sovay: (Rotwang)
sovay ([personal profile] sovay) wrote2025-08-23 05:37 pm

This po-mo stuff is nice, but it's irrelevant to the way I feel right now

The close to eleven hours I slept last night may have exceeded the sum total of the week that preceded it which did not even have the decency to be hallucinatory as opposed to just blurringly strung out. I feel as though the sole things of value I accomplished were reading a new novel and writing about a movie. One night we walked for ice cream to CB Scoops.

Razing the ecosystem of our back yard seems to have produced a monoculture of black swallow-wort. [personal profile] spatch and I planted a medley of butterfly-supporting wildflowers while the yard was still a burnt-brown wasteland and I just hope any of them can survive the invasive cuckoo. I am not sure there is anyone we could even call to extirpate it. I still miss the rose and the mulberry trees.

Last night I showed him Portrait of Jennie (1948), which I had not seen since high school when my mother showed it to me. I had not understood then that it was so much stranger about ghosthood and time than any of its Hollywood contemporaries to the point where it would have been much more normal as a venture into the Twilight Zone or an ITV production in the '70's. It doesn't even look like its decade: its cinematographer shot it with lenses of the silent era for that extra shimmer of time-slip and died before it reached the screen. I just don't see that many films out of classical Hollywood I would call Sapphire and Steel in on. I can't remember if the 1940 Robert Nathan novella struck me as so formally as well as tonally weird. On a more mundane note, I love that the production picked up David Wayne because it was shooting in New York in 1947 and Finian's Rainbow was on Broadway. I had remembered an uncharacteristically quiet shot of his face screened through harp strings when I had forgotten the tidal crash of the Graves Light, tinted in luciferin-green as if the very film stock and not just its characters have washed back into 1925.

If Alexander Knox did introduce Hume Cronyn and Jessica Tandy, I can blame him in a partial, positive way for the first film I ever saw in theaters, which was *batteries not included (1987).
sovay: (Jeff Hartnett)
sovay ([personal profile] sovay) wrote2025-08-22 03:10 pm
Entry tags:

Well, you can't tell much from faces

It is no discredit to a warhorse of crime fiction like The Gaunt Stranger (1938) that its ending surprised me the most Doylistically. From my twenty-first-century vantage, it may be even more delightful than it would have played at the time.

My chances of coming to it unspoiled then, of course, would have been basically nil. It was the third screen and second sound version of its popular source material, the 1925 Edgar Wallace novel of the same name which had been definitively rewritten following its smash stage run as The Ringer (1926), so called after the alias of its central figure, the elusive master of disguise whose legal identity of Henry Arthur Milton has never helped Scotland Yard get a fix on his movements, his intentions, or his face. "Don't they call him the Ringer because he rings the changes on himself? Why, in Deptford they say he can even change the color of his eyes." What they've said for two years at the Yard is that he died trying to outswim a bullet in Sydney Harbour, but recently his reputation has disconcertingly resurfaced in the Karswell-like card accompanying the delivery of a wreath of lilies to a caddish crook of a London lawyer: "R.I.P. To the Memory of Maurice Meister, who will depart this life on the seventeenth of November. —'The Ringer.'" Copycat or resurrection, the threat has to be taken seriously. The smooth solicitor who doubles as an informer and a notoriously uncaught fence has on his hands, too, the suicide of the previous in his string of pretty secretaries, the Ringer's own sister. The forty-eight-hour deadline runs out on the anniversary of her death. Even if it's just some local villain trading on the scandal to raise a scare, the authorities can't take the chance of not scrambling round-the-clock protection for the victim-elect, devoting their slim margin for error to trying to outthink an adversary they have only the sketchiest, most contradictory clues toward, pointing as much to a runaround as to the unenviable prospect of the real, shape-shifting Ringer, who like all the best phantoms could be standing quietly at the elbow of the law all the while. "King Street! He'd walk on Regent Street. If he felt that way, he'd come right here to Scotland Yard and never turn a hair."

Properly a thriller rather than a fair-play detective story, The Gaunt Stranger has less of a plot than a mixed assortment of red herrings to be strewn liberally whenever the audience is in danger of guessing right; the tight cast renders it sort of the cop-shop equivalent of a country house mystery while the convolutions build to the point of comedy even as the clock ticks down to a dead serious stop. Christie-like, it has an excuse for its slip-sliding tone. Decent, dedicated, even a bit of an underdog with this case landed in his lap by divisional inconvenience, Detective Inspector Alan Wembury (Patrick Barr) sums up the problem with it: "If the Ringer does bump Meister off, he'll be doing a public service." The most extra-diegetically law-abiding viewer may see his point. With his silken sadist's voice and his smile folded like a knife, Meister (Wilfred Lawson) is the kind of bounder of the first water who even in nerve-racked protective custody, distracting himself from the pendulum slice of the hours with stiff drinks and gramophone records of Wagner, still finds time to toy with the well-bred, hard-up siblings of Mary and Johnny Lenley (Patricia Roc and Peter Croft), cultivating the one as his grateful secretary in brazen reprise of his old tricks and maneuvering the other into blowing his ticket of leave before he can talk his sister out of the trap. "Have you ever seen a weasel being kind to a rabbit?" Offered a year's remission on his sentence if he helps the police out, sarkily skittish second-story man Sam Hackett (Sonnie Hale) wants no part of this farrago of arch-criminals and threats from beyond the grave just because he once happened to share digs with the Ringer and drew the short straw of catching a more or less unobstructed view of the man; it accords him the dubious honor of the best lead on the case and he makes sure to state for the record as he resigns himself to the role, "Give my kindest regards to the Ringer and tell him I highly recommend rat poison." The audience might as well sit back and genre-savvily enjoy the ride. Should we trust the credentials of the glowering DI Bliss (John Longden), freshly returned from Australia on the supposed track of the Ringer's widow and grown such a mustache in his five years abroad that even his former collar doesn't recognize him until he's flashed his badge? Since the order for the funereal flowers was cabled from her stateroom aboard the liner Baronia, should we presume that Cora Ann Milton (Louise Henry) smuggled her living husband into the country or that she's the real mastermind of the plot against Meister, effectively impersonating her dead man to avenge his sister? The entrance she makes at the Flanders Lane station is as striking as her dark, insouciant looks or her American accent, too shrewd to be written off as a mere moll; stepping out of the mirror-door that leads so conveniently for a receiver of stolen goods down to the brick-arched river, she gives the locked-in lawyer the shock of a revenger's ghost herself. "Don't worry. I'm alone." Not only because one of his cherished classical records has played instead an ominous bulletin from the Ringer—a cold theatrical voice, as impossible to trace as greasepaint—the proceedings begin to take on a haunted-house quality, not unbefitting a film whose most important character heading into the home stretch is still Schrödinger's dead. At 71 minutes and fluttering out fast, rest assured it will not sober up too much for break-ins, fake-outs, or the dry commentary of Dr. Anthony Lomond (Alexander Knox), the division's irreplaceably cantankerous amateur criminologist who was introduced waving off a request for his medical opinion with the time-honored "Och, Wembury, I'm not a doctor, I'm a police surgeon. Call me in when he's been murdered." Grey-spry, he has a catlike habit of tucking his feet up on unexpected furniture, briar-smoking like a fumarole. Tragedy tomorrow, eccentricity tonight.

You're the only doctor I've met who puts his faith in patent medicines. )

Despite its programmer values, The Gaunt Stranger has a quirkily important pedigree: in the clever titles of theatrical posters caught in a passing constable's torch-flash, I spotted Sidney Gilliat as the author of the fleetly tangled screenplay and Ronald Neame as the DP who made more out of low light than the studio sets, but did not realize until after the fact that it was the very first film produced at Ealing under the auspices of Michael Balcon. I had known it was the first screen credit of Alex Knox. I don't know what about his face made casting directors want to stick a mustache and at least ten years' worth of stage grey on it, but he was playing middle-aged again when he reappeared for Ealing in a small, astringent, bookkeeperly role in the next year's Cheer Boys Cheer (1939), now regarded thanks to its plot of a small traditional brewery wilily outwitting its heavier-weight corporate competitor as the forerunner of the classic post-war Ealing comedies. By 1940 he had been collected by Hollywood from Broadway and I don't see how not to wonder if under less transatlantic conditions he might have continued with Ealing into the '40's and their splendidly weird array of wartime films. Or pulled a John Clements and stuck for most of his life to the stage: I have been calling him a shape-changer because it was obviously one of his gifts and his inclination—and in hindsight, something of a joke on this movie—but it makes it very difficult to guess seriously where he could have ended up. In any case, the existence in this timeline of The Gaunt Stranger on out-of-print Region 2 DVD makes me all the more grateful that someone just stuck it up on Dailymotion. It's a modest B-film, not a mislaid gem, but any number of movies of that class have infinitely improved my life. The title pertains in no way to the action. "And don't be so darned sure there's nothing to be afraid of at Scotland Yard." This shadow brought to you by my pretty backers at Patreon.
sorcyress: Drawing of me as a pirate, standing in front of the Boston Citgo sign (Default)
Katarina Whimsy ([personal profile] sorcyress) wrote2025-08-21 10:06 pm

Recovery and dance class

I mean, it's clearly not that I'm _recovered_ and also if anyone from work asks, I am _absolutely_ going to take every contractual advantage I can vis-a-vis recovery, but I just taught a dance class, from a couch, which I think means my surgery recovery is going Very Well Actually.

Seriously, it turns out hysterectomies are surprisingly trivial for a surgery I have been describing as "got stabbed in the stomach a few times and had some of my organs stolen". Or at least, a laproscopic hysterectomy is surprisingly trivial for me, a person who is in generally good health and apparently had a smaller-than-usual uterus.

(I got to see pictures when I was visiting my doctor, and he was all "oh yeah, they should be available for you in mychart" but then I was looking today and could not find them, so I will have to include that in my follow up visit I do think.)

I'm very very happy that the recovery hasn't been worse. I have slowly been ramping up the amount of "stuff I do" which means today I walked to NESFA very slowly (it took me 2-3 times longer than it normally does and that is correct and good), did not do any of the room setting except the chairs (no moving tables! no moving carts of games!) and was very good and sat on the couch for all of my dance class. I had volunteers to show off the lovely footwork (thank you Rachel and Stephan!) and Stephan even took on a harder dance and it was a lovely time!

I love my dance class so so so fucking much, I love that the Cambridge Day advertises it sometimes and I get random total beginners out of nowhere, I love how lucky I am to be able to make the world work for me, like what the fuck, this is amazing.

And look, I was absolutely willing to last-minute cancel if I had to (although I'm so glad I didn't have to because like I said, I had at least one total beginner tonight and she was lovely!), I wasn't going to force myself to do stuff that was bad for me. This wasn't bad for me! Doing it from the couch was a neat challenge, and I think I did a mostly good job. People certainly seemed to have a nice time. We did five dances, which is one fewer than normal, but the one Stephan did was a bit of a challenge. It was all really lovely!

(regarding neat challenge, I knew I'm a super kinesthetic person, but it was still really startling to realize how hard it is to talk through the pas-de-basque footwork --a patter I've probably done dozens of times-- when I can't do the movements alongside the words. Even as simple as "do I start on the left or the right" took me a minute to grasp.)

So dance class was a delight. Healing is going along swimmingly --I can't twist at the waist, and I can't bend over. I walk much slower than usual. Sitting is real good, but I have to be more reclined than usual. Those are my limitations, but the pain is just...not a going concern. Seriously, my belly is full of stab wounds and I'm out here completely forgetting to grab more pain meds --and I'm just doing the ibuprofen/tylenol alternation, not like anything more intense. Hell yeah.

I'm gonna borrow a cane for the first couple days of school, certainly for the teacher-only days and maybe for the first student days as well. This is honestly a lot less because I think I'll need a cane, and a lot more because I think it would be useful to have a visual signal that you need to be gentle with me or I'll hit you with my stick.

Anyways, ten out of ten, do recommend. You know, if you're into that sort of thing.

~Sor
MOOP!
landofnowhere: (Default)
Alison ([personal profile] landofnowhere) wrote2025-08-20 07:16 pm
Entry tags:

wednesday books are all over time

V. busy right now preparing for upcoming travel, but I did not post last week and probably will be too busy the next two weeks also, so I should catch up on books.

Bartholomew Fair, Ben Jonson. I read this in college, and all I can remember of the experience of reading it is that I was on the bus home from Thanksgiving. As with all public domain plays, I was reading this with half an eye as to whether it would make a good readaloud, and I think the answer is probably not; I suspect it actually works best on stage with actors who can get the characters across.

A Tale of Time City, Diana Wynne Jones. Hugo Award winning (!) podcast Eight Days of Diana Wynne Jones released its episode on this book over the weekend. At some point I should actually try listening to the podcast, but I'm a text/instant gratification person, so I started reading, and midway through when they moved from the part of the book that is mostly setting to the part that is plot, decided I should reread the book before continuing, and fortunately realized that I had a copy in a box of books I hadn't unpacked. Things that struck me this read around: it is so very much a Diana Wynne Jones book, both in writing style and in themes. Vivian gets to be physically aggressive with the butter-pies, and I feel uncomfortable reading that. This is the sort of time travel book that doesn't fuss much about language barriers (as [personal profile] lannamichaels would say, everyone has the metaphorical fish in their ear); we know that Time City has developed its own writing system, which mainly exists for the purpose of the one hilarious translation scene, but everyone in Time City and the various bits of history we see is talking recognizable English.

A Nursery in the Nineties, Eleanor Farjeon. I know Farjeon as the author of Morning is Broken, and of Cats Sleep Everywhere, and for her novel The Glass Slipper that I read when I was about 8 or 9. Recently I was listening to a classical album with a track by her brother Harry Farjeon, and that caused me to look the entire family up on wikipedia, and they are incredibly fascinating. This is Eleanor's book about her family history and childhood.

The story so far: Benjamin Farjeon, Eleanor's father, ran off from his Orthodox Jewish family to make a fortune in Australia and New Zealand. After having set himself up there as a successful newspaper man, he receives a kind rejection letter from Charles Dickens and takes this as a signal that he should move back to England and start a literary career, which is remarkably successful (despite Dickens dying too early to be of any help). Meanwhile, Margaret Jefferson, Eleanor's mother, descended from a long line of popular actors, grows up in the US around the time of the Civil War. As a young woman she reads one of Benjamin's books and decides it is the best book ever -- now she is about to go to England where they will presumably meet and fall in love!
sovay: (Rotwang)
sovay ([personal profile] sovay) wrote2025-08-18 04:02 pm

You know this city like the back of your hand, but deep roots are holding me down

According to the checkout card tucked into its back cover, the black-boarded, jacketless first edition of Millard Lampell's The Hero (1949) which I just collected this afternoon through interlibrary loan came originally from the Hatfield branch of the now-dissolved Western Massachusetts Regional Library System, whose bookmobile [personal profile] spatch remembers vividly because it was not the library across the street from one of his childhood homes but the one about a mile up the road. The dates on the card are well within the span of his family's residency. It would be nice to imagine that one of his parents took it out, or at least browsed through it, sometime. The punch line of discovering Lampell as an author is that while I did not in the least recognize his name, I would recognize his voice because along with Pete Seeger, Lee Hays, and Woody Guthrie, he formed the Almanac Singers. It was only later in his career as a screenwriter that he was blacklisted.
rocksinformation: (Default)
rocksinformation ([personal profile] rocksinformation) wrote2025-08-18 02:25 pm

food

imagine two humans A and B and they both have the same lifetime risk of some form of cancer, r, and all their traits that make r what it is are the same.

one day, A decides to change their diet: they cut out meat and go vegetarian (not vegan i.e. with dairy eggs and fish), but the proportion of food they consume that's deep-fried increases. B continues to consume meat and the same amount of deep-fried foods, which is not very much. after some time, whose risk of cancer is higher now, A or B?
sorcyress: Drawing of me as a pirate, standing in front of the Boston Citgo sign (Default)
Katarina Whimsy ([personal profile] sorcyress) wrote2025-08-18 03:55 am

Yeeeeet!

So, I've been alluding to this off and on in various spaces, but I don't _think_ I've made a public declaration. The end of my summer vacation has included one heck of an exciting event: I did a yeeterus on Thursday the 14th!

Yeeterus, noun, surgery to get rid of some unnecessary body parts -in my case, uterus, fallopian tubes, and cervix. More commonly known as a hysterectomy, and I suppose this means I can no longer be hysterical, a joke I am definitely going to workshop in the near future.

I've been coy about it mostly because I have been _terrified_ it would be outlawed before I could do it, fuck you very much the modern USA. Being at that sweet spot of "gender-affirming trans thing" and "sterilization and therefore anti-breeding thing" can make one nervous like that. It's weird that something so personal feels so acutely political. Like. I'm not ensuring I never have periods again *at* anyone, I just find menstruation incredibly personally dysphoric. The confirmation to never have children of my body isn't an attack on anyone else, it's just...something I've been aware was true since I was nineteen. I dunno man, why do you care so much?

Recovery has been very much in line with what I've hoped. The pain has been incredibly mild, and almost entirely kept at bay by careful cycling of tylenol and ibuprofen. The discomfort has been a lot higher --it turns out laparoscopic surgeries involve pumping one full of gas and then that gas has to dissipate somehow. I am treating myself gentle and not walking any further than around the house --but I am walking, and that's lovely.

I have kept an impressive log of feelings and thoughts and observations and stuff, which I am not *quite* willing to just open-share to everyone, but if you're thinking about doing the same, let me know and I'll pull the best tidbits for you.

I am so happy about it. Like, it's gonna make the start of the school year suck and I'm still so fucking happy.

Yay!

~Sor
MOOP!
sovay: (Jeff Hartnett)
sovay ([personal profile] sovay) wrote2025-08-16 04:44 am

Now I'm walking round the city just waiting to come to

It annoys me very much that Alexander Knox's The Closing Door (1949) performed so dismally on Broadway that it never had a chance at a film option, since it would have made a neat little semi-noir addition to the catalogue of mid-century cinema that isn't totally pants about mental illness. Psychiatrically it suffers from the inevitably explanatory trauma and narratively from the climactic restatement of the moral that any audience with half an attention will have gathered for themselves, but not more so than some similarly oriented narratives from its era and certainly less than many. Otherwise and the critics who were bored by it can bite me, its representation of mental illness is remarkable for its ordinariness. Until the last-act decompensation which is explicitly stress-tipped over, Vail Trahern has no blackouts, freakouts, or delusions worth the name; he's a tired, nervous, lucid man who's frightened all the time without being able to say of what and whose ability to hold a job, never fabulous, has deteriorated to the point where he's lied for a month about losing the last one so as not to feel any more of a failure in front of his family than he has for years. He has some odd, jerky triggers, decisions easily overwhelm him, he can tell it's bad when stumbling into his son's photo-finish camera-flash leaves him in the childish pain of a nightmare. "I used to have some kind of a card index in my mind, now the cards are blowing about like snow." He's so terrified of being institutionalized that it makes even setting up an outpatient evaluation a minefield, which per the author's note is much of the social message even without the half of the family that views treatment as a more brazen stigma of lunacy than genteelly hushing the whole thing up. It has a more uncertainly open ending, but the frustrated insistence that mental illnesses should be regarded no more sensationally than physical ones reminded me directly and surprisingly of The October Man (1947), still my gold standard for the subject in its decade. At least on the page, it should not have been a two-week flop. It is never so much of a sociological treatise that it doesn't function as a character study; it doesn't need to be tricky to be tense because the stakes of sanity and autonomy are high enough. Knox wrote the central couple of Vail and Norma Trahern for himself and his wife Doris Nolan and while I am unfairly ill-equipped to imagine her performance, having seen her only as the chic deep freeze of Holiday (1938), he should have been very good as the disconnected, not inhuman Vail. I have not been able to find more of a visual record than the production stills accompanying the published text, which after years of just about every playscript or screenplay of interest to me turning out to be inaccessibly stashed in universities or special collections, I was genuinely shocked to find reproduced in full in the May 1950 Theatre Arts. The sparsely furnished loft which post-war signals the Traherns' poverty—accessible by service elevator, its wall of a studio window overlooking the surrounding roofs with their night-flashing signs—would have gentrified into the millions these days.

It isn't just the jack-of-all-trades quality: his career as an actor looks weirder with every fact I learn about it. I had known that he did a season with the Old Vic in the late '30's, but I had not understood it was 1937–38 which made him part of the legendary A Midsummer Night's Dream directed by Tyrone Guthrie with Ralph Richardson as Bottom and Vivien Leigh as Titania and Robert Helpmann as Oberon, of which I have seen photos and caricatures and considered burning a time machine ticket on. He played the wittiest partition of Snout the tinker, for which he got irresistible notices—bettered when he co-starred with Olivier in the same season's The King of Nowhere, which the future Sir Larry conceded he had walked off with. He did first-run late Shaw in the West End and at the Malvern Festival, where his own first effort as a playwright premiered. He did television so early for the BBC, his appearances couldn't be burninated because it was not yet technologically possible to record them. For a while as both director and performer, he was involved with a company that did sort of experimental masques. Like any character actor worth their chameleonism, he played older than his own age from the start, at least once diegetically, already like a meta-joke. Except that he happened to be on Broadway in 1940 where it was easy for him to come to the attention of Hollywood, it starts to feel confusing that he got into American films at all, although even less surprising that he fit so badly into the Lego-set style of the studio system. He did post-war, post-blacklist theater in the UK, too, such that I have to hope for the survival of his televised 1970 When We Dead Awaken with Wendy Hiller. It feels existentially incorrect that the two of them were never in the same Shaw at the same time. I refer often to the hell of a good video store next door, but for some people you want the extra-dimensional expansion to the time machine.

In the meantime, it seems I can't read any of the detective novels he published pseudonymously in the early '30's when he was living by writing rather than acting, not because he was after all successful in taking their titles with him, but because even though Mystery*File made the connection back in 2015, short of incredible luck in a used book store the never-reprinted pulp of Ian Alexander's The Disappearance of Archibald Forsyth (1933) looks impossible for me to get near without Canadian interlibrary loan. The possibility that Alex Knox was the creator of the first fictional Indigenous detective is fascinatingly random except that it fits with the interests of his much later, mostly historical adventure novels published under his own name. I am used to the phenomenon where actors not all that infrequently double as directors or screenwriters, but obscure crime authors is a new experience.
sovay: (Lord Peter Wimsey: passion)
sovay ([personal profile] sovay) wrote2025-08-15 12:23 pm

Be my hand on the oar to row to eternity

My poem "The Burnt Layer" has been accepted by Not One of Us. It's the one with the sky axe and α Draconis: stone-time, star-time. It's been looking for a home for a while and I am very glad to have it bedded here.

As the currently compiling issue is still looking for more fiction: story-writing people of my acquaintance, please send it in! The website remains temporary, the 'zine remains its black-and-white, saddle-stapled, nearly forty-year-old self. There's nothing like it out there in any of the fields.

I am off to the doctor's, which is a lot less the kind of journey I enjoy making.
sovay: (Haruspex: Autumn War)
sovay ([personal profile] sovay) wrote2025-08-14 11:35 pm

Here we are in the summer rain again

It was sunshowering most of the afternoon, so without doing anything as sensible as looking for rainbows, I went for a walk with my ancient digital camera which now turns itself off at regularly inopportune moments and still managed to capture some rain-dusted flowers.

We all live in the sun and in the rain. )

The latest fruit of college radio has been Mona's "Kiss Like a Woman" (2018) and the all-ages cute queerness of its video. Since I had just been talking to [personal profile] spatch about Charles Mee, I was extremely happy to see that the (re)making project is still online. The shell-shocking student production of The Trojan Woman: A Love Story (1994) which I saw at Brandeis in 2002 had been substantially, correctly rearranged from the original text. It triggered short fiction of mine directly and I still think about it.
sovay: (Rotwang)
sovay ([personal profile] sovay) wrote2025-08-13 11:27 pm

I'm the left hand ticking on the timeless clock

Otherwise mostly what goes on around here is capitalism, errands, and interacting with doctors: the usual. Wishing I could vaporize people with the power of my brain.

I had missed this article on the photographs of Louis and Antoinette Thuillier, who memorialized on glass negatives, with a view camera in the improvised studio of their farmyard, thousands on thousands of soldiers and laborers from around the literal world passing through Vignacourt on their way to the British lines of the First World War. It started as a business; it became memory-work, ghost-work. They cannibalized their own windows rather than erase an exposure, the last and perhaps only record of the men who had marched on to the Somme. I was not surprised to read that they took no more photographs after the war, that the husband shot himself, that the wife did not destroy the collection but left it in the farmhouse's attic for history to deal with, too close to the epicenter herself. If I had ever seen any of their images, I had not known the story. The article makes much of the immediacy and casualness of their pictures, of which this one makes a shock of a calling card because only their uniforms and the tin hat one of them isn't wearing tell the time: their expressions aren't a century old. Time is plastic stuff. Don't even ask how long a decade ago feels.

I was in the car tonight at the right time to hear a live-in-studio set from local rockers JVK, reprising three-fifths of their debut EP Hello, Again (2022) for WERS. I get to feel slightly ahead of the curve discovering Tristwch y Fenywod at the start of this year, but I had not encountered Cerys Hafana's "Child Owlet" (2024), which without altering the ballad becomes in their telling a witch song.

The mango lassi pie from Petsi does not actually much resemble the experience of a mango lassi, but since it is constructed along the principle of a key lime pie except with mango, I love it.
sovay: (Otachi: Pacific Rim)
sovay ([personal profile] sovay) wrote2025-08-11 09:13 pm

To cormorant to samphire to plover

I seem to have been the member of my family to introduce my niece to the Atlantic off Cape Elizabeth where I learned to swim. Since [personal profile] spatch and I had the honor and the fun of driving her back to her father, we took the opportunity to stop off in Kittery for fried summer foods, York Beach for body-slamming waves and salt water taffy and soft-serve, and then Two Lights for climbing all over the ledges she kept making sure were not petrified wood before handing the tall child back at Kettle Cove where she had waded out to gather wet-shining lumps of quartz. I forgot to pack swim trunks and the cuffs of my jeans are full of sand.

As we haul away to harbor. )

At Kettle Cove, I walked barefoot over the springing beds of knotted wrack and the emery bite of barnacles. I told my niece about the invasive tiny green crabs her father and I used to catch, which even under capitalism it is now ethical to consume. I dislike so very much of the wrench of the world, but I love that my niece has turned out to love the sea.