"And now we rise, and we are everywhere."
I looked down from the balcony last night, and somebody was walking their little black-and-white cat on a lead across the estate. Going out there to smoke has the hazard now of stepping on slugs; that's two in a fortnight. Fortunately, both survived the encounter.(I actually am not grossed out by slugs; it'd be a different matter if I had a garden out there.)
I picked up my contributor's copy of Not One Of Us #52 from home on Monday. (It has my moss-charmer poem The Bryomancer in: end of plug.) I'm always delighted by the zine. This edition's no exception, with its cover of soft-lighted mushrooms. I'd like to give special mention to a few stories - asakiyume's charming Andy Phillips and the Jones Sisters, with its lazy fairy farmer and sisterly love. (It's the first time I've shared pages with her; hopefully not the last.) sovay's Like Milkweed is as powerful a piece of weird fiction as I've read recently. There is loss in it; butterfly-like beings that could be the returned dead or aliens or...wings like screens we project our hopes onto. Patricia Russo hasn't disappointed me since I first discovered her in this magazine. Her The Wild And Hungry Times is no exception. It's balanced somewhere between folktale and scholar's article; a world emerging from grey desolation, where a human's life might be shaped by dropping an object into a baby's palm. It's a story to make you ponder.
I have been fighting a cold most of this week (much liquorice tea has been had). Despite that I've been enjoying Skype-dating with gizmometer (if you're reading this, then hi <3). We've been reading favourite novels to each other; their choice was Lud-In-The-Mist (my copy vanished into the ether, if not the Debatable Lands, and they've made the Dapple run again for me). I've been reading Bradbury's The Halloween Tree to them. I re-read this every October, and though I'm not sure how well my voice suits the book I'm delighted to share this with a loved one.
Wednesday I went out with M and fade_2_black to see Rogue Play's dramatisation of Lorca's Blood Wedding. It's the first time I've seen theatre combined with dance and aerials, so I can't do this production justice - Fade could, as she does aerials herself. But, oh. Masks like silver crows descending on an embittered mother in black lace, later to turn witch under a twisting, bloodthirsty moon; a bride hanging in aerial silks; a quick knife-dance with the blade that should have only peeled apples; gorgeous! We went to Moseley afterwards to have a swift catch-up over strawberry beer; but they turned the music up, driving us out. I got to see some of Fade's pictures of her Iceland trip - sovay, Bjork has given her name to a moss-based liqueur! I need to know which off-licence to get this from - and we'll have a proper catch-up Sunday. Tomorrow night, I'll meet John H for beer. (It's the second time I've met him this week; but I don't suppose dream-drinks at the Orion Arms quite count. They were hawking old books in a back room. Pick up a volume, you were surprised by an unfinished-looking rag doll whose malevolence went as far as eating beetles. John himself I met by the stage. I'm pretty sure he was nonplussed by the trans* psych-folk band who were on; but I remember being mesmerised by the perfection of the flute-player's lipstick.)
And that's been my week, friends. How've you been?
I picked up my contributor's copy of Not One Of Us #52 from home on Monday. (It has my moss-charmer poem The Bryomancer in: end of plug.) I'm always delighted by the zine. This edition's no exception, with its cover of soft-lighted mushrooms. I'd like to give special mention to a few stories - asakiyume's charming Andy Phillips and the Jones Sisters, with its lazy fairy farmer and sisterly love. (It's the first time I've shared pages with her; hopefully not the last.) sovay's Like Milkweed is as powerful a piece of weird fiction as I've read recently. There is loss in it; butterfly-like beings that could be the returned dead or aliens or...wings like screens we project our hopes onto. Patricia Russo hasn't disappointed me since I first discovered her in this magazine. Her The Wild And Hungry Times is no exception. It's balanced somewhere between folktale and scholar's article; a world emerging from grey desolation, where a human's life might be shaped by dropping an object into a baby's palm. It's a story to make you ponder.
I have been fighting a cold most of this week (much liquorice tea has been had). Despite that I've been enjoying Skype-dating with gizmometer (if you're reading this, then hi <3). We've been reading favourite novels to each other; their choice was Lud-In-The-Mist (my copy vanished into the ether, if not the Debatable Lands, and they've made the Dapple run again for me). I've been reading Bradbury's The Halloween Tree to them. I re-read this every October, and though I'm not sure how well my voice suits the book I'm delighted to share this with a loved one.
Wednesday I went out with M and fade_2_black to see Rogue Play's dramatisation of Lorca's Blood Wedding. It's the first time I've seen theatre combined with dance and aerials, so I can't do this production justice - Fade could, as she does aerials herself. But, oh. Masks like silver crows descending on an embittered mother in black lace, later to turn witch under a twisting, bloodthirsty moon; a bride hanging in aerial silks; a quick knife-dance with the blade that should have only peeled apples; gorgeous! We went to Moseley afterwards to have a swift catch-up over strawberry beer; but they turned the music up, driving us out. I got to see some of Fade's pictures of her Iceland trip - sovay, Bjork has given her name to a moss-based liqueur! I need to know which off-licence to get this from - and we'll have a proper catch-up Sunday. Tomorrow night, I'll meet John H for beer. (It's the second time I've met him this week; but I don't suppose dream-drinks at the Orion Arms quite count. They were hawking old books in a back room. Pick up a volume, you were surprised by an unfinished-looking rag doll whose malevolence went as far as eating beetles. John himself I met by the stage. I'm pretty sure he was nonplussed by the trans* psych-folk band who were on; but I remember being mesmerised by the perfection of the flute-player's lipstick.)
And that's been my week, friends. How've you been?