"Better that both fellowship and trees stand."
I listened to a TED talk on R4 an hour back featuring - what do we call this, surely not the music of the spheres? - a few minutes on the radio waves generated by planets and stars. Jupiter sounded like the scratches in a well-loved record. I wish I was a sculptor; I suddenly had an idea for an orrery, each little world with a recording of its "song".
I've just started Alan Garner's autobiographical/essay collection, The Voice That Thunders: one of many books cybermule lent me yesterday. Among the heap is a biography of the engraver and ornithologist Thomas Bewick and Ronald Hutton's study of pagan Britain. If I complain I'm bored over the next few weeks, feel free to mock me. There is a lovely oak on the common near her house, all hollowed and blackened by fire; the crows were coming into roost as we walked there, and the contrails had turned dark as grapes in the sunset; "old man's beard" seemed to thread every hedge: a West Country kudzu.
I saw John H last night after a quick curry with M and we talked a fair bit about Machen; I'd been rereading some AM over the last few days. (I had been pondering also restarting A Flute In The Factories, in the absence of new writing projects. There was a major stumbling block in that the story needs Pan in as a character with dialogue, and I couldn't for the life of me work out how to do it without it seeming shit. Until Thursday when I was waiting for the coach to Bristol and the solution just popped up. It's stunty but it could work.) We talked a lot about classic weird fic in general; and graphic novels; I discovered recently how many liberties the graphic House on The Borderland took with its source material and it enraged me. The night was brittle-cold when I walked back. November came and scattered sycamore keys all over the balcony.
I've just started Alan Garner's autobiographical/essay collection, The Voice That Thunders: one of many books cybermule lent me yesterday. Among the heap is a biography of the engraver and ornithologist Thomas Bewick and Ronald Hutton's study of pagan Britain. If I complain I'm bored over the next few weeks, feel free to mock me. There is a lovely oak on the common near her house, all hollowed and blackened by fire; the crows were coming into roost as we walked there, and the contrails had turned dark as grapes in the sunset; "old man's beard" seemed to thread every hedge: a West Country kudzu.
I saw John H last night after a quick curry with M and we talked a fair bit about Machen; I'd been rereading some AM over the last few days. (I had been pondering also restarting A Flute In The Factories, in the absence of new writing projects. There was a major stumbling block in that the story needs Pan in as a character with dialogue, and I couldn't for the life of me work out how to do it without it seeming shit. Until Thursday when I was waiting for the coach to Bristol and the solution just popped up. It's stunty but it could work.) We talked a lot about classic weird fic in general; and graphic novels; I discovered recently how many liberties the graphic House on The Borderland took with its source material and it enraged me. The night was brittle-cold when I walked back. November came and scattered sycamore keys all over the balcony.