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We went out as soon as the rain let up to collect whatever wisps and trails of cloud we could. I had feared there wouldn’t be anything; I thought maybe the cloud harvesters wouldn’t have bothered with this last storm—no glorious towering cumulonimbus pillars, no strange and silky mammatus undulations, just lowering nimbostratus clouds, heavy and thick.
But with a bolt of even the plainest cloth of cloud trading for hundreds of strings of gold, I needn’t have worried. The harvester ships’ reaper blades had cut the clouds from the sky, leaving it naked blue and scattering their leavings here below.
Nini and I filled our buckets with these muddy, dripping bits of cloud. They’re hard to wash and they’re tricky to spin by hand, but you can do it with practice, and it’s worth it. What’s spun can be woven, and the little ribbons and kerchiefs we make bring people swarming to our stall on market day. Genuine cloth of cloud. Ours doesn’t shimmer like the bolts from the Kings of Air cloudweaving mills—those looms can turn even the heaviest, gloomiest clouds into cloth that catches the light like rainbows, and what they do with rainbows will take your breath away. But even handspun, handwoven cloth of cloud has that unearthly feel.
“What did you do to your fingers?” Nini asked.
“Hmm?” I held up a hand. My fingers were bleeding. How did that happen? There are thistles and thorns growing round about, but I would have felt the prick. Sometimes there are broken bottles along the road, but I hadn’t mistaken a piece of glass for cloud. Some of the blood had gotten on the cloud in my bucket, too, damn it. In examining the bloodstained cloud I saw what had happened.
( Read more... )
I hear...: Smog: Rock Bottom Riser |
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You mustn't look straight ahead as you walk along this path, or when you arrive at the sun, you will be blind. Just glance to the side, or keep your eyes closed, or look down, and by the time you get there, your eyes will be strong enough to look at things directly.
I hear...: Banjoape: Restoration (Shape Note Hymn No. 312) |
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"Unrequited Frost" is a love story that knocked my socks off when I read it for the first time, some three years ago. I yearn for it each winter, but this year I discovered it was no longer available on the Internet. I asked the author about it, and she kindly posted it on her blog.
People who like love stories, fierceness, and winter should enjoy this story. And people who write stories about the love of a body of water for a woman will maybe also like it--![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) intertribal!
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Frost came in the form of a fox, and seeing all the naked things that would shiver in the cold, he breathed fur onto them, a thick white pelage.
He enfurred the candle...
He enfurred the stone... 
and he enfurred the stick...
Now they will not shiver!
The same, of course, is true of us. If he should manage to grant us that thick white coat, well, we'd be quite still too. Not shivering at all.
I hear...: Patrick Wolf: This Weather |
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What is the meaning of squid?
Why squid?
Dec. 1st, 2009 @ 10:10 am
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| » and in related news... |
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A very short story of mine, "May Spirit," is live over at Three Crow Press. People who've read this journal for a while may have seen a draft of it under a lock, once upon a time. I'd also point out that a fairly marvelous dark tale by Erin Cashier is up in the same issue--"Blood Reader." And Erin! you're someone whom I think would enjoy J. T. Glover's story "Waiting, Just Underneath" because, you know--tattoos :-)
Nov. 30th, 2009 @ 06:29 am
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| » Desertification |
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Very cool story by jtglover (and thanks to mr_earbrass for pointing it out!) about a parching... "Waiting, Just Underneath" in the zine Dark Recesses.
Mmmm.... Lake Baikal.
Nov. 30th, 2009 @ 01:14 am
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| » the wire-weird, a cliff, and a question |
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There is a tree that spits wire out at the world. Here is a picture:
Sometimes you can strike the ground and oil or water will spurt up. Who struck this tree and caused wires to spurt out?
Then there is the cliff by the Westfield River, a beautiful sight at all seasons, and with sunset light on it, especially so. Note: Filming while driving does not make for the best driving.
And a question: Why is it that at sunrise or sunset, when the sun is like a golden fish caught in a net of trees right at the horizon, that its rays touch only the tops of trees or mountains. Why don't its rays stretch out along the ground? Why does it need to rise for its rays to reach down to the bottoms of trees and into valleys?
Nov. 29th, 2009 @ 08:27 pm
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| » wild wind |
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Wonderful wind that makes the wires moan. I was walking under them--they were swaying and making ghostly sounds. In the white pines, the wind was hissing. In the bare trees, it was singing out waves and surf. It was flinging first one handful and then another of black birds into and across the sky--like pepper.
Nov. 28th, 2009 @ 09:47 am
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| » Pen Pal episodes, in chronological order |
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This entry gives all the episodes of Pen Pal in chronological order. For easy reference.
(c) Francesca Forrest!
Pen Pal 1 (M--’s letter in a bottle; K--’s response)
Pen Pal 2 (second exchange between M-- and K--)
Pen Pal 3 (M-- to K--)
Pen Pal 4 (K-- to M--)
Pen Pal 5 (M--to K--)
Pen Pal 6 (M-- to K--)
Pen Pal 7 (K-- to M--)
Pen Pal 8 (Reuters newswire)
Pen Pal 9 (M-- to K--)
Pen Pal 10 (M-- to K--)
Pen Pal 11 (K-- to M--)
Pen Pal 12 (M-- to K--)
Pen Pal 13 (K--’s mother to M--)
Pen Pal 14 (M-- to Mr. Dubois)
Pen Pal 15 (conclusion) (Gina Minetti to Justin Landau)
Nov. 27th, 2009 @ 11:03 pm
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| » Pen Pal, part 15 (conclusion) |
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For earlier installments, click here
(c) Francesca Forrest!
To: Gina Minetti
From: Justin Landau
Subject: Write-up
Dear Gina,
I’ve tried to be as complete as possible. Let me know if you think it needs more details or if something isn’t clear.
I don’t know how the pilot managed to land the helicopter on the lotus on the ruby lake. I was sure we were all in for a horrific, fiery death, but after about five tries, he actually brought it down on the platform.
It felt like we were in an iron foundry. The air was shimmering with the heat; it hurt to breathe. The captain from the state security services told us to wait by the helicopter and started walking down the platform. At the far end, I could just about make out a little structure, built like one of the old coastal shrines (totally incongruous for the mountains, but then, I don’t think anyone ever thought the government was genuinely attempting to accommodate mountain religious traditions when it built this prison).
“I’m not staying here,” M-- said. “The security guys K-- wrote to me about were always horrible. I’m afraid that man might hurt her.” She ran after the captain, and I followed, fearing not so much what the captain might do as that K-- might already be dead, conditions being what they were, and wondering how to handle the situation if that turned out to be the case. ( Read more... )
Nov. 27th, 2009 @ 06:43 am
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| » two funny cartoons from shikuchi |
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shikuchi got The Talk from the guidance counsellor, I guess, and created this cartoon, which made me laugh. It was like that when I went through high school, too.
( cartoon behind cut, because it's big )
(Here's the cartoon in her journal.)
And earlier, she defined the parameters of cute....
( the cartoon )
(Here it is in her journal.)
When it grows arms, it is no longer cute.
Furthermore, because shikuchi is Queen of Vocaloid Singing and All Things Similar, she found these wonderful videos, "Autotune the News"--news clips, sung with autotune. My favorite is this one. "We get to choose, we get to choose!! Will we choose liberty, or will we choose tyranny?" (It all depends who gets to be the tyrant!)
Have fun everyone.
Nov. 25th, 2009 @ 01:01 am
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| » Pen Pal, Part 14 |
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For other installments, click here
(c) Francesca Forrest!
Tuesday 11:10 am
Dear Mr. Dubois,
Mr. Landau is letting me use this little thing of his to send you messages. He’s the guy with the camera. It’s just him, Ms. Minetti, and me that are going to W--. I guess there’s not enough money to send bunches of people with cameras, but Ms. Minetti says it only takes one.
This thing is cool. You can make it do all kinds of stuff just by sliding your finger on it. You’ll get my messages as e-mail, Mr. Landau told me. Ms. Minetti said I should write about anything I feel like. I think she meant when we get to W--, but I’m going to start now.
It will take a long time to get to W--. It will be tomorrow when we get there.
Out the window of the plane, all I can see is a sea of cloud, that we’re up above. It looks like it would be fun to wade in, except there’s nothing for your feet to stand on. Nothing but air for thirty thousand feet, the pilot said.
Ms. Minetti gave me a phrase book, so I can learn to say some things in K--’s language. I’m going to practice now.
Wednesday 5:30 pm
We’ve landed. There were lots of people in uniforms and a man in a suit waiting to meet us, and also some people from news stations. Ms. Minetti squeezed my hand and said, “Give them your most powerful smile,” but I could only manage a little one. The man in the suit gave an even tinier one back and said that he was assistant vice minister of something or other and that it was his pleasure to welcome us and accompany us to our hotel. ( Read more... )
Nov. 23rd, 2009 @ 07:43 am
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| » haunted microwave |
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Our microwave started singing in weird harmonics yesterday. Strange tones, some as clear as struck crystal, others more grating. You can hear it here (27 seconds)
Later I was listening to some music I got from sovay, a piece called "Plight (The Spiraling of Winter Ghosts)," by David Sylvian and Holgar Czukay, and I realized, this is what the microwave was trying to sing. Whatever winter ghosts were inspiring David Sylvian and Holgar Czukay must have visited the microwave, yesterday.
Today, it's just an ordinary microwave again.
Nov. 22nd, 2009 @ 01:14 pm
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| » eavesdropping |
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Here is what I am not party to, generally: conversations between men. Today, though, I took the healing angel to get a haircut. Normally I cut it myself, but he asked if this time he could get a barbershop cut (must have been that ounce of ear I took off last time, or the zig-zagging front fringe, or that one bald spot where I went nuts with the clippers, or ...).
Barbershops, it turns out, are a great place to hear conversations between men.
It was crowded in the barbershop. There were five barbers. One was a woman; the rest were men. All the patrons were men--mainly grownups, but one guy with his five- and three-year-old sons.
A craggy guy whose long underwear showed through the worn knees of his jeans (just like my long underwear shows through the knees of my jeans--we are style buddies, he and I, and about the same age, it turns out) came and sat down next to the dad, and they talked, and I pretended to edit, but really I was listening. ( what I learned )
Nov. 21st, 2009 @ 01:16 pm
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| » Review: Gott'im's Monster |
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Gott’im’s Monster by S. Dorman (Dormanheim, 2009)
(Available for purchase here, here, and interestingly enough, from the German version of Amazon, here.)
Gott’im’s Monster is part of a cycle of stories by S. Dorman. The first triad of stories (Return to God’s House, Within Without, and In Winter) sets the scene, developing a place—the small town of Gottheim, Maine—and the people who live there. The second triad (Mystery Gottheim, Gott’im’s Monster, and Balder’s Wilderness) deepens the storytelling with the addition of mythological and metaphysical themes.
These books are self-published. I bought the first, Return to God’s House, directly from the author, and enjoyed it very much. The sensitivity to character and the deft portrayal of the intense, understated drama of a rural New England town made me a loyal fan, so when the author decided to make Gott’im’s Monster available to a wider reading public, I offered to review it.
( Read the review. )
Nov. 20th, 2009 @ 12:46 am
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| » Pen Pal, part 13 |
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For other installments, click here
(c) Francesca Forrest!
Dear M--
I am sending this letter to you for my daughter K--, who cannot answer. The state security services will no longer take my letters to her or bring me back any from her. I am very worried for her.
We are in mourning here for her friend R--, who was executed last week. Our only consolation comes from the displeasure the lady of the ruby lake showed that day, releasing more poisonous gases and ash from the new fissure north of here. There is a rumor that after the last of the ash had settled, a farmer walking over the smoking dust and cinders caught a piece of paper that came fluttering down from the sky, a piece of paper with writing on it. They say the paper said, “You have stolen away the life of one whose only crime was to celebrate the power of the lady of the ruby lake. Have you no fear? Do you not know what she can do if moved by anger?”
No newspaper or radio station or television channel reported that story, but we hear it from those among our people who work in the lowlands and on the coast. And the newspapers do say that the people in the towns near the fissure now beg the government to be merciful with the others in prison. We in the mountains nod to each other when we read this; they do well to fear, but will the government bend?
I have my own fears, when I see the thick white clouds billowing from the ruby lake. I know K-- is still alive because she sends her crow to me with messages every day or two, but I fear for her state of mind, her health, and her future.
I would very much like to extend an invitation to you, on K--’s behalf, to come and visit. And on my own behalf, I invite you to my house. Your presence would be a blessing.
Yours truly,
S--
Nov. 19th, 2009 @ 08:02 am
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| » Auction to raise money to launch Tu Publishing |
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Stacy Whitman is raising money to launch a new press, Tu Publishing, which would publish children's and YA genre books with multicultural settings and characters.
I love this idea!
Anyway, now there's one of these auction fundraiser thingies to help her raise money, and I'm offering a set of ten cards, based on one of my photos. The offer is here.
( nuts and bolts )
Nov. 18th, 2009 @ 05:47 pm
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| » the cusp of the morning |
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5:40 am, and the eighteen-wheeler is delivering doughnuts to the Dunkin' Donuts. This is a tiny kiosk of a Dunkin' Donuts, in a sea of parking lot, so its doughnuts must be brought in from somewhere else.
Overhead there are still stars, though you can't see them here. In darker places they are shining brightly, and the tall one and I looked for leftover Leonids on our way here (but, I realize now, you cannot and should not stargaze while driving).
By the time I reached home (6:00), morning was showing through the fringe of trees.
By 7:40, the frost was sublimating right into the air--mist everywhere.
Nov. 18th, 2009 @ 08:03 am
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grateful
