvage dudes can have a subway train too.)cristalia: (I still don't know where that puts me.)matociquala: heematociquala: "An ongoing theme in Bobet's work is the miraculous subway train, which symbolizes the providential workings of the human creative unconscious--"stillsostrange: "And sometimes makes characters go splat."matociquala: well, that's what happens when you get in front of the creative unconscious.cristalia: "In Bobet's autobiography, Eaten By Bears, she characterized the symbol of the subway train as evidence of her thinking subway tunnels are really fuckin' sweet."matociquala: LOLmatociquala: Well surematociquala: I'm pretty sure that's what all teh fucking flowers in DH Lawrence are about, too.matociquala: He liked flowers.cristalia: I'm so blogging this. *g*(I still don't have any damn plot. :p )
March 25, 2008 Progress Notes:
"Six" (working title)
Words today: 450.
Words total: 450.
Reason for stopping: Need this to cook, and I need to get to bed.
Liquid Refreshment: Water.
Munchies: Lemon meringue pie. Mmm, pie.
Darling du Jour: "Saturday's child has far to go," Six's father says under his fat moustache, and Six hates him. Father is the agribaron of the whole central district. Everyone in central knows him; he has three whole cars on the Moving Market staffed by Six and Joe's big sisters, and on Sunday market the papermen and water-sellers and the three rich owners of Hydro tip their hats at his clan through the windows.
Words Matthew Won't Admit to Knowing:
Mean Things: Envy. Getting ratted out.
Research Roundup: The Redpath sugar plant down by the lake; refining beet sugar; the number seven in folklore; clove cigarettes (I had to ask: I've never smelled one); etymology of "bad seed".
Best research bit tonight? "The sugar-refining industry often uses bone-char (calcinated animal bones) for decolorizing." Sugar is of death!
Books in progress: textbooks.
The glamour: I finished my paper with an hour to spare this afternoon and handed it in, despite it pissing fat snowflakes outside. I now know more than I ever cared to about the treatment quality available to women patients under the Galenic and iatromechanical models of the body. Tonight was declared Shore Leave. Two papers left to write before I am released from this semester into sweet, sweet freedom.
I apparently have two preoccupations this winter: the apocalypse and gardening. Look for apocalypse, gardening, and/or apocalypse gardening stories in fine fiction outlets near you once I can actually get some more done instead of starting fifteen million of them and letting them sit.
That's all. It's really been all Glamour this week. In three weeks (and two papers) I will be entertaining again, I promise.
"Six" (working title)
Words today: 450.
Words total: 450.
Reason for stopping: Need this to cook, and I need to get to bed.
Liquid Refreshment: Water.
Munchies: Lemon meringue pie. Mmm, pie.
Darling du Jour: "Saturday's child has far to go," Six's father says under his fat moustache, and Six hates him. Father is the agribaron of the whole central district. Everyone in central knows him; he has three whole cars on the Moving Market staffed by Six and Joe's big sisters, and on Sunday market the papermen and water-sellers and the three rich owners of Hydro tip their hats at his clan through the windows.
Mean Things: Envy. Getting ratted out.
Research Roundup: The Redpath sugar plant down by the lake; refining beet sugar; the number seven in folklore; clove cigarettes (I had to ask: I've never smelled one); etymology of "bad seed".
Best research bit tonight? "The sugar-refining industry often uses bone-char (calcinated animal bones) for decolorizing." Sugar is of death!
Books in progress: textbooks.
The glamour: I finished my paper with an hour to spare this afternoon and handed it in, despite it pissing fat snowflakes outside. I now know more than I ever cared to about the treatment quality available to women patients under the Galenic and iatromechanical models of the body. Tonight was declared Shore Leave. Two papers left to write before I am released from this semester into sweet, sweet freedom.
I apparently have two preoccupations this winter: the apocalypse and gardening. Look for apocalypse, gardening, and/or apocalypse gardening stories in fine fiction outlets near you once I can actually get some more done instead of starting fifteen million of them and letting them sit.
That's all. It's really been all Glamour this week. In three weeks (and two papers) I will be entertaining again, I promise.
