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viral insanity, what a great idea
Dec. 16th, 2007 02:34 amA good day today; did some useful scouting for presents (which I will actually buy when my damn new credit card gets here) and managed to find a jigsaw for the family to fiddle with over Christmas.
Also picked up a copy of the Doctor Who: City of Death to knit to tomorrow. One of the classic Tom Baker stories, involving Paris, the beginning of life on Earth, and seven copies of the Mona Lisa.
The first book of the two I've ordered for my mother arrived in the post today. It's in excellent condition, so I'm reassured over that -- and also reassured that the second will fit into my postbox when it comes. (Don't laugh; I do not need yet more trotting down to the post office due to oversized parcels.)
Time to start plotting out of laundry so as to make sure I get home with enough of the right stuff, presents, making lists, eating up perishable foodstuffs, and complaining about the cold.
Wait, I was complaining about the cold anyhow.
I have a strange urge to reread Delta Green: Countdown. I am still and probably always will be vastly impressed by the take on Hastur that Pagan Publishing managed. Viral insanity, what a great idea.
---
From the Frontier of Writing
The tightness and the nilness round that space
when the car stops in the road, the troops inspect
its make and number and, as one bends his face
towards your window, you catch sight of more
on a hill beyond, eyeing with intent
down cradled guns that hold you under cover
and everything is pure interrogation
until a rifle motions and you move
with guarded unconcerned acceleration --
a little emptier, a little spent
as always by that quiver in the self,
subjugated, yes, and obedient.
So you drive on to the frontier of writing
where it happens again. The guns on tripods;
the sergeant with his on-off mike repeating
data about you, waiting for the squawk
of clearance; the marksman training down
out of the sun upon you like a hawk.
And suddenly you're through, arraigned yet freed,
as if you'd passed from behind a waterfall
on the black current of a tarmac road
past armor-plated vehicles, out between
the posted soldiers flowing and receding
like tree shadows into the polished windscreen.
-- Seamus Heaney
Also picked up a copy of the Doctor Who: City of Death to knit to tomorrow. One of the classic Tom Baker stories, involving Paris, the beginning of life on Earth, and seven copies of the Mona Lisa.
The first book of the two I've ordered for my mother arrived in the post today. It's in excellent condition, so I'm reassured over that -- and also reassured that the second will fit into my postbox when it comes. (Don't laugh; I do not need yet more trotting down to the post office due to oversized parcels.)
Time to start plotting out of laundry so as to make sure I get home with enough of the right stuff, presents, making lists, eating up perishable foodstuffs, and complaining about the cold.
Wait, I was complaining about the cold anyhow.
I have a strange urge to reread Delta Green: Countdown. I am still and probably always will be vastly impressed by the take on Hastur that Pagan Publishing managed. Viral insanity, what a great idea.
---
From the Frontier of Writing
The tightness and the nilness round that space
when the car stops in the road, the troops inspect
its make and number and, as one bends his face
towards your window, you catch sight of more
on a hill beyond, eyeing with intent
down cradled guns that hold you under cover
and everything is pure interrogation
until a rifle motions and you move
with guarded unconcerned acceleration --
a little emptier, a little spent
as always by that quiver in the self,
subjugated, yes, and obedient.
So you drive on to the frontier of writing
where it happens again. The guns on tripods;
the sergeant with his on-off mike repeating
data about you, waiting for the squawk
of clearance; the marksman training down
out of the sun upon you like a hawk.
And suddenly you're through, arraigned yet freed,
as if you'd passed from behind a waterfall
on the black current of a tarmac road
past armor-plated vehicles, out between
the posted soldiers flowing and receding
like tree shadows into the polished windscreen.
-- Seamus Heaney
