green_dreams: Teddy bear wielding wooden sword to fight off terrible monster. (fnoo)
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders Fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders Fields.

- John McCrae
      Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned out backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!--An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
Bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.


- Wilfred Owen

Nine.

May. 25th, 2016 10:52 am
green_dreams: (Piper looking noble)
This is not a drill. There are 41 years left on the duration. Nine have elapsed.

As I've said before, I feel warranties should come with an extension.

Much love on this glorious 25th of May.
green_dreams: Sepia-toned picture of a dog, with the caption "Will reload saves for Dogmeat." (will reload for Dogmeat)
(I initially thought about just saying "42!" Which would be the answer to why I am happy, but comes with a whole lot of unrelated associations.)

But yes. Eight years.

Best decision I ever made.
green_dreams: Teddy bear wielding wooden sword to fight off terrible monster. (fnoo)
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders Fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders Fields.

- John McCrae
      Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned out backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!--An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
Bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.


- Wilfred Owen

Sisyphean.

Nov. 7th, 2014 01:27 pm
green_dreams: (small cautious mouse)
I am so tired, and there is so much email.
green_dreams: (small cautious mouse)
I need to talk to the store and tell them I want a different pair of glasses.

This would be less stressful if they didn't have a whoops-the-head-came-off-screw that means the plastic "scabbard" on the arm comes off--not because that's a problem, but because I was in yesterday to get the screw replaced and they told me "oh, no, can't replace the screw, we'd need to take the plastic bit off and that'd break the plastic bit."

It feels distinctly weird to be going in to say "Hey, you were wrong, but I don't want the glasses anyway." I know that technically I'm not really being ungrateful and it's perfectly okay to express dissatisfaction with things I paid for, but... ugh.

Oh well. Onwards?
green_dreams: Books, and coffee cup with "Happiness is a cup of coffee and a really good book" on the side. (Default)
It's been a while, so I made icons again.

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Table generated using angelamaria's Icon Table Generator.
Icons by their own makers.

The Knick

Sep. 6th, 2014 10:49 pm
green_dreams: Benches with dead leaves on them on a rainy day. (fall benches in the rain)
We have begun watching The Knick. I confess I went in mildly suspicious; I remembered [profile] vschanoes's mentioning a show set in 19thC New York that had a noticeable lack of working-class women who weren't prostitutes. That was a couple of years ago, and since then I've honestly noticed that that's a fairly common thing with period shows.

How did the first episode open? Close-up of the shoes of the protagonist, past which we can see a couple of prostitutes.

I kinda went in expecting it, so it wasn't surprising and annoying, but it is annoying. (Fortunately my mood is currently exceedingly sturdy, due to a measured application of butter, cream, garlic, and potatoes, so it is not more than annoying.)

Aside from that... well, a handful of the characters have admirable qualities. A couple of them seem to be decent people. I think I shall keep watching for a bit. And yet, I am not quite willing to clear time for it.
green_dreams: Teddy bear wielding wooden sword to fight off terrible monster. (because my heart is pure)
Okay. Nearly ready. Plans for today, relating to travel, are "pack". I need to add one set of clothes, plus something nice for the Hugos. (Probably just a dressier than usual top; there is a certain shrug-and-carry-on[1] freedom to living out of a bag for most of a week.)

I need to copy out my travel information, and clean out my wallet.

Chargers, toiletries, passport, candied ginger, caffeinated chocolate. Refill on Starbucks card. Travel packets of laundry soap (yes, the hotel has laundry service, but in case). E-reader.

Laptop.

Finalized con schedule.

Possibles: a book I am thinking of getting signed. A camera. My knitting.
---
[1] Not intended to be a reference to a carry-on bag, but hey.

Dates!

Jul. 29th, 2014 11:29 pm
green_dreams: Sepia-toned picture of a dog, with the caption "Will reload saves for Dogmeat." (will reload for Dogmeat)
I am not-quite-bored, so here are dates. Mostly I am curious to see who will recognize which ones; partly I am curious to see if anyone has any others to add.

(For the record, 26 May, 1988[1]

August 29, 1997 (suspect this one will tip several people off... got sunblock?)

12 June, 2070

October 23, 2077 (my favourite)
---
[1] Arguable! But it's Thursday, 26th of May, which I believe makes 1988 the most likely guess.
green_dreams: Books, and coffee cup with "Happiness is a cup of coffee and a really good book" on the side. (coffee and a book)
I did many other things, and I would like to say I am deeply grateful to the friend who met me for lunch, and to the light of my life for listening and handling dinner and generally being the man I married.

That said. Bookses.

While wandering around downtown, I hit the library, where I picked up Subterranean: Tales of Dark Fantasy 2 and Straight to Darkness. Both are horror anthologies.[1]

Then it turned out there was a United Way fundraising booksale in the place I was meeting a friend for lunch, so we stopped by. I got Bradbury's Long After Midnight, LeGuin's Rocannon's World, Barbara Gowdy's We So Seldom Look On Love, Koontz's The Darkest Evening of the Year, and Special Delivery (which is a coffeetable book on Canada Post's history).

Then on my way back that afternoon, I picked up Ann Leckie's Ancillary Justice, since I have Hugos to vote on and should make an informed decision.

(Also, on Tuesday, I was returning books to the library, and I hit the Book Nook and picked up Two of the Deadliest, a crime anthology, and The Specter from the Magician's Museum. It is a continuation of the John Bellairs series with Lewis Barnavelt--a lovely kid's series from when I was young, featuring necromancy and wizardry and hands of glory and mean witches and beanies and the colour purple.)
===
[1] Actually, uhm, is anyone able to take a quick look at the names in Straight to Darkness and peg, by name, whether there is a gender mix in the authors? I would normally assume so, but frankly the last three Mythos anthologies I picked up had (1) no women at all, (2) no women at all, and (3) two women out of eighteen authors, so I have gotten a bit cynical. And I am trying to hit gender parity in my reading this year.
green_dreams: Teddy bear wielding wooden sword to fight off terrible monster. (idealistic teddy bear)
Seven years ago today.

We had silk lilacs at the ceremony, because plant lilacs are just terrible for everyone's allergies.

Seven years and I don't think I could have made a better decision.

To unused warranties.
green_dreams: A warm-toned picture of a typewriter and a rose on a desk. (mellow typewriter)
Elise has put up a comprehensive list of all her jewelry, here.

I pass this along for those of you who like shiny things, and might be moved to at least look at things titled "Threnody for a Lindworm" or "Space Opera with Tentacles", on the general theory of loveliness.

(This is so much better than looking at the state of the back yard, today. Ugh.)
green_dreams: A green picture of a rainy city street at night in the rain. (green rain)
I am feeling odd tonight,
and cold. It was a warm night;
they liked my hair
--cold purple, warm purple, amethyst and plum--
better than I thought,
and it was good to listen,
and Sarah left me a spindle and a bag of fiber
I don't even know the name of.
Top?
It's not-white and faintly scratchy. A princess
would spin it into diamonds. Gold only comes from straw.

But I have
so many things to do, so many nearly done
and books begun
and cleaning undertaken
and rooms and jobs and plans and good intent
that I can feel them teetering above me
just one more
just one more
and they will come down and paralyze me in a pile.
The word is tsundoku. I think of time in terms of books.

and so tonight I will finish one step. Just one.
And go to sleep, and waken lighter in the morning
and feel the sillier for writing all this down
with line breaks studding it like beads
in an enthusiast's first clumsily assembled earrings.
green_dreams: (Astonishingly still calm.)
Sarah Monette (author of the Kyle Murchison Booth stories, which I have probably bent your ear about if we've talked books in person in, oh, the last year or so) is having a contest to name her sock elephant. Go. Comment. Celebrate. Be kind.
green_dreams: (avoid danger and damage)
I need to head in to work at some point in the next few days.

I was planning to head in today, because it is scheduled to get quite warm.

It is not yet "quite warm"; the weather forecast has a freezing rain warning in effect, which may well turn the world into a glossy little ice slick, possibly with a coat of water on top. I dislike walking on wet ice slicks.

I am trying to remind myself that the weather maybe being unpleasant is not a good reason to stay inside, because that way lies four months of being a shut-in.

ETA: have looked outside and the rain does not appear to have hit here yet, at least not hard enough that I can see the tree branches encased in little ice bubble-suits, so suppose this is a plus in terms of reminding myself to not overmuch focus on the weather reports as an excuse. Or something.
green_dreams: (November 11)
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders Fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders Fields.

- John McCrae
      Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned out backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!--An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
Bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.


- Wilfred Owen

*headdesk*

Oct. 12th, 2013 10:12 pm
green_dreams: (...crap)
Starting to make noticeable progress on clearing physical living space.

Inbox is up to 450 e-mails.

*sighs and rolls up sleeves*
green_dreams: Books, and coffee cup with "Happiness is a cup of coffee and a really good book" on the side. (Default)
Specifically, it seems, that time of year when I start getting very unhappy about stuff. I realize it's been more or less a constant thread for a while (this is okay--unfucking one's habitat is a process, and I am making progress), but it feels more acute now than it did, say, a few weeks ago.

*cue the "oh my god, books, why do I have so many books, argh argh argh flail" screed. Am sure many of you can fill it in from context and past experience*

I am coming to think that one of the absolute best things about Farthing party was the lack of a dealer's room.

I'm trying to catch up, and clean up (which is interesting with the occasional dermatographia flare-up, I will just say), and carry on. Please be patient.
green_dreams: Books, and coffee cup with "Happiness is a cup of coffee and a really good book" on the side. (Default)
Waking up at noon, I find, completely screws my plans for the day. It does this even if I don't actually have any plans for the day, which seems sort of unfair. Crushed plans I could articulate my complaints about, you see. Crushed vague-aspirations-to-productivity are like an itch in the middle of your back that you can't reach to scratch. A bloody bruising blistered itch.

That said, I actually got some things done (some cleaning, escaped the house by daylight[1], picked up small!groceries, somehow managed to beat the erratic eating which goes with an erratic wake time), and am very glad I live in a household with individuals who are inclined to be forgiving of my flail.
---
[1] A day on which I do not do this always feels disorientingly weird.
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