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florilegiumofblips · 6 months ago

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I let go of it. The notion of home. I stopped dreaming of thick rugs and hardwood floors. Of hanging pots and a countertop. Clean white walls and molding tracing the bones of a place. I let go of the idea of permanency and roots and what-comes-next.

Began to dream of travel.

Of leaving.

Of letting go and moving on.

I won't own a bed. Or a dresser. There is no bookshelf or coffee table or couch.

When I leave the house on Deronda Avenue I will leave behind so much. The teepee I'd gotten for Aidan's nursery, a bunch of oleander stems that I’d promised my grandmother I’d plant.

Instead I'll cling to photos.

To candles and bowls. Mugs.

Carefully slip a few prints into an envelope and tuck them away in a box in San Diego.

I have one piece of furniture to my name. A vintage coffee table that I bought when we didn't have money to throw at things. I didn't know then what all the clouds rolling into my life meant. They passed quickly. But we didn’t know that then.

It’s a tricky business, predicting storms.

The idea of home, in any physical sense, became as small as a glass jar filled with coffee beans and two sweaters: one for everyday use, the other for cold coastal mornings.

To allow myself to dream of anything else was to be crushed by all that I did not have.

And yet there is so much.

Happiness, not in another place but this place...not for another hour, but this hour.*

To try to write about home without writing about the events of this last year is a nearly impossible task. It would be to write around the sadness. And the more I write around it, the unrulier it grows. It is a story of unkindness. That is as much sense as I can make of it. Before the words are out, that’s all I have.

I’ll write it eventually. Because I write to unpack stories. And then pack them away.

But not tonight. Tonight as I sit on the floor next to the fire, a glass of wine beside me, music playing softly, I’ll write about this modern townhouse.

This townhouse with a stoop and an iron gate and tiled entry way.

This townhouse on the corner, at the end of a park.

This home that is always alive with noise and movement--the television left on, a set of hands on the piano, the shuffle of footsteps. The music of everyday life--full and good and deceptively mundane.

Tonight I will write about how I answered an ad. And how because of that, a two-story townhouse 2.7 miles from the beach is, for a moment, my own. Filled with furniture that belongs not to a person, but a place.

Happiness, not in another place but this place...not for another hour, but this hour.

It is so different than I imagined. And yet here it is.

There are three of us here. Two who live for Mickey Mouse Clubhouse and own an impressive collection of Hot Wheels. One who is trying to blend away lines I'd crossed, spinning stories in the best and truest ways we know how.

How lucky we are. How imperfect it all is, and how lucky we are.

How in this place our lives abut and fold over and involve the others. Except when they don’t, which is much of the time.

But when panic sets in after I tumble down a whole set of stairs, a door will open and someone will come to see that I am alright.

And it’s nice to have others look after you. Sometimes it’s exhausting doing everything on your own.

I didn’t want to live with others. Certainly not like this. How long I avoided this very situation. And yet here I am--in a Dickensian-boarding-house as my friend Bowen has dubbed it, and how good it is. I say that without an ounce of irony or pretense.

I let go of the notion of home, and here I am. In a house. Waking early each day, for the first time in months, to make my morning latte.

Occasionally I’ll catch myself looking sideways at the situation. How did I get here? This isn’t what I dreamt of. But god it’s good. Odd, but so, so lovely.

And how much I have.

Happiness, not in another place but this place...not for another hour, but this hour.

*Walt Whitman, of course.

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qatarcookie · 5 years ago

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Writing Update - Project “Artful Forgers”

So here we go with a shiny new project called Artful Forgers (German title is Falsche Fälscher which has a bit more punch).

What is it About?

Artful Forgers is set in London in present time in a slightly alternative universe

(which basically just means that the royal family in this book is distinct from the one in real life).

It‘s about 25-year-old Jack Halden, a conservator, who has also quite a career as art forger and thief. It starts with him stating that his older brother Edwin died. But then we follow their journey from a point in time where he was still alive - a rat race of conflicted emotions, them trying to destroy each other while also needing the other one.

So here‘s the first line:

Once I had a brother but then he died.

The story is written in first person retrospective and it’s directed to Jack‘s mother. So it is a confession to her but at the same time some kind of justification.

I’m not into sharing too much of the plot at this point in time because I’ve only written about 6k words and I’m also pantsing this book and editing as I go. So things may change! Knowing myself, they will change drastically!

The History

If you’re - understandably - not interested in how this is a rewrite of a rewrite, just skip this section.

In 2017, I wrote a book called Like a Thief You Stole My Heart and I still cringe at the title. It was a queer-romance containing a PoV of Jack and also of the person he was ...in love with. I didn’t know much about writing so I did everything in a way you’re not supposed to. We’re talking telling almost everything here. I wrote this book when I whem my mental health was really bad. During this time this book was one of the few things that could still make me happy - so it has a special place in my heart.

I also turned it into a trilogy. Bad idea.

After I finished the third book in 2018, I learned much about writing, so I thought that maybe I could just change the beginning, some parts of the plot and do major line edits to make it good. Relatively early on, I noticed that I’d have to change it completely in order to make everything work. So I did!

It was Christmas 2018 when I started the rewrite called Clavem - let’s just say I made many mistakes. I had this picture in my mind of what a perfect writing process and perfect writing had to look like, so I did all this stuff thinking that I was obligated to. I plotted, tried to draft as fast as I could and even did NaNoWriMo in 2019. But: drafting wasn’t fun anymore, scenes stopped playing in my head and writing became a chore. I was just forcing myself to write to finally finish it, to have it off my to-do list.

It also, objectively, turned out quite bad. But I always thought that I could make it work when editing. Well.

In March 2020 I was at 70k words and ...suddenly knew that in order to ever be satisfied with Jack’s story I had to change everything completely. Again. But this time I’d do it in a way that I’d be happy with.

I’m currently at roughly 6k words and it was so! much! fun! writing them! I loved every second of it.

I freed myself from expectations that I thought others might have. I’m pantsing again, I’m taking my time with drafting, I do several rounds of edits whilst writing and also ...it’s not genre anymore. I’m doing the LitFic Thing™ now (because when writing short stories I fell in love with it and figured that this is what I actually want to do).

Current State

Currently I’m at 6065 words and that’s actually the first chapter. It’s called MIRROR BLUEPRINT (German title: SPIEGELENTWURF).

Here’s the opening paragraphs(translated, I’m sorry for any mistakes):

Once I had a brother but then he died. We shared a mother and a children’s room and were cut by disparate fathers. When I turned eigtheen, we said goodbye in a chapel’s ruins, our cheeks stained by patches of light.

Our paths streaked for five years without ever crossing. You texted me when he visited, so I escaped to the airport. At family gatherings, we materialized like varying moon phases. At dawn, Edwin irrupted at your fiftieth birthday, left me to dusk when there only remained three sprinkles and one huckleberry on your washed-out dishes.

At grandmother’s funeral, he steered the car while I pressed my fingerprints against the window. Abandoned ashes and grey fields passed. We did not share grief or words. When she was buried he handed me a metal shovel, speared my with his eyes, so it dropped to the icy ground.

Kind of a weird beginning so I may or may not change it in future editing.

In this chapter, we follow Jack as he is on Southwark Bridge in London minding his own buisness, a.k.a. stealing :) people’s :) purses :) as you do. :)

Edwin finds him and they have a litte ...conversation accompanied by a lot of bird action. Idk why, it just happened.

Here’s a bit of description of them both although it’s not all the description that is in this chapter:

His hair was ink-black and oily. He rubbed it with gel every morning and hid his streaks under a custodian helmet, assorted every strand when he removed it. My curls protruded like bristles of a worn brush, varied between mahogany and the colour of rust, ends frayed.

He outdid me by one head’s length, his shoulders sprouted outward where mine retracted.

Also, here’s a part of the conversation they’re having. Just normal stuff you talk about with your family, am I right?! By the way, Edwin is a policeman, so he is not impressed by Jack’s career.

“You'd like an alibi?” My eyes came off the boat. “I heard the news.”

He inspected my as if he could figure an answer on my jawbone. Cars rushed past us. I breathed exhaust, static petrol against my tongue.

“So it’s your case?”, I said.

“Correct.”

“And I’m your suspect?”

“Right.”

After this scene there are two more which are kinda hard to describe because they are in a non-linear order.

We meet Lucy, a university student doing her master’s degree in chemistry - what a queen - ...oh, and she’s also Jack’s partner in crime. So here’s a short thingy with her:

Wind whirled a single strand of hair from her braid, eyes flitted away and turned over to the city. Her chest barely rose and fell as if she were just a marble statue, but breath hissed between her lips. "Oleander." She flicked her head to a bell-shaped bush with deep green leaves and wilted pink flowers, hiding between two rhododendrons.

That’s everything I have to share for now!

-- Cookie!

#writing update #my writing #writing #am writing #writers on tumblr #writeblr #literary fiction #litfic

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kiss-my-freckle · 6 years ago

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The simplest solution. Who they are vs who they were.

Why Red turned himself in -

As I feared would happen, elements from Katarina’s past are circling Elizabeth like a pack of wolves in the night. I put Tom Keen in her life to keep an eye on her, and he married her.

Elements from Katarina’s past, from before her transition to Raymond.

S1-S2

Fifteen died. And with them, our resistance. Rumors began that the Americans were involved. One name emerged. Yours. You came after my daughter. You exposed her as a dissident. She went to jail. After that, my loyalty was questioned. I was exiled to the Gulag, where, one by one, her bones were sent to me.

Tom was working for Berlin, a man who believed Katarina killed his daughter because one name emerged from the Kursk bombing: Katarina’s new identity. Because Tom was sending Berlin detailed information about Katarina’s daughter, there was a chance Berlin would learn who Liz was, and would’ve killed her had he known.

S2-S3

I know who you really are, Raymond. Who you are to her. And I know why you did this. Does she?

The Cabal found out Liz’s born identity, so they framed her for crimes against her country using her mother’s notoriety. She and her mother took off to clear her name. The Director didn’t find out Red is Katarina until she had him on the jet, ready to drop him through a house.

S3-S4

She was more alive than anyone I knew. When I heard she killed herself… I didn’t believe it. I still don’t. You’re wrong. I didn’t see what she wanted me to see of her, I saw her. And despite what happened, I know she loved me.

Liz believed her mother was coming to kidnap her from her own wedding, when it was actually her mother’s cover husband. Constantin believed Katarina kidnapped his daughter because she falsified a DNA report and took on her lover’s identity. So instead of remaining safe with her mother, Liz ended up getting kidnapped by a father who isn’t really her father, but her stepfather. Constantin tortured Katarina until she whispered her identity in his ear.

S4-S5

I was your friend. I protected you. I comforted you. I loved you. The truth? This is the truth. And it came at an excruciatingly high price.

Despite loving Katarina’s new identity, Kate raged war against her because she believed Katarina had become a monster. Vengeance after Katarina shot her in the face. Cooper handed Liz the truth about her father by running a DNA test from Reddington’s Seaduke evidence. Kaplan handed Liz the truth about her mother by tasking Tom to give her the bones of her mother’s new identity.

S5-S6

I’ll say this for you - you’ve always believed that you were acting in her best interest. Selling me out to Berlin, faking her death - you always thought you were helping her.

If my Tom domino theory is correct, then Tom worked for Constantin Rostov. Tasked to find Masha and return her to the man he believed to be her father because of that fabricated DNA report. Before his death, Tom and Katarina were sitting in the car, Constantin’s gas sign hanging from above, Raymond’s bones in the car between them. At Union Station, Tom’s first look at the report told him that Red isn’t really Red. His second look at the report made him realize Red is really Katarina. After his death, Liz raged war to honor Tom’s dying wish. Rather than learning her mother’s whole truth, Liz learned half that truth. She learned her mother isn’t really her father. Now she must learn her father is really her mother.

So here’s where we are in S6.

Rostova disappeared, and Raymond Reddington became a completely different person.

While Dembe tries to save her soul, Ressler seeks answers about Katarina, and Katarina seeks the person who put her in prison. Dembe lied to Katarina to keep Liz’s secret from her own mother, while Katarina herself keeps a secret from her own daughter. The truth Dembe continues pressuring Katarina to tell Liz. That of her true identity. If my Tom domino theory is correct, this season will reveal Ressler as the father of Agnes, and Tom being the one who did the second memory manipulation on Liz. Krilov never met Red, he met Katarina when she had him wipe Liz’s memory the first time. Ressler seeking answers about Katarina will make him appear to be the one who put her in prison. Given Minister D’s face, this doesn’t look good for Ressler. But because he’s the father of Agnes, Katarina will likely spare him. Agnes is currently with Scottie, not her true grandmother, but her step-grandmother. I wonder how she’ll feel when she finds out her son died chasing Katarina’s truth and her granddaughter isn’t really her granddaughter. And I wonder if Scottie and Katarina have a history. She’s my current prediction for the next big bad.

The sum of it.

Katarina worked for Fitch and the Cabal. Katarina was being hunted by two countries, so she faked her death. Katarina arranged the surgery with Dr. Koehler, then became Raymond. Katarina killed Sam. Katarina killed Berlin. Katarina and Masha took down the Cabal. Katarina shot Kate in the face, which she later regretted. Katarina let Constantin go, and Dr. Shaw likely cured him. Katarina burned her lover’s bones at her father’s house. The father that excommunicated her. Dom, who is Oleander.

Dom: She was here - Masha. Red: How? Dom: How is a problem, yeah. But not as big a problem as why. She was here looking for Oleander. Apparently, she thinks tracking him down will help solve her husband’s murder. Red: What did she say? Be specific. Dom: Relax. She doesn’t know Oleander’s me. I certainly didn’t tell her. And since I know all you care about is yourself, you can stop worrying. I didn’t say a word about you. Oleander and Katarina, identities still hidden. Masha’s identity outed in S2.

#Rederina #The Blacklist #Anti-Tom Keen #S6 is all-involving

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averyboneyguy · 6 years ago

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💐 What flowers would be used in a flower crown for your oc? Why those choices?🌼 Has your oc lost anyone close to them? How did/would they respond if so?🌷 Does your oc have any collections? What of? Any reason why?

im gonna do bird and lilian for these cause- i love them💐 bird would have begonias, marigolds, myrtle, oleander; because bird deserves the big fluffy flowers- and the green from the myrtle would balance it out nicely. lilian would have larkspur, monkshood, amaryllus belladona, and sweet peas, because those flowers suit her character the most.

🌼 well bird has lost like his parents (as a teen) and a brother (while young) and he responded by just... getting real quiet about it (didnt mourn properly for years. lilian lost her grandmother while young and was real torn up about it; and since shes my commander so hough, it gets rough for her; she keeps it together until hot and then afterwards goes on a self destructive streak.

🌷 bird has a pen collection, it used to be pocket knives but he just got real into pens after leaving home. lilian collects fancy perfume bottles and journals, 1 cause she likes to write, and 2 cause they (books and the glass bottles) look nice

#abi talks #guh wuhs ocs #bird tag #lilian tag #Anonymous

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moonaft · 6 years ago

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Night and Silence

Rosemary and Rue

A Local Habitation

An Artificial Night

Late Eclipses

One Salt Sea

Ashes of Honor

Chimes At Midnight

Interlude : Full of Briers

The Winter Long

A Red-Rose Chain

Once Broken Faith

Interlude : Dreams and Slumbers

The Brightest Fell

Interlude : Of Things Unknown

I read this the day after Halloween.

Spoilers up to Night and Silence and October 2018 for the Patreon stories.

To answer a question from the book summary: who remembers about Gillian?

Well...

Simon Torquill, obviously. Evening. Raysel. Sylvester, Luna, and the staff of Shadowed Hills 20 years ago. Most of Toby’s allies, including Quentin and his parents. The Lordens. The Luidaeg. Several of the night haunts. Brucer and probably some other people from Home. The SF police department. Literally any one who was listening at the elf-shot conclave.

In short, there’s a lot of people who know about Gillian.

Anyways, onto the main story.

Does Faerie not have therapists? If you can go away for a hundred years and come back fine, you probably don’t need therapists. Danny is the closest Toby’s got.

It’s good that Tybalt doesn’t blame Toby for her mother’s actions.

Back to therapy with Danny and Quentin after catching the flying pig-hedgehogs. Point of clarification: deposing Rhys is not treason because Toby never swore to him.

“No longer the custom to greet those of no family name with the name of their species” - Is that why Simon called May “Milady Fetch” last book? And mixed bloods and changelings would have it rough. “Milady Siren-Sea Wight-Banshee” for the false Queen?

Nolan seems to be settling in well.

Dianda would be an excellent mother-in-law, just saying.

Hi May! Sounds like both Jazz and Tybalt have major depression and PTSD from last book. Poor Jazz, poor Tybalt.

Hi Cliff!

And Cliff has turned to stalking now? At least Miranda knows that she’s stepped too far.

At least Gillian is an adult now and can visit her estranged mother if she wants to, assuming she survives this. Poor Gillian.

Yes, May usually doesn’t get to go on field trips. She’s not missing this one.

Poor Raj. The fallout from The Brightest Fell is hitting everyone hard.

Has Arden actually talked to Toby about shifting loyalties before, or is that what Toby thinks is coming next?

I really hope this isn’t Simon’s work.

Toby has a fan! I knew there must be fae out there who look up to her!

Well, those marshwater charms aren’t suspicious at all... At least Jocelyn isn’t affected. I wonder if it’s like iron for the fae.

Hi Bridget! Who else in the cast of characters are we going to get today? Berkeley means Walther and probably Jack the grad student, and then maybe April? Or Mags?

Nicely done on the magic, Toby. I wonder if the red hair is the color of fox fur?

Don’t swallow glass, Toby, it’s not good for you.

Poor Gillian.

OK, they found a weird pocket dimension. Not what I was expecting.

Do Quentin and May see something different than Toby? She sees only one house.

Weird chicken house is weird.

Confirmed that April is no longer the Countess of Tamed Lightning. I guess she could take over if her mothers wanted to take a long vacation.

“Get your fuzzy butts over here” - Toby, that’s still not how we talk about royalty. I hope Shade will be amused.

Is cinnamon Jocelyn’s magic scent? It’s certainly not close to Simon’s.

Hi Arden! What do you mean, you’re not supposed to be here? Not even going to Annwn triggered that response.

So the fae did come to North America before the Europeans, or at least before the 19th century.

So Shade rules the Court of Golden Cats, which isn’t really part of the Court of Dreaming Cats. This really doesn’t jive with how Tybalt and Colleen were in London.

Jocelyn, I had such high hopes for you.

I love Toby pretending to be Jocelyn’s mom and I don’t know why.

Jocelyn, no. Don’t do this.

Weird house #2. I’m over 1/3 of the way through this book, why has no one brought up the Luidaeg yet?

That must be terrifying for Marlis - “hey sis, can you check on the false queen who is still sleeping in your basement? No reason.”

I bet it’s some sort of illusion magic, making Toby think it’s the false queen, like Oleander did. Or maybe Simon could grab the false queen’s blood to do magic.

Yeah, that’s not Gillian.

So that’s not another doppleganger...

Baobhan Sidhe, that was mentioned in April’s interlude.

Hi Tybalt! And Toby’s covered in blood again.

Are Baobhan Sidhe Maeve’s bloodworkers? Or does Titania or Oberon get two bloodworking races? Water can be used for illusion magic, sometimes.

The last time they couldn’t get in contact with Dean, Evening had returned. That’s not good.

So Toby got attacked by a vampire, fun.

Has Goldengreen become a replacement Home? Marcia is good. I remain curious about how much the war against the merlins is common knowledge, she seems to know a lot about it.

Marcia, can you lend Toby some non-blood-covered clothes? Please?

The “long lost estranged sister” card can only played once, Toby. I guess if you ever need to explain August to them, she can be your cousin, the daughter of your “Uncle” Simon.

Fuck off, Miranda.

She has a fae-repealing thorn, what the hell?

She’s her grandmother??? And Janet - that’s Janet Carter who broke Maeve’s Ride, for sure. Amandine’s mother is Janet Carter, makes sense. And completely josses the idea of any non-Three-derived fae, ok. Everyone’s fae or human or both, no aliens here.

May’s right, there’s something disturbing about Janet’s relationship with Cliff, her granddaughter’s ex-fiancee, and the father of her great-granddaughter.

Clearly Janet hasn’t been paying attention to recent news.

It sounds like Amandine went with the Torquill boys to California, if Janet’s been there long enough that Gilad’s parents knew about the spot. She followed Amandine, after Amandine followed the twins.

Dammit Toby, you need to tell Quentin his mother was a changeling. This is Sylvester all over again.

So breaking the Ride led to Faerie being sealed away? So Janet breaks the ride, Maeve curses Janet, she leaves?, and Oberon seals the deeper lands and leaves as well. Titania is not mentioned at this point in the story.

Or, the Luidaeg implies she’s still there for the Ride? At least, Titania is not implied to be missing at this point.

Tam Lin was going to go somewhere - or, he was going to die to feed Faerie, and then Maeve had to go instead, except it wasn’t death for her. If humans are sealed in deeper Faerie, that might kill them but not one of the Three. And then Maeve was gone, but Titania wasn’t or Faerie would have been thrown out of whack before the Ride.

So what did Maeve do to Titania in response to the Luidaeg’s binding?

Janet is reminding me of August here.

Tam Lin would get a peaceful death, I hope Maeve isn’t actually dead.

Yeah, it’s implied that Maeve could come back one day.

So there isn’t a geass on the world to make it forget about Dawn. Toby remembers that Dawn existed! Not enough to ask about why Evening pretended Dawn was her sister, and clearly neither Patrick nor Sylvester are bothering to ask why. So who killed Dawn?

Who constructed the old knowe?

“...whose only job is constructing life-threatening situations.” Sounds right, Quentin.

Hi vampire lady!

And May and Quentin are elf-shot. Again.

Poor Gillian, elf-shot again.

Yes, please, go get Dianda. Toby has so many allies these days.

How old are these kids? Gillian was what, four, when Toby went into the pond? She’s out fourteen years later, and it’s been four years since then. She should be twenty two or so. If Jocelyn’s the same age, Home closed when she was eighteen. Toby went to Home when she was twenty five, but Dare and Manuel were twelve, I think. Jocelyn wasn’t too young, in that case. I don’t think Home had an age limit.

DUGAN’S NOT DEAD??? My God.

Hi Kennis! Toby has a new ally.

Hi Dianda, Patrick and Sylvester. Good to see you all awake, unharmed and ready to help.

So is Dawn Evening’s changeling granddaughter turned pureblood? I’m not getting the sense that Evening ever had changeling kids. Maybe Dawn is a former changeling and Evening’s daughter?

ARE YOU SERIOUS? They’re ALL human descended? It’s not just Maida, Aethlin is descended in part from a human? And Septiminus is Evening’s grandson, so either he or his parent was a changeling-turned-pureblood? It’s not just the twins? Unless the family name came from Glynis? And Dugan too!

The Merrows’ Firstborn is the child of Titania and a human, but not all Merrow are Lordens, so there’s another human in the Saltmist family’s history. Toby, why aren’t you reacting to this? Gillian, I know. But this is important!!

Where are all these hope chests?

Oh, poor Gillian. Poor Toby.

Is Dugan working for Evening? Or maybe Simon?

Plasedon’tbeSimonpleasedon’tbeSimon - ok, it’s Dugan, or maybe Simon pretending to be Dugan.

Whoops, there he is again. Played your last card there, Dugan.

At least Cliff is taking the lies well. I’m not sure Gillian’s going to understand the whole Amandine-August-Simon-Evening thing.

Hi Siwan! Toby, if you ever piss off Arden too much, you can hang out in Portland. It’ll be fine.

Hi Jolgier! This should be a good solution. Though shouldn’t Shade take charge? Well, seven years should be enough to put Raj on the throne.

Maybe Dean can make Goldengreen into the new Home. Marcia’s already halfway there.

Interlude: Suffer a Sea-change

Oh poor Gillian.

This is taking place right before Christmas, that sucks.

Yes, punch Jocelyn in the throat. You are going to like Dianda, maybe you can hang out at Goldengreen with Dean.

She doesn’t remember the Luidaeg at all.

OK, whatever Miranda’s line needs to do, it’s related to the fae blood they have. Gillian isn’t bound why whatever Amandine, August or Toby need to do. Is it taking Maeve’s place in eternal sleep?

Poppy gets to go fight spiders, apparently. Good to know she’s doing well.

Hi Firtha, sorry you’re dead. You seem cool.

Oh poor Toby and Gillian. She never knew how much Toby cares for her.

I do appreciate having Gillian’s POV on all this. Wonder what’s going to happen when she gets the cliffsnotes version of the entire series?

Gillian, you are the best.

Hello Miranda, it is very creepy you married the ex-fiance of your granddaughter and the father of your great-granddaughter. I think you wanted a second chance to raise your daughter since Amandine pushed you away.

Oh shit, she’s dead again.

Wait, no, she’s ok. I think the skin is invisible outside of Faerie but she doesn’t know it yet.

Aw, Poppy’s apprenticed to the Luidaeg!

Yep, the Luidaeg is terrifying but Gillian doesn’t have the old tales to know what the rest of Faerie thinks.

Yeah, Gillian can’t outrun the elfshot by being Selkie for a hundred years because I’m pretty sure there won’t be Selkies in another year, depending on what the bargain is.

Look Miranda, you’re getting off easy at the moment. You’re also acting like a homophobic mother whose daughter just came out and can’t reconcile your hate with your love.

Gillian, you’ll love hanging out with Quentin and May and Jazz. It’ll be great.

I can’t fault Elizabeth Ryan for always having a drink in her hand.

Yeah, I think the Selkies that currently have skins will become Roane or Roane-equivalent - no more passing the skins down the line. Anyone who doesn’t have a skin is going to turn human or die.

This is a good ending point.

One more book to come.

#october daye #october daye spoilers

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margot-mitchell1 · 3 years ago

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BLUE ELECTRODE

PRESS RELEASE

FINISHING LINE PRESS

[email protected]

www.finishinglinepress.com

PO Box 1626 Georgetown, KY 40324

📷

For Immediate Release Finishing Line Press announces the publication of

BLUE ELECTRODE, Poems, by Margaret Barbour Gilbert

In BLUE ELECTRODE, the poet uses her own experience as an analogue of contemporary Southern history.

Ralph Burns, author of but not yet (Lynx House Press, 2017) Winner of The Blue Lynx Poetry Prize, & Ghost Notes (Oberlin College Press, 2000), Winner of The Field Poetry Prize, writes,

“These poems interrogate seizure disorder and recovery, its spectrum, the people around it, family, community. In those waters swim a sense of history, distortion, victimhood, the inevitability of scapegoating, in fact, discrimination and racism. The poems themselves seize. Their strongest light is their willingness to inhabit the very “kindling” of the neurons, “the highway clothed in goldenrod.” Indeed, as the poet writes in “Blue Electrode,” the title poem, “Yes, my mother thinks to herself/ tying her torn scarf/ the words Epilepsy and Woe/ are synonymous.”

Mary Stewart Hammond, author of Out of Canaan (W.W. Norton, 1991) & Entering History (W.W. Norton, 2016), writes:

“The poet's work to establish agency in the midst of sickness is so clear and hard fought, that one is filled with admiration and wonderment at the ability to carry the reader so deep into her journey with all of its subcurrents.”

Stephanie Emily Dickinson, author of Heat (New Michigan Press, 2013) & Blue Swan Black Swan: The Trakl Diaries (The Bitter Oleander Press, 2021), also writes:

"Recapturing Anna Karenina......is really an epic. Incredible. Mrs. Walker is such a figure, a malign force in the house. The chicken, too... cut up, dismembered lives. I am amazed at how the poems work together and create mood. The old south becoming the new south and the violence in the gesture and word. Like "Eating a Piece of Black Bottom Pie." I should think considering the times ---this book could get attention."

The cover for Ms. Gilbert's new book features a painting by Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Woman at the Mirror (1912). The artist has used the brilliant device of a broken mirror which reflects a slanting image of the woman.

Influenced by Sylvia Plath and James Dickey, Ms. Gilbert, in her free verse poems, explores themes of violence, otherness, and alienation. Her poem "Eating Oatmeal" is included in the Everyman Pocket Poets anthology, Conversation Pieces: Poems That Talk to Other Poems (2007). She is also the author of a chapbook, My Grandmother's Engagement Ring (2014), published by Finishing Line Press, and her poems have appeared in Hotel Amerika, Mudfish, Crazyhorse, The Examined Life Journal, and elsewhere. Her play, A SCENE OF CAPTIVITY WITH WALTZES AND MIRRORS, was staged at Harvard's Agassiz Theatre twice.

Finishing Line Press is a poetry publisher based in Georgetown, Kentucky. In addition to the Chapbook Series, it publishes the New Women’s Voices Series and sponsors the Finishing Line Press Open Chapbook Competition. Other recent Finishing Line Press releases include Man Overboard by Steven Barza, Scared Money Never Wins by Julia Wendell, Putting in a Window by John Brantingham, Family Business by Paula Sergi, and Drawing Lessons by Carol Barrett. Finishing Line Press and editor Leah Maines were featured in both the 2001 and 2002 Poet’s Markets.

Publication Date: August, 2021

ISBN: 978-1-64662-540-6

To order online, go to http://www.finishinglinepress.comOr, you may order directly from the publisher, $14.99, check or money order to:

Finishing Line Books PO Box 1626 Georgetown, KY 40324 [email protected]

You can also contact the author, Margaret Barbour Gilbert, by email at [email protected].

#Blue Electrode

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ellie-writes-things · 7 years ago

Text

Movement

The Sunbeams, a Lutheran group similar to the Girl Scouts without selling cookies that operated within Apostles Lutheran Church and School--of the Wisconsin Evangelical Lutheran Synod branch of Lutheranism--on Santa Teresa Boulevard, went around neighborhoods in December to sing Christmas carols to well-kept homes in the affluent subdivisions of Santa Clara County. One instance, in the December of my second grade year, has always remained with me. My mother, the current Sunbeam leader at the time, decided that this year would we would travel to senior neighborhoods as well. Little girls, bundled in eclectic blends of green and red sweaters and hats, set out for the night sometime around sunset with a couple volunteer parents and Pastor Kronenbusch in tow. As we sang “The First Noel,” our breaths floated and curled around us, they rose with our voices to the inhabitants’ windows and beyond. One woman sent out her nurse to ask us to stay awhile longer. We sang several carols at her doorway, but never saw her. We only saw the light that shone through her curtains. My throat tingled and my eyes stung with the cold, and I remember my mother clutched my hand in hers before she turned to face me, her eyes bright and damp and her mouth still moving to the words of “Away in a Manger.”

Later that night, our final destination included the street I lived on; a quiet neighborhood that lay within a mobile home park with the lofty name of Chateau La Salle in San Jose off of Monterey Road and Esfahan Drive. The asphalt of Chateau La Salle Drive glittered with the runoff from sprinklers, reflecting the radiance of the strands of fairy lights that lined the houses and street, setting the park aglow. We sang at a few houses before my mother and her assistant, a woman named Becky and the mother of my best friend at that time, Laura, said that we needed to get ready to finish. They revealed that a surprise lay waiting for us before the night ended, and they shuffled us down the road in the direction of the house my mother and I shared with my grandparents and her two brothers. Instead of my home, we stepped up to our next-door neighbors’, a house that belonged to an elderly couple I affectionately called Mr. Bob and Ms. Marilyn, who--along with my youngeset uncle, Randy--set up television trays that held a combination of store-bought and homemade cookies, and I spied a few that my mother made the day before and scolded me not to nick any of them. Ms. Marilyn gave me a hug and pushed a paper cup of apple cider into my mitten. The room buzzed and I wandered to find either my mother or my uncle after the excited group of little girls swallowed me up. The walls twinkled and thrummed, shadows chased by Santas and reindeer upon their surface. I took a sip and the cider burned my tongue, and instead of whimpering I swallowed the liquid along with my discomfort. My uncle stood at the edge of the crowd as he watched the other adults converse with each other-Mr. Bob asked my mother about my grandmother’s health and how my grandfather fared through the ordeal-and I wrapped myself around my uncle’s leg like ivy. My mother nodded and I watched Ms. Marilyn hold her hand, while Becky kept her eyes on the other girls, ever vigilant. I remember my uncle rested his hand on the top of my head and pulled my hat off, before smacking me with it.

I laughed, and leaned my head on his hip while I watched as the other girls giggled and drank and stuffed themselves with cookies, their faces luminous in the radiance of the Christmas tree.

About a week or so later, my mother and I moved out of my grandparents’ home.

I lived, during my elementary school years, in what has turned into one of the most expensive mobile home parks in the country, back when you could still buy a space and home there for a relatively modest sum and not the inflated $200,000 that you would spend now on a smaller home. With three bedrooms and two bathrooms, it housed my grandparents in the master suite, two of my uncles-Dale, the oldest, and Randy, the youngest--in one room, and my mother and I in the last bedroom. It was, originally, a seniors-only park, but, according to my mother, San Jose passed a law that forbade the discrimination of children, which I benefited from as my mother and I would have had nowhere else to go had we not been allowed to live with my grandparents when my mother left the studio we rented after the finalization of her divorce from my father. The added benefit, of course, was the built-in daycare in the form of my grandmother as my mother worked 50-60 hour weeks at Xicor in Milpitas. A 15-minute drive until you take into account Bay Area rush-hour traffic and the nightmare that is U.S. Highway 101. Our neighbors, Mr. Bob and Ms. Marilyn--who threw the Christmas party my Sunbeam troop attended--and Mr. Marty and Ms. Dorothy, kept an eye out for my grandmother while she was at home with my Uncle Randy alone during work and school hours.

My grandfather avoided homeownership for around 30 years, he and his family living in a 8x45 trailer during my mother’s childhood and adolescence, and moved around the west coast often for his job with the government. My mother would say that his reluctance to purchase a permanent home was due to my grandmother’s tendency to threaten divorce whenever they fought.

This, too, was often.

The house my grandmother chose, when she--at last--was afforded the opportunity, sat at the address 201 Chateau La Salle Drive, San Jose 95111. The mint siding and white awning glared under the midday sunlight in the summer, but appeared far more subdued in the darker half of the year. It came with a crimson porch whose steps we sat on to watch the fireworks from the fairground across the street every Fourth of July and where my Uncle Randy showed me how snails sizzle when introduced to salt. The inside had the dark faux-wood paneling popularized in the 80s and 90s and the earth-toned carpet my grandmother preferred because it was easier to keep clean. Tobacco and nicotine dyed the ceiling in nearly every room but mine and my mother’s and old clothes from second grade that I’ve managed to retain after all these years still hold that stale scent of smoke that settled into the fibers of the upholstery from my grandparents lighting up their Marlboro Lights, often as they watched television and drank coffee well into the evening.

As one of the first families to live in the park, and being my mother’s only offspring, other children were a rarity. I spent my time with adults on weekends and after school, and one of my mother’s favorite things to do with me when she managed to claim a slice of free time was visit the Oak Hill Cemetery situated next to the park and tour the gardens and funeral home.

Established in 1847, Oak Hill Cemetery is the oldest secular graveyard in operation within California. My mother would drive us along the roadway-on the occasional Sunday after church-up to the main parking lot where we would abandon her Volvo and walk along the manicured lawns and flower arrangements left by dutiful loved ones on the more recent additions to the landscape. Oleanders, white and pink, blocked the humming of traffic from invading the atmosphere, letting it, instead, waft over the hillside. I remember the thin leaves swaying in the breeze created by passing cars that zipped along the busy roadway while we looked at the engravings on the headstones, taking note of the dates and deducing how old the residents were when they expired. My mother pointed out the more historical graves, such as James F. Reed’s from the infamous Donner party whose body was interned there. The light caught on my mother’s hair, the strands gleaming when I would gaze up at her, and she kept my hand grasped in hers.

I enjoyed being out of the home. And I think that, when she could spare the time, she did too.

Sundays often became my mother’s and my special day to spend together; we attempted to cram a week’s worth of quality time in less than twenty-four hours. The day began at 9:00 am, bathed in a wash of the prismatic light that filtered in through the large stained glass windows behind the altar at Apostles during a sermon delivered by either Pastor Kronenbusch or Pastor Mahnke, followed by fellowship in the narthex where fresh-brewed coffee and hot chocolate and store-brand sandwich cookies awaited the parishioners; the fragrance, of which, emanated throughout the hall. Sunday school in what was normally my second grade classroom--for me--and bible study somewhere in the smaller onsite chapel--for my mother--and then choir practice when I became old enough comprised the rest of the morning for my mother and I. On the way home, we stopped by Winchell’s Doughnuts just off of Santa Teresa and would pick out a baker’s dozen to bring home to the rest of the family who, besides my oldest uncle who went to Peace Lutheran, were not the church-going type. I insisted on three types of doughnuts: chocolate glaze, chocolate cake, and chocolate old-fashioned. My mother comments still that this is a predilection I inherited from my father. I believe my grandparents preferred maple bars, and my grandmother favored those with custard filling. The sweet perfume lingered in my mother’s car and our home for the rest of the day.

After school one day, after one of these Sundays, my Uncle Randy took me out around the neighborhood on my bicycle as my mother was unable, due to her work schedule, with him following along on his. Wet asphalt assaulted my lungs and tongue with its thick fog clinging to the air around us as the sunshine glinted off of the trails the water sprinklers left behind. My training wheels still attached, I wobbled back and forth, nervous of riding over cracks in the pavement, thinking they would crumble and I would fall into a pit, and he eventually dismounted his bike and walked along side with me. He also quipped “Step on a crack and break your mother’s back,” and added to my anxiety. Chateau La Salle maintained a uniform appearance, even to an oblivious seven-year-old with no knowledge of Homeowner's Associations and the grief my grandfather dealt with regarding landscaping and the property manager. Resident’s lawns cut the same length, similar color-schemes, and manicured flower beds. Most homes also had jasmine that climbed up the sides of the houses, much like ours. When it was warm out, like that day in September, the whole park filled with that fragrance and bit my nose. I sneezed, and my uncle handed me his handkerchief, which I hated to use since it could not be thrown away. We encountered a sign that read “Dead End” and I pleaded with my uncle to go back. He insisted we just ride to the sign, and then we could turn around, but I started sniffling and told him I was scared. I felt queasy and hot and I struggled to breath in the air around us. In my mind, I saw myself falling into a chasm that would open if we went on just a bit farther with no end, just a complete absence of light where I could not see the dangers that could be posed to a little girl. He laughed a little, but agreed that we could go back home, even as I looked back towards the sign.

That night, after my mother arrived back home and after dinner and as I was drawing in front of the television with him, he explained to me that a dead end was only a road that went nowhere. I believe on that same night, as we all settled in to watch a movie, he darted out of the house yelling at someone. I tried to follow, but my mother would not let me, saying that Uncle Randy must have thought he heard something. Uncle Dale did take off after him, however, and my mother took me to bed where I watched the play of shadows behind the Ariel the Little Mermaid curtains my mother made.

Convinced I saw a witch’s face or claw reaching out from behind the plumeria that grew in front of my window, I clamored into my mother’s bed.

The next morning he and my mother were in an altercation over the milk for cereal; he slugged her across the face with the gallon jug, and she almost choked him out. My grandmother cried while my grandfather separated them. Milk still soaked the carpet by the time I got out of the bedroom, too scared to make my appearance known any earlier and too scared to ask what was wrong. Someone drew the curtains in both the living room and dining room closed and patches of sun lay across the table and floor in discordant shapes and the front of my mother’s t-shirt remained drenched.

She grabbed her carpet steamer and worked on the floor for two hours as my grandmother berated her for the quarrel, but the scent of stale dairy never fully dissipated in that spot, though over time the ever-present odor of nicotine masked its presence.

Places have a scent, an aroma you will recognize the moment you are confronted with it. If you’ve ever noticed the way 7-11 stores smell the exact same no matter what location you are in, you’ll understand this. Olfactory memories are the easiest, and strongest, to trigger, and, as someone once told me--Randy, I believe--they are frequently said to be the most vivid.

On campus, I will, on occasion, catch a whiff of smoke and am taken back to my grandmother’s living room with the drapes drawn, sitting in my Mickey Mouse chair next to her favorite armchair and watching an episode of “Days of Our Lives” after school or during summer vacation, the cherry on her cigarette a beacon in the shrouded room, diminished only by the flashes from the television set. I still enjoy the company of smokers, despite not smoking myself; the scent of them causes my stomach to unclench and to take a breath that I realize trembles within my lungs. Coffee houses, too, take me back to early mornings with my grandfather in their honey-colored kitchen brewing coffee at 5:30 am before school or on Saturdays, and his timbre rumbling, “That’s not coffee, that’s syrup, granddaughter,” after I added my customary four-to-five teaspoons of white sugar to the cup he gave me while we sat and read the newspaper.

I mumble this to myself when I make my coffee at home, and miss the hiss and pop of the old Mr. Coffee coffee maker my family had as I pour hot water over the freshly ground beans that lay in the single-cup pour-over style brewer a partner of mine preferred.

Likewise, I cannot abide the acridity of burnt plastic or oil as that miasma clung to my Uncle Randy’s clothing and hair, and later took over his presence along with the room my mother and I vacated in ‘95 and seeped into the blankets he used to cover his windows and his bedding before he, too, moved out with Uncle Dale, later the following year. For my grandmother’s health, I think, as it had always been fragile, and began to decline with an alarming rate after my mother remarried in May of ‘96.

Waves of cinnamon and cloves and cardamom and cocoa filled our home when Christmas of 1995 arrived, and the day itself passed with little incident between our official “baking day” that my grandmother and mother coordinated with each other and the caroling that my mother and I participated in that year with my Sunbeam troop and the holiday shopping everyone says they hate but participate in.

To this day I love the Christmas music and decorations that overtake malls and shopping centers. Even when I get the chance to go back to Oakridge and Valley Fair they maintain their magic for me in the form of strands of incandescent bulbs wrapped around faux-pine garland that hang from the balconies and windows of the interior.

The day after Christmas, when the tree still stood upright and our nativity fully displayed atop my mother’s piano and my grandmother and I watched a holiday film on her television that rested on the broken set we used as a T.V. stand, the routine of our post-Christmas tradition disintegrated like those snails my uncle and I poured salt on earlier that summer. My mother said something--I don’t recall what--to my uncle. A response, I believe, to something he may or may not have said to my grandmother and she sent me to our bedroom and told me to play with the artbox that I received the day before. I stared at the closed door of my room, at the blue-and-magenta Lion King cover my mother crafted out of the larger sheet set I received at some point in the year before as shouts and thuds emanated down the short distance of the hall, my grandmother’s voice a tinny echo barely perceptible unless the ear strained to catch it. My stomach twisted around itself and coiled alongside my lungs and my fingers skimmed the tops of the grey keys of the touch-tone phone on my mother’s bedside table. I pulled my hand away when my mother came in and told me to keep the door locked before she left again.

The flash of blue-and-red from behind my bedroom curtains is my next memory as is the pleading of my grandmother’s voice and the image of my uncle--staring at his knees--in the back of a squad car that proclaimed to be a member of the San Jose Police Department. Officers spoke to my mother, and neighbors--including Mr. Bob and Ms. Marilyn and Mr. Marty and Ms. Dorothy--gathered on their matching front lawns that lined Chateau La Salle Drive, still studded with leftover fairy lights from the advent season, their breaths visible and curling in front of their moving mouths, rising into the charcoal sky.

#ellie writes #memoir #mental health #cw: past trauma #mention of violent behavior #this is still pretty rough #writing i mean #i'm gonna smooth this out one day

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taxicabmag · 7 years ago

Photo

Five Poems by Alan Britt

RHINO

Above all that mess, notwithstanding, lest you

prefer existence at the quantum level, String

Theory, which does or does not include the

gunmetal grey catbird feather thrilling my mouse

pad but otherwise metaphysics.

To your left, a gorgeous rhinoceros, calf in tow,

grazing below a leafless acacia, typical Tuesday

muzzle nipping grasses by their roots, loose lip

scouring perimeter, & nearsighted tusk prepared

to stab any lioness or male on the prowl, except

maybe No Neck’s black mane swirling 50 years of

Dust Bowl discontent in his wake.

Now twist your licorice waist 180 & hover like

smoke trickling a philosophical meerschaum fresh

off the shelf, fresh off the Atlantic shelf, right

about there & no one else, love, no one else.

ALERT: EARLY IN THE MORNING

(She had a pretty face, drove me wild—

I even wanted her to have my child.)

—Robert Palmer

Get up when you’re already up?

Trampoline bouncing supermarket superstition

into the medulla I forgotta,

never seen again,

but new ones burst from superstitious

genes despite teachings

that permeate spongy imagination fraught

with star-nosed astrophysicists

inseminating heretofore colors not approved

by the cosmic color wheel,

a reptilian bluegreen pocked like the lunar

surface iguana lover with Triceratops horns

for decoration, evolution into the newest

of new world orders, order of skeletons

in lockjaw unable or unwilling to retreat

lest others yield power in some lightsaber

universe beyond the one

we embraced

the day we were baptized

by drive-thru churches

& core curriculums.

EGGPLANT BLOSSOM

Eggplant blossom with grandmother lips braising

humid Tampa sweat across upper lip—the purple

kiss of family blood, Lewis & Clark, Jefferson

revering a future that does or does not include

blood flowing through his dick, in other words a

future that resembles a eunuch, yet, here we are

today dodging monkeys in Indiana cherries,

stroking tasseled sheepdogs named Fanny, &

hoping our futures involve eggplant kisses

bussing a tanned Italian neckline someday

exposed below a canary blouse’s white poppy

collar with two mother of pearls gone missing on

some riviera shoreline blessed by the heat, blessed

by the heat.

TIME TO TIME WE ENTER TUNNELS,

NO WAY OUT—YET, SOMEHOW . . .

Purple sunshine, hydraulic ladies,

& Great Depression grandfathers

like brushed aluminum juggling secrets

for generations—revolts eventually

leading to more corporate revolts.

Walnut sunshine—I just said that, he assures,

upside down like a bat cradling cashew-colored

commonsense, right side up, so it seems, forearm

resting atop adverbs like grenades littering

a path of intellectual autumn leaves

fallen

onto a professional romance

cut off at the knees

then served,

who remembers, served with

crushed blood-berries,

plus a variety of Old Country vegetables

still potable for the new generation.

Retreat to brushed aluminum or incandescent light,

(more valued than churches) then remember me

when smuggling sentimental secrets from one

generation to the next.

Still, I could’ve cut you in half; instead

we meet halfway, halfway, halfway circling

each other

like two leopards

sniffing for wild boar

but finding each other, instead, & not

a moment too soon.

BLUE DIAMONDS (pictured above) was created during a time when I was falling into trance-like states and completing such feral drawings. This is the only one that was given a title to be viewed as a visual poem. I used to sit in my den of iniquity and zone out for hours at a time listening to music, writing poems, and breaking into these psychic drawings that reflected my mental and emotional state. I like the combination of words and visuals and, someday when I have the time, I intend to explore that interdisciplinary genre further. Poetic language for me longs to be fused with the five senses anyway. I want to taste emotions inside my marrow. I want to know what certain verbs smell like. Are they like onions, cinnamon, liquorice? Do some adjectives have scales or pubic hair? I could go on with this stuff, but you get the idea. So, a visual poem? Sure, why not? One day poems will be constructed from holograms with odors emanating from them. Perhaps I’ll be around for that. Anyway, language as a palpable experience is something I find pleasing.

In August 2015 Alan Britt was invited by the Ecuadorian House of Culture Benjamín Carrión in Quito, Ecuador as part of the first cultural exchange of poets between Ecuador and the United States. In 2013 he served as judge for the The Bitter Oleander Press Library of Poetry Book Award. His interview at The Library of Congress for The Poet and the Poem aired on Pacifica Radio, January 2013. He has published 16 books of poetry, his latest being Crossing the Walt Whitman Bridge (bilingual English/Romanian): 2017; Violin Smoke (Translated into Hungarian by Paul Sohar and published in Romania: 2015). He teaches English/Creative Writing at Towson University.

#poetry #visual art

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bethestaryouareradio · 4 years ago

Text

Some like it Hot!

https://www.lamorindaweekly.com/archive/issue1412/Digging-Deep-with-Goddess-Gardener-Cynthia-Brian-Some-like-it-hot.html

By Cynthia Brian

“Summer afternoon -- summer afternoon; the two most beautiful words in the English language.” Henry James

The blackberry bushes flanked the horse stables on my grandparents’ ranch. My grandmother was a genuine horse whisperer. She lovingly cared for a herd of adopted steeds and rode in parades in her fancy Western wear. She even trained the horse for the television show, My Friend Flicka. Together, after an early morning gallop through the fields and vineyards, she would give my cousin and me an empty pail and challenge us to a blackberry picking contest. Our reward was a big bowl of berries with fresh cream dusted with cereal. I adored my horse-loving grandmother and those luscious summer blackberries.

Although I’ve always treasured horses, I stopped liking blackberries when I started growing my own. The thorns are menacing, and the bushes sprout everywhere with their underground runners. In the heat of summer, my days are filled with pulling out blackberry vines from flower beds instead of picking fruit. But this year I have a bumper crop of big juicy berries in an area where I’ve allowed them to flourish. I decided to risk the scratches to re-live the free-flowing glory days spent with my grandmother riding horses and gobbling blackberries in rich purple cream. It’s a short season for blackberries and they like it hot.

Meteorologists have predicted that 2020 has a 75% chance of being the hottest ever recorded. The good news is that we grow many specimens in our gardens that thrive in the heat. The bad news is that the Artic is rapidly warming and climate change is sinister. We must strive to reduce our carbon footprint while we indulge in the summer flavors of favorite fruits and vegetables and the beauty of heat-tolerant blossoms.

Unless you can water deeply and daily, August is not an optimal month to plant anything. But it is a month to enjoy the high-temperature lovers. Tomatoes, tomatillos, beans, peppers, eggplant, beets, zucchini, basil, and corn are a few of the vegetables that demand six to eight hours of sunshine to flourish. Summer fruits that require heat to ripen include peaches, pears, plums, nectarines, cantaloupe, watermelon, apples, blueberries, figs, and, of course, blackberries. Limes are the only citrus that require a blistering summer to be at their best. By growing your choices in containers, specifically tomatoes, peppers, and herbs, substantial sunlight can be guaranteed by moving the pots to different areas and watering when necessary.

I have a pistache planted in a large ceramic cask that has already turned a vibrant red while other in-ground pistache trees are still a brilliant green. Crape myrtle trees, hollyhocks, and agapanthus pop into magnificent blooms when the thermometer rises. Lavender, salvia, sage, and roses grow vigorously in summer. Ubiquitous oleander and the common geranium beat the heat with a profuse of petals lasting until the cold weather begins.

As a child, the Four O��clocks lining our country road opened daily exactly at the prescribed hour. The ones that perennially sprout in my Lamorinda garden germinated from those ranch heirloom seeds do not live up to their namesake. My errant sun-worshippers open at 8 a.m. and close by 4 p.m. Blissfully, right on cue, just as my hillside is looking drab, dry, and dismal, my Naked Ladies poke their long necks out from their mounds. Every year I delight in their ability to shimmer when most everything else is withering.

The big question in the cauldron of August is when and how-to water. Just because a plant is drought resistant or heat-tolerant doesn’t mean it doesn’t get thirsty. To keep our garden healthy, we can’t under-water or over-water. What’s the secret? The optimum time to water is very early morning to prepare your garden for the day. The roots will retain the moisture and the plant will stay hydrated. Watering in the afternoon wastes water as it evaporates before it can saturate the soil. The evening is also a good time to water as long as the leaves have enough time to dry out. Watering at night encourages fungus, insects, and rot. Deep-root watering is always better than sprinkling. Adding three inches of mulch around all plants and trees will aid in keeping the moisture level correct while keeping the roots cooler.

If you have a swimming pool, pond, or fountain, you may discover that honeybees appear to be suicide bombers this month. Rescue them. When it is scorching, bees search for water then return to the hive to let other bees know the location of the source. A group of fifteen or more may tap the pool surface bringing back the droplets to receiver bees. According to entomologists, the water is then deposited along the edge of the wax comb while bees inside the comb fan their wings to circulate the air conditioning. Bees prefer hive temperatures of 95 degrees Fahrenheit, so they like it hot, too!

August will be a sizzling month. Make sure you and your garden stay hydrated. Enjoy the fruits, vegetables, and flowers that relish the swelter. Pick a basket of blackberries, with or without horse-back riding.

Stay cool and enjoy a summer afternoon of hot, hot, hot!

Cynthia Brian’s Garden Product Tips It’s important to frequent and support your local nurseries, garden centers, and stores, however, during the pandemic, many people are safely sheltering-in-place as much as possible. If you prefer armchair shopping with delivery to your home, these are affiliate suppliers that offer quality and satisfaction for almost everything outdoor and garden related. Some have current sales and others offer free shipping with minimum orders.

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Happy gardening. Happy growing.

Photos and more: https://www.lamorindaweekly.com/archive/issue1412/Digging-Deep-with-Goddess-Gardener-Cynthia-Brian-Some-like-it-hot.html

Cynthia Brian, The Goddess Gardener, is available for hire to help you prepare for your spring garden. Raised in the vineyards of Napa County, Cynthia is a New York Times best-selling author, actor, radio personality, speaker, media and writing coach, as well as the Founder and Executive Director of Be the Star You Are!® 501 c3. Tune into Cynthia’s StarStyle® Radio Broadcast at www.StarStyleRadio.com. Buy copies of her best-selling books, including, Chicken Soup for the Gardener’s Soul, Growing with the Goddess Gardener, and Be the Star You Are! Millennials to Boomers at www.cynthiabrian.com/online-store.

Cynthia is available for virtual writing projects, garden consults, and inspirational lectures. [email protected]

www.GoddessGardener.com

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#Keywords:gardenoutdoorsplantspatiofurniture august gardening hot gardening cynthiabrian starstyle goddessGardener growingwiththegoddessgarde

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goddessgardener · 4 years ago

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Some like it Hot!

https://www.lamorindaweekly.com/archive/issue1412/Digging-Deep-with-Goddess-Gardener-Cynthia-Brian-Some-like-it-hot.html

By Cynthia Brian

“Summer afternoon -- summer afternoon; the two most beautiful words in the English language.” Henry James

As a child, the Four O’clocks lining our country road opened daily exactly at the prescribed hour. The ones that perennially sprout in my Lamorinda garden germinated from those ranch heirloom seeds do not live up to their namesake. My errant sun-worshippers open at 8 a.m. and close by 4 p.m. Blissfully, right on cue, just as my hillside is looking drab, dry, and dismal, my Naked Ladies poke their long necks out from their mounds. Every year I delight in their ability to shimmer when most everything else is withering.

Stay cool and enjoy a summer afternoon of hot, hot, hot!

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For photos and descriptions list https://www.cynthiabrian.com/home-garden-products

Happy gardening. Happy growing.

Photos and more: https://www.lamorindaweekly.com/archive/issue1412/Digging-Deep-with-Goddess-Gardener-Cynthia-Brian-Some-like-it-hot.html

Cynthia is available for virtual writing projects, garden consults, and inspirational lectures. [email protected]

www.GoddessGardener.com

Keywords:#garden,#outdoors,#plants,#patio,#furniture, #august gardening, #hot, gardening, #cynthiabrian, #starstyle, #goddessGardener, #growingwiththegoddessgardener, #lamorindaweekly

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kiss-my-freckle · 6 years ago

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6x19: Summary

Red: I haven’t ever been totally forthright about myself. Dom: What does she know? Red: She’s been looking and thought she’d have a better chance of finding out more if I was in prison and couldn’t interfere. Dom: And Dembe kept her secret. Red: He did.

I laugh so much at the fandom these days, and for obvious reasons. Like now, people actually believe that after Red admitted he hadn’t been open and honest with Liz about who he is, that Dom would turn around and say, "Here’s the truth he’s been hiding from you for the past six seasons.”

There was need for a fake character before Dom’s storytelling even started. Like Red, he’s going to find out what Liz knows, then fit it to go with the story. From the jump, “Ilya” was needed.

Liz: Who is he? And how is it connected to my mother? I know she didn’t drown in Cape May. I know that, 6 months later, she helped whoever’s pretending to be Reddington become Reddington. I have proof.

Dom can’t lie, she has proof. Insert Dembe-inspired character. Because Dom can’t very well say she was alone. Had he admitted that, Liz would know Red is her mother.

Marguerite: I never spoke to Mr. Reddington. Or the woman who arranged for him to have the procedure. Jennifer: A woman? What woman? Marguerite: Some Russian. I don’t know her name. Jennifer: Was it Katarina Rostova? Was that it? Was it Katarina Rostova who took Reddington to Dr. Koehler?

Our fake Ilya came up with the plan. Our fake Ilya got the surgery. So tell me why Katarina had to arrange this surgery for a grown man? For this hero?

“You’ll be a hero.”

Giving up his job at the Russian Embassy so he can go on the run with a wanted fugitive because of a supposed pledge they made when they were kids. A six-year-old’s word is his bond.

Katarina: We? Ilya: Well, we pledged our lives to each other.

Fire won’t stop him from helping Katarina, both trying to save the life of Liz’s biological father.

Katarina: I can’t stop thinking about those firefighters, what might have happened if we’d left him there - if they found him, maybe they could’ve gotten him help, saved Raymond’s life. Ilya: He would’ve burned to death. We did everything we could, and we got him out.

Clearing out his bank account just to hand it over to Katarina’s mother so she can start a new life. Money is no object when it comes to Liz’s grandmother.

Katarina: Ilya liquidated his bank account to access cash. It’s in this suitcase, and it’s enough to go wherever you want.

Being there at the exact moment he’s needed, to save the life of both Liz’s mother and grandfather.

Dom: Ilya. Ilya: Sir. It’s been too long. Katarina: We have to get rid of the bodies. Dom: You’re on her side too? Ilya: At that moment, I’d say we are all on the same side, sir.

Stepping out on a ledge to stop Liz’s mother from committing suicide.

Ilya: Katarina! Stop! Katarina, stop! Katarina, please.

Saving Liz’s mother instead of playing the hero.

Katarina: You said we’d figure a way out of this, and I have. You tracked me down here. We fought. I went over the edge. You’ll be a hero. You’ll get your life back. Ilya: Katarina, please, I have a way to get your life back, a way for me to get my life back, a way to escape the Cabal, the KGB, the Americans, and no one has to die.

Becoming a wanted traitor to protect Liz’s mother.

Katarina: What are you suggesting? Ilya: Becoming Reddington.

Giving up his own life - his normal life, to spend 30 years on the run for the sake of a childhood pledge.

Katarina: They’ll hunt you. You’ll never be able to stop running. Ilya: Isn’t that what we’ve been doing? Running. Besides why do I have to keep reminding you? We pledged our lives.

And he becomes the hero, just like that facebook comment said.

Liz: I know you’re Ilya and the incredible thing you did to protect my mother, to protect me.

Apparently she needed a clever man with a better plan.

Katarina: I told you my plan. Ilya: Yeah, well, we need a new plan - one that has even a remote chance of success.

Katarina: It’s clever. But it’s absurd. Ilya: No one knows that Reddington’s dead.

Fuck Red’s dialogue.

Red: Katarina Rostova was the cleverest, most resourceful woman I have ever known.

Apparently she needed a wealthy man to protect her parents.

Katarina: Ilya liquidated his bank account to access cash. It’s in this suitcase, and it’s enough to go wherever you want.

Dom: Ilya. Ilya: Sir. It’s been too long. Katarina: We have to get rid of the bodies.

Fuck MJ’s and Ressler’s dialogue.

MJ: But if - and this is a big if - if Rostova didn’t die, if she knew people were coming for her - Ressler: She’d be the one to protect her parents.

Apparently she needed a man to talk her out of suicide.

Ilya: Katarina! Stop! Katarina, stop! Katarina, please.

Fuck Red’s dialogue.

Red: No matter how dark the moment, she could always find her way through.

Apparently she needed a man to become Reddington to get the money.

Katarina: $40 million. Ilya: That is more than we would ever need to stay two steps ahead of the the KGB, the Cabal, the Americans. Katarina: It was easy to get those funds wired in, but Raymond would have to show up in person to access that money. And since he died in my arms, he won’t be able to. Ilya: I don’t think you’re entirely grasping what I’m suggesting. Katarina: What are you suggesting? Ilya: Becoming Reddington.

Fuck Nuss’s dialogue and that $6 million.

Nuss: Because a front company for the KGB wired $3 million into the account a day before the incident, and another $3 million the day after it. One week later, the entire amount was withdrawn. Sima: By Reddington? Nuss: Yes. Using fingerprints and a password. Sima: Thank you. No further questions. Red: Was the withdrawal made in person? Nuss: No. It was a wire transfer. Red: You said the withdrawal required fingerprints and a password. Nuss: It was done remotely. Red: So if someone had a copy of my fingerprints and knew the password, they could have made the withdrawal, and no one at the bank, nor yourself, would have known the difference? Nuss: I, uh - suppose that’s possible.

Apparently she needed a man to care for her child if they took her.

Katarina: If they get to me, if they take me - take care of Masha. Ilya: Like she was my own.

Fuck Sam’s existence.

Katarina: Take care of my girl, Sam.

And Kate’s, who is now dead, so fuck Dembe’s.

Red: You need to go. Find a way out. I’ll be fine. And if I’m not, you know what to do. But you won’t be able to do it unless you leave.

Red: Dembe has a power of attorney letter on file should a signature be necessary.

Apparently she needed another man who pledged his life to her. A six-year-old to stand by his word for the next 54 years.

Ilya: Well, we pledged our lives to each other. Katarina: When we were 6.

Fuck Dembe’s pledge, his word.

Red: He pledged his life, offered it up as evidence that I was wrong about this world. Dembe guards my life because he’s determined to save my soul.

Dembe: My word is my bond, and before I break my word, I will give my life.

Because Katarina would rather play the damsel in distress than Oleander’s protégé. And somehow Ilya taking on the identity of Raymond Reddington protects Katarina. I know, I’m still scratching my head on that one.

This would need to be hearsay -

Ressler: Anton Velov claimed that she was seen at the Cross Sound Ferry Terminal two weeks after her alleged suicide.

Since Velov was at the motel -

Katarina: Don’t stop. It’s him. Brown coat - it’s Velov. Ilya: How? Katarina: The man I killed at the shelter - I used his credit card to pay for the room.

The not so clever, clever woman who didn’t need Red at the bank, now she needs Red at the bank -

Red: Was the withdrawal made in person? Nuss: No. It was a wire transfer.

Katarina: But Raymond would have to show up in person to access that money.

Because nothing looks like suicide more than returning to Cape May. And there’s only one week in 90 days, so Dom only checked the deposit box once.

Dom: I got this 28 years ago. And in 28 years, there was not a week that has passed that I haven’t tried to use it. I’d say a silent prayer first hoping, praying to find something from her.

Jake: The drives cycle out after 90 days, but I took a look. And box 642 was accessed only once in that time. February, like you said. 13th.

But what a great way to explain the letter, I’m sure that will stop Ressler from investigating Oleander. Now Dom can let his Russian friends take a break.

Did you notice Ilya wasn't full of anger? That he wasn't actively avenging the family that he supposedly lost? That he wasn't seeking the answers Fowler spoke of? That he wasn't a wanted fugitive, but working at the Russian Embassy? That he appeared to be a pencil pusher, sitting at a desk? I did lol. Who was angry? Katarina was. Trashing that motel room like it was nobody's business. "I was - well, I was younger then. Angrier."

Laughing for obvious reasons.

... a way to escape the Cabal, the KGB, the Americans ...

redundant

... two steps ahead of the the KGB, the Cabal, the Americans ...

#Rederina #current thoughts

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