rthstewart (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rthstewart) wrote2011-07-01 12:15 am
rthstewart) wrote2011-07-01 12:15 am
A bit of the personal and what's on the tasting menu
So, I really don't post the personal over here, but FYI, I'm not writing much right now as I'm on holiday in the wine country of California. So, I'm enjoying cheese, red wine, white wine, sparkling wine, chocolate, olives, olive oil, and the "spa" life. And yet more wine and cheese and chocolate.
So a HUGE thanks to everyone who has so far posted and reviewed and such in response to chapter 11, and I will respond and such as soon as time and sobriety permit.
I've got about 7,000 words already in the final chapter of this arc although some of it is old and needs to be considerably redone. Also, there is The Lion Broach. And Gifts. And Good Byes. And Explanations. And parts that are making me cry. And then, decisions -- do I press on, or go back to AW? I need to turn my attention to the Narnia Fic Exchange (Woot!) and two prompts for femgenficathon.
So, in the meantime,
There wasn’t anything for Morgan to do. Anything she could do. She was sure that she’d be able to organize Harold’s trunk better, make everything fit just so, but she’d have to fold it all, and Morgan had never been very good at the folding.
There were distractions in fabrics, like that silver thread that Crows could see. She saw it too, in the perfect rows of weave, and she could count the vertical threads and the horizontal threads and imagine how they would have been set up on a loom. Four by four by four by four, over and over.
But folding the fabric she’d have to leave that to someone else. “If you fold them, I could put things in your trunk,” she said, but Harold had smiled at her and said he had a way he needed to do it, with those things needed for a sea voyage on top and the rest on the bottom and she wouldn’t know those things.
But I do know those things. I remember. You were very neat when we sailed here, so many months ago. I always remember, Harold. Your kit was in the right hand corner, on top of a nightshirt you never wear. The soft shoes you sometimes wear on board for traction and protection from splinters during calm days go on the left, with the soles against the side so they don’t dirty the two shirts. You’ll wear your tall boots when you walk to the dock and sail away.
The trunk had a false bottom. Morgan could see that. It sounded differently, hollow-ish and the trunk wasn’t as deep as it should be – smaller on the inside than it was on the outside, so there were secret compartments.
Morgan felt like that’s how she was, broken into so many pieces and compartments. Because she was so broken, she had always been good at puzzles and patterns. She knew how to make each piece fit just so, in trunks and spreadsheets and bricks in buildings, she could see the threads no one but the Crows could see, count all the beans in a jar, and knew when things didn’t add up. She just never could make her own pieces fit.
So a HUGE thanks to everyone who has so far posted and reviewed and such in response to chapter 11, and I will respond and such as soon as time and sobriety permit.
I've got about 7,000 words already in the final chapter of this arc although some of it is old and needs to be considerably redone. Also, there is The Lion Broach. And Gifts. And Good Byes. And Explanations. And parts that are making me cry. And then, decisions -- do I press on, or go back to AW? I need to turn my attention to the Narnia Fic Exchange (Woot!) and two prompts for femgenficathon.
So, in the meantime,
There wasn’t anything for Morgan to do. Anything she could do. She was sure that she’d be able to organize Harold’s trunk better, make everything fit just so, but she’d have to fold it all, and Morgan had never been very good at the folding.
There were distractions in fabrics, like that silver thread that Crows could see. She saw it too, in the perfect rows of weave, and she could count the vertical threads and the horizontal threads and imagine how they would have been set up on a loom. Four by four by four by four, over and over.
But folding the fabric she’d have to leave that to someone else. “If you fold them, I could put things in your trunk,” she said, but Harold had smiled at her and said he had a way he needed to do it, with those things needed for a sea voyage on top and the rest on the bottom and she wouldn’t know those things.
But I do know those things. I remember. You were very neat when we sailed here, so many months ago. I always remember, Harold. Your kit was in the right hand corner, on top of a nightshirt you never wear. The soft shoes you sometimes wear on board for traction and protection from splinters during calm days go on the left, with the soles against the side so they don’t dirty the two shirts. You’ll wear your tall boots when you walk to the dock and sail away.
The trunk had a false bottom. Morgan could see that. It sounded differently, hollow-ish and the trunk wasn’t as deep as it should be – smaller on the inside than it was on the outside, so there were secret compartments.
Morgan felt like that’s how she was, broken into so many pieces and compartments. Because she was so broken, she had always been good at puzzles and patterns. She knew how to make each piece fit just so, in trunks and spreadsheets and bricks in buildings, she could see the threads no one but the Crows could see, count all the beans in a jar, and knew when things didn’t add up. She just never could make her own pieces fit.
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It sounds like a wonderful holiday (wish I was there!), something nice. And peaceful. And relaxing.
... but my real question is, "Have you have seen either Bacchus or his Maenads lurking about?" Also, any overly dry wells that have magically filled with wine (and women)?
no subject