a ffanciful interlude
i am: extremely tired
listening to: something dramatic on the tv in the other room
drinking: iced tea
i've spent so much time with the herbal i'm presently working on today that i can barely see straight. before i arrived at this state though, i typed up an excerpt from jasper fforde's the eyre affair to share with janeeyre017 in email, but decided to post here instead for several reasons, of which i will spare the details. disclaimer: the following scene doesn't have anything to do with jane eyre, because i didn't want to share anything spoilerish.
(Mycroft) opened the large brass-reinforced book to reveal a cavity into which he placed a large-print copy of Wordsworth's poem "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud." To this he added the bookworms, who busily got to work. They slithered over the text, their small bodies and unfathomable collective id unconsciously examining every sentence, word, vowel sound and syllable. ... Lakes! Daffodils! Solitude! Memory! whispered the worms excitedly as Mycroft carefully closed the book and locked it.
"Would you care to have the honor?" he asked. "The first human being to step inside a Wordsworth poem?"
Polly looked at him uneasily.
"Are you sure it's safe?"
"As safe as houses," he assured her. "I went into 'The Wreck of the Hesperus' an hour ago."
...
"What was it you wanted me to do?"
"Just stand here. If all goes well, as soon as I press this large green button the worms will open a door to the daffodils that William Wordsworth knew and loved."
"And if all doesn't go well?" asked Polly slightly nervously.
"Hmm," said Mycroft thoughtfully, "it is possible although highly unlikely that I could start a chain reaction that will fuse matter and annihilate the known universe."
"Really?"
"No, not really at all. My little joke. Are you ready?"
On the other side of the Prose Portal, Polly stood on the grassy bank of a large lake where the water gently lapped against the shore. The sun was shining brightly and small puffy clouds floated lazily across the azure sky. Along the edges of the bay she could see thousands upon thousands of vibrant yellow daffodils, all growing in the dappled shade of a birch grove. A breeze, carrying with it the fresh scent of spring, caused the flowers to flutter and dance. All about her a feeling of peace and tranquility ruled. The world she stood in now was unsullied by man's evil or malice. Here, indeed, was paradise.
"It's beautiful!" she said at last, her thoughts finally giving birth to her words. "The flowers, the colors, the scent - it's like breathing champagne!"
"You like it, madam?"
A man aged about eighty was facing her. He was dressed in a black cloak and wore a half-smile upon his weathered features. He gazed across at the flowers.
"I often come here," he said. "Whenever the doldrums of depression fall heavy on my countenance."
"You're very lucky," said Polly. "We have to rely on Name That Fruit!"
"Name That Fruit?"
"It's a quiz show. You know. On the telly."
"Telly?"
"Yes, it's like the movies but with commercials."
He frowned at her without comprehension and looked at the lake again.
"I often come here," he said again. "Whenever the doldrums of depression fall heavy on my countenance."
"You said that already."
The old man looked as though he were awakening from a deep sleep.
"What are you doing here?"
"My husband sent me. My name is Polly Next."
"I come here when in vacant or pensive mood, you know."
He waved a hand in the direction of the flowers.
"The daffodils, you understand."
Polly looked across at the bright yellow flowers, which rustled back at her in the warm breeze.
"I wish my memory was this good," she murmured.
The figure in black smiled at her.
"The inward eye is all I have left," he said wistfully, the smile leaving his stern features. "Everything that I once was is now here; my life is contained in my works. A life in volumes of words; it is poetic."
He sighed deeply and added:
"But solitude isn't always blissful, you know."
He stared into the middle distance, the sun sparkling on the waters of the lake.
"How long since I died?" he asked abruptly.
"Over a hundred and fifty years."
"Really? Tell me, how did the revolution in France turn out?"
"It's a little early to tell."
Wordsworth frowned as the sun went in.
"Hello," he muttered, "I don't remember writing that - "
Polly looked. A large and very dark rain cloud had blotted out the sun.
"What do you - ?" she began, but when she looked around Wordsworth had gone. The sky grew darker and thunder rumbled ominously in the distance. A strong wind sprang up and the lake seemed to freeze over and lose all depth as the daffodils stopped moving and became a solid mass of yellow and green. She cried out in fear as the sky and the lake met; the daffodils, trees and clouds returning to their place in the poem, individual words, sounds, squiggles on paper with no meanings other than those with which our own imagination can clothe them. She let out one last terrified scream as the darkness swept on and the poem closed on top of her.
today's reading: having finished the aforementioned title earlier today, i will start ella minnow pea by mark dunn, but probably not make much headway with it, tonight.
listening to: something dramatic on the tv in the other room
drinking: iced tea
i've spent so much time with the herbal i'm presently working on today that i can barely see straight. before i arrived at this state though, i typed up an excerpt from jasper fforde's the eyre affair to share with janeeyre017 in email, but decided to post here instead for several reasons, of which i will spare the details. disclaimer: the following scene doesn't have anything to do with jane eyre, because i didn't want to share anything spoilerish.
(Mycroft) opened the large brass-reinforced book to reveal a cavity into which he placed a large-print copy of Wordsworth's poem "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud." To this he added the bookworms, who busily got to work. They slithered over the text, their small bodies and unfathomable collective id unconsciously examining every sentence, word, vowel sound and syllable. ... Lakes! Daffodils! Solitude! Memory! whispered the worms excitedly as Mycroft carefully closed the book and locked it.
"Would you care to have the honor?" he asked. "The first human being to step inside a Wordsworth poem?"
Polly looked at him uneasily.
"Are you sure it's safe?"
"As safe as houses," he assured her. "I went into 'The Wreck of the Hesperus' an hour ago."
...
"What was it you wanted me to do?"
"Just stand here. If all goes well, as soon as I press this large green button the worms will open a door to the daffodils that William Wordsworth knew and loved."
"And if all doesn't go well?" asked Polly slightly nervously.
"Hmm," said Mycroft thoughtfully, "it is possible although highly unlikely that I could start a chain reaction that will fuse matter and annihilate the known universe."
"Really?"
"No, not really at all. My little joke. Are you ready?"
On the other side of the Prose Portal, Polly stood on the grassy bank of a large lake where the water gently lapped against the shore. The sun was shining brightly and small puffy clouds floated lazily across the azure sky. Along the edges of the bay she could see thousands upon thousands of vibrant yellow daffodils, all growing in the dappled shade of a birch grove. A breeze, carrying with it the fresh scent of spring, caused the flowers to flutter and dance. All about her a feeling of peace and tranquility ruled. The world she stood in now was unsullied by man's evil or malice. Here, indeed, was paradise.
"It's beautiful!" she said at last, her thoughts finally giving birth to her words. "The flowers, the colors, the scent - it's like breathing champagne!"
"You like it, madam?"
A man aged about eighty was facing her. He was dressed in a black cloak and wore a half-smile upon his weathered features. He gazed across at the flowers.
"I often come here," he said. "Whenever the doldrums of depression fall heavy on my countenance."
"You're very lucky," said Polly. "We have to rely on Name That Fruit!"
"Name That Fruit?"
"It's a quiz show. You know. On the telly."
"Telly?"
"Yes, it's like the movies but with commercials."
He frowned at her without comprehension and looked at the lake again.
"I often come here," he said again. "Whenever the doldrums of depression fall heavy on my countenance."
"You said that already."
The old man looked as though he were awakening from a deep sleep.
"What are you doing here?"
"My husband sent me. My name is Polly Next."
"I come here when in vacant or pensive mood, you know."
He waved a hand in the direction of the flowers.
"The daffodils, you understand."
Polly looked across at the bright yellow flowers, which rustled back at her in the warm breeze.
"I wish my memory was this good," she murmured.
The figure in black smiled at her.
"The inward eye is all I have left," he said wistfully, the smile leaving his stern features. "Everything that I once was is now here; my life is contained in my works. A life in volumes of words; it is poetic."
He sighed deeply and added:
"But solitude isn't always blissful, you know."
He stared into the middle distance, the sun sparkling on the waters of the lake.
"How long since I died?" he asked abruptly.
"Over a hundred and fifty years."
"Really? Tell me, how did the revolution in France turn out?"
"It's a little early to tell."
Wordsworth frowned as the sun went in.
"Hello," he muttered, "I don't remember writing that - "
Polly looked. A large and very dark rain cloud had blotted out the sun.
"What do you - ?" she began, but when she looked around Wordsworth had gone. The sky grew darker and thunder rumbled ominously in the distance. A strong wind sprang up and the lake seemed to freeze over and lose all depth as the daffodils stopped moving and became a solid mass of yellow and green. She cried out in fear as the sky and the lake met; the daffodils, trees and clouds returning to their place in the poem, individual words, sounds, squiggles on paper with no meanings other than those with which our own imagination can clothe them. She let out one last terrified scream as the darkness swept on and the poem closed on top of her.
today's reading: having finished the aforementioned title earlier today, i will start ella minnow pea by mark dunn, but probably not make much headway with it, tonight.