meandering

So I sit down resolving to write one thing, and find that I'm a couple of hundred words into another one instead. I'm not even sure where it's going, except that it may influence something for me that comes later, so it works through (restrains urge to add fascinating simile) and that's how it is.

Went through wardrobe today. Restrained urge to snivel in corner while discarding a few skirts that I'll never wear again.

Also did shopping re attempted sushi manufacture on Friday. Due to my parents having made certain thoughts on the matter quite clear, in fact, astonishingly clear, a shade of clearness one could not possibly improve upon, there will be no raw fish used. Any fish involved will be smoked or somehow otherwise prepared first. I suppose that I can see their point of view. :)

I look back on the Scales translation project and sigh. It was a lovely idea, really it was, but nobody on the English-speaking side is particularly enthusiastic about buying a French roleplaying game that only ran for one rulebook and three sourcebooks and a GM screen and two novels -- understandably so, I suppose -- and certainly the French side isn't particularly interested in saying here, take it, it's yours. It does, from the posting boards on the Siroz website, have the same sort of dedicated fandom as Amber or other small games, who live in hope of another supplement, or in the third novel that never even got written some day being not only written but also published. Siroz has actually gone and revealed the Big Secret In The Storyline, which just goes to show that it's unlikely to get anywhere further.

Oh well, when I win the lottery (which will be interesting, given that I never even bother to buy tickets) I will buy it and publish it at my own expense. And for my next wild fantasy . . .

Even if the Asiatic Dragon (of the thirteen Great Dragons) wasn't particularly interesting.

Sigh.

---

I wanted a Housman quote, but found this instead. ;)

Then turning to my love I said,
"The dead are dancing with the dead,
The dust is whirling with the dust."
But she, she heard the violin,
And left my side and entered in:
Love passed into the House of Lust.

Then suddenly the tune went false,
The dancers wearied of the waltz,
The shadows ceased to wheel and whirl,
And down the long and silent street,
The dawn with silver-sandalled feet,
Crept like a frightened girl.

The Harlot's House, Oscar Wilde

jollymerryhollyberry

I am unlikely to be here at my computer when the New Year strikes, so I will say it now; happy new year to you all.

Otherwise -- today was quiet, grey, damp, and I am so grateful that I'm not in one of the parts of the country that's getting flooded or that seems to be thinking about it.

Took drycleaning down to drycleaners. Also took worn-out/outgrown clothes down to be donated to nearest charity shop. (After lugging the bags around for quarter of an hour, the term nearest is highly applicable.) If ever I end up in a this ae night situation, I will have a whole bagful of hosen and shoon and other clothing to put on. The fact that they will all be too small for me is, under the circumstances, probably not going to be the world's most important matter.

You can tell when I've just finished writing something else; I end up babbling vaguely on unimportant matters, and use words like "intrinsic" far too freely.

Happy new year to everyone, in any case.

---

The Poetry of Dress

I

A sweet disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness: --
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distration, --
An erring lace, which here and there
Enthrals the crimson stomacher, --
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribbands to flow confusedly, --
A winning wave, deserving note,
In the tempestuous petticoat, --
A careless shoe-string, in whose tie
I see a wild civility, --
Do more bewitch me, than when art
Is too precise in every part.

-- R Herrick