Summer

It's a balmy 59 degrees in late June Seattle, about nine degrees warmer than the average temperature in January, February, March, etc...And yet, I love this cool weather, and how every evening the clouds pattern differently. Last night, a giant paw streaked pale pink, blue, gray-white across the sky.

My reading list for the summer was ridiculously unrealistic, then I changed it and it is still ridiculously unrealistic, so there's no point in putting it here. But I will say that I'm reading War and Peace and Suite Française and they make for interesting companion pieces. There's a scene in the latter that refers to a scene in the former, about troops and villagers crossing a bridge (and Suite Française, in case you don't know, is about Parisians trying to leave Paris in World War II), and I got a certain twinge of readerly satisfaction from having so recently read the scene the more contemporary characters were talking about. The same sort of intersection gave me a similar twinge a couple of years ago when I was reading The Travels of Marco Polo (which I still haven't finished) and The Decameron (...also unfinished, for shame...) and both mentioned the same story of an old monk in a cave, this time without making direct reference to predecessors. I love picking up two books, supposedly at random, and finding those connections across centuries. Seeing the reference in the more contemporary World War II novel somehow made the wartime scene in Tolstoy more powerful, for being still relevant, and also had an ironic effect on the character speaking about the scene, who didn't yet experience fleeing Paris and didn't seem to take that prospect seriously.

On that intertextual note, here's another little piece I wrote this past quarter extending the myth of Prosperine. (The extension part begins with "In Hades..." and everything that precedes it is just to refresh your memory about what went down in that story.)
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Ceres implored Jove to return Proserpine to her. Jove replied that Proserpine may return, so long as she has not eaten anything in the underworld. But Pluto had given Proserpine seeds of the pomegranate, and she had eaten those glistening seeds, so she was bound to spend part of the year in Hades and part of the year on Earth.

So, the months she spent in Hades became our autumn and winter, full of thistles and bramble and numbing snow. And the months she returned allowed us spring and summer-- cherry blossoms and dogwoods, blackberries and huckleberries and rosy-hued nectarines and black plums.

In Hades Proserpine was dulled by dark winter. Pomegranates, with their juicy red-jeweled, bitter-centered seeds, were still on offer. Pluto sliced open this fruit and offered her a further wedge. Proserpine hesitated, tempted by this momentary distraction from underworld tedium.

“I want you to enjoy your time here,” Pluto said, still struck by Cupid’s quiver, still enraptured by Proserpine. “Please enjoy this fruit.”

“I can’t,” said Proserpine. “I know I’ll be further bound to this place. I know what will happen.”

“I’ll use my powers to prevent it. Longer summers, more lush vegetation. I promise.”

Proserpine knew that Pluto, struck by Cupid’s quiver, would keep his promise. She ate another wedge of pomegranate seeds.

Above, a confused Ceres watched the oceans rise.

Corduroy

It's getting to be finals season, and I find myself tiring of business casual. I wore corduroy pants to work today-- corduroy being a fabric near and dear to my heart-- and walking around the unusually quiet English department reminded me of a piece I wrote back at McGill on a similar topic.

Silliness aside, I'm thrilled because I just got an e-mail from The Western Humanities Review informing me that my short story "The Boarder" has been accepted for publication! Hooray!

Crime Prevention Tips

"If you choose to wear your iPod, cell phone, or PDA clipped to your belt for all the world to see as some kind of 21st century status symbol, remember that may not be the best safety practice..." (from the 26th Precinct Community Affairs Unit, emphasis in the original)

...In other words, don't be an idiot.

Pet Names

(Ignore the silliness; just playing with the beta features. Or, add your own pet names in the comments! Fun!)

Honey, Sweetheart, Pumpkin tootsiepie
Snookums, Shnookums, Shmoopiedoo
Cuddily Dumpling; Snuggily Bunny
Ginger Bucket
Sugar Bucket
Ginger Fish
Gibbledewidget and Wibbledegibbet;
alternatively, jibbledwidget and wibbledejibbet

Squinty

Squinty
Originally uploaded by burningsnail.

Here's a photo from my reading on Thursday. I look a little demonic, but I guess that's me getting *really* into character.

First Lines Collage

Pure silliness. See if you can match the first lines below with their stories (choices below collage).

It was winter. A string of naked light bulbs, from which it seemed all warmth had been drained, illuminated the little depot’s cold, windy platform. Inside, Old Jack raked the cinders together with a piece of cardboard and spread them judiciously over the whitening dome of coals. A spiteful scar crossed his face: an ash-colored and nearly perfect arc that creased his temple at one tip and his cheek at the other.

Running footsteps—light, soft-soled shoes made of curious leathery cloth brought from Ceylon setting the pace; thick flowing boots, two pairs, dark blue and gilt, reflecting the moonlight in blunt gleams and splotches, following a stone’s throw behind. She was tall and slim, and though no longer young, had the strong firm breasts of the dark-haired woman. When he got on the bus, he irritated everyone. Poor Juan!

There were only two Americans stopping at the hotel. As soon as she arrived she went straight to the kitchen to see if the monkey was there. The monkey, named Senator Onesimo Sanchez, had six months and eleven days to go before his death when he found the woman of his life. He held his breath an instant, dug his nails into the palms of his hands, and said quickly: “I’m in love with you.”

Lines from:
G. Verga, "The Wolf"
T. Capote, "A Tree of Night"
J.L. Borges, "The Shape of the Sword"
L. Heker, "The Stolen Party"
M.V. Llosa, "Sunday, Sunday"
L. Valenzuela, "The Censors"
J. Joyce, "Ivy Day in the Committee Room"
F.S. Fitzgerald, "Tarquin of Cheapside"
G. di Lampedusa, "Joy and the Law"
E. Hemingway, "Cat in the Rain"
G.G. Marquez, "Death Constant Beyond Love"

p.s. More stories are up on the 55 Words site! Updated weekly! Write yer own and tell yer friends!

3-Day Novel

This sounds like horribly good fun. I'm somewhat tempted to enter.

Escribir

(silliness)

This is a cop out of a post. So I'm taking beginner Spanish at TC's Community Language Program. Below is a short absurd story I wrote with my limited knowledge of grammar and vocabulary. It is also probably completely incorrect.

Hoy, los gatos toman gotas de girasol. Pero el pinguino sordomudo, el gerente de la gente, toma cerveza. Los gatos y el pinguino son de la ciudad de las luces. Por cierto, la derecho de la ciudad es linguistica aplicada. Hasta luego!