I went to Seattle for a few days, and I came back to discover my kitten has grown! She is visibly bigger, has filled out, and can now leap to the backs of chairs from a full stop, whereas laps were only JUST accessible by leap before! She’s getting so big! sniff

So, my advisor (you know, in my MFA Program, remember?) suggests I submit one of the stories I sent him to (ominous trumpets) an Editor. I have, of course, done this before, but only with genre pieces. The piece in question is not genre. So I sit, riffling and re-riffling an inch of my trusty Writer’s Market. There are so MANY literary magazines. Do I send it to one of the posher ones that still takes new writers? Do I send it to a little one? Do I send it to five that take simultaneous submissions? I could just choose one, wait for the rejection and go to the next, but the real kicker is…most of them don’t read or ‘read slowly’ between May and September. Curse it!

Qubit and Tazendra had, at first, a rather distant relationship; that is, if you can call something a ‘relationship’ which consists largely of hissing from ten feet away. Gradually, the big scaredy-Qubit realized that, despite her youthful exuberance, Tazendra was a little slip of a thing and could not harm her, Qubit, in any meaningful way. Diplomatic relations were established:

Boundaries were established and tested:

But these days, it seems that the Qubit-Tazendra relationship, while still largely centered on wrasslin’, is cordial and affectionate. Qubit will begin the tussling herself, and even exit the sanctum of wonko’s computer room in order to pounce on her playmate. Qubit occasionally sniffs and nuzzles at Tazendra in a sweet manner, as if, if only Tazendra did not respond to all attention from her elder with a mad pounce, she might consider washing her.

Yesterday, I had to take the little tyke back to the shelter to get spayed. She was brave and silent on the car ride over. This procedure done, I shall officially adopt her, and there will be much rejoicing. However, in the meantime, Qubit and I are mopey. There is no little bundle of chaos ready to pounce on us, knock over our dishes, or please us with her loud and ready purring. Last night, Qubit looked high and low for her little friend, but she was nowhere to be found.

I am more or less a sucker for TV on DVD. It’s so convenient, so portable, so crisp, so FULL OF DELICIOUS CONTINUITY. However, it is still a young medium, relatively speaking, and maybe there is some feedback the studios would like from me. Out of the goodness of my heart, and not because it annoys the stuffing out of me, I’d like to share some constructive criticism.

Really, it’s constructive! You’ll notice some of them are things ONE company or series is doing RIGHT!

Top Ten Best Practices for TV on DVD

10. ‘Play all’ button.
(MVP: Babylon 5) Sometimes you just want to have a gargantuan view-a-thon, and this easy-to-implement feature facilitates that. One button, and the entire DVD of episodes plays.

9. Episode list on packaging.
(MVP: Xena) This helps a lot when you’re trying to find a specific episode quickly, and there’s no reason NOT to do it.

8. Don’t quote the series on the packaging, or, worse yet, the discs.
(LVP: Angel) Umm, does anyone realize that people who want to watch the TV show may NOT have watched the TV show? Some seasons of Buffy and Angel have totally vital and spoily dialogue plastered across the packaging, or on the discs where you’re REALLY likely to see them.

7.Spoiler-free menus.
Similarly, we’re pretty much stuck seeing the menu, so if you could choose images that don’t give away that Character B is a vampire or that A and C are getting together…that would help.

6. Skippable intros.
(MVP: Everything Joss.) We promise we know your studio’s name and musical sting, and that the FBI and Interpol frown on thus and so, and that you aren’t responsible for anything Ted Raimi says. We don’t need to see it 6 times per viewing of the season.

5. Quick menu switching.
(LVP: Buffy Season 2) Again, we are going to see this OVER and OVER. It’s swell you sprang for a CGI swoop-shot through a cemetery, but by root and twig, we don’t need to sit through it every time we press a button!

4. STOP the foldfests.
(LVP: Buffy, Angel, early seasons of Xena) Many shows are in these gigantic folding cardboard monstrosities. There are a lot of ways to deal with the problem of packaging 6 or more discs attractively, but I think the Firefly approach of slimline cases and the Babylon 5/late Xena book-style packages are the way to go. The Xena discs even click in place nicely and don’t fall out all the time!

3. Clear episode progression.
(LVP: Buffy Season 3; MVP: Xena) Episode numbers, a clear linear pattern to the episode titles…any of these will do. Instead, we often have four episodes, one in each quadrant, and they don’t always progress in the same manner from series to series or season to season (Buffy Season 3 had a different pattern from any other Buffy season.)

2. Silent menus. (MVP: Xena) Remember, again, we will hear this MANY times. If you choose a good atmospheric bit from an episode, it will have lost all meaning by the time we watch that episode, and in any case, we’ll be sick to death of it. Xena compromises by playing the (beautiful) theme music on the disc menu, but having blessedly silent episode menus, so we can get a drink, go to the bathroom, and generally settle ourselves without a 30-second loop of effects and music driving us mad.

No one has this last one yet, and I think movies as well as TV shows need this all-important feature:
1. Mute-able characters.
I don’t want to listen to Jar-Jar Binks or Kennedy the Annoying Girl in the comfort of my own home. I could probably get wonko to watch Babylon 5 if Sinclair spoke in subtitles for all of Season 1! Give us more freedom. After all, we bought the damn thing!

If a decalogue is too much for the studios, I’ll cut it down to two general reminders: We may not have seen it before, and we will see it over and over again.

So, having been so pleased with my heady entré into the local literary world, I was eager for another taste. To this end, I perused my Powell’s electronic newsletter with greater attention, and came up with several events to attend. The first one was tonight.

So we gathered, those who were anxious to be seen to Know People, those of us eager to remain in our isolated bubbles, and all of us watching each other, no doubt all to write about the experience in our blogs (we’re all too old to have moved on to MySpace. I hope.) As I said, people-watching was everywhere, and all of us were a bit self-conscious as a result. As I sat, unfashionably early, I read one of my MFA reading-list assignments, Meeting the Shadow: The Hidden Power of the Darker Side of Human Nature, scribbled notes and musings, and wondered how pretentious I looked. Half the women (as I did) pulled at their shirts to force them to meet their fashionably low pants in back, exposed by the folding chairs. Half the people (as I did) sported Timbuk2 bags — I guess I’m wearing a uniform, unbeknownst to me!

The reading was fun, and I bought a book of stories by Aimee Bender, whose story, reading, and demeanor I liked most of all. Of course they have the three readers sitting at one table to sign, which creates a subtle dynamic of competition. Poor writers; but poorest for another reason.

MOBILE PHONES. Dear Goddess on a Lotus Leaf, MOBILE PHONES. We complain about poor courtesy at movie theatres when one or two phones among 200 viewers go off in two hours. How about five phones among 90 people in less than an hour? 90 people listening to live humans with feelings read things they wrote? I guess I was spoiled by the attentive audiences at the Residency!

Day before yesterday I got back from grad school; today I got myself a brand-new kitten. I act fast! I went to the Bonnie Hays Shelter in Hillsboro and played with a couple of kittens. One was adventurous and playful. She had ocelot stripes in her tabby coat, and black war-stripes by her eyes, and perhaps it was just that I’d been rereading The Phoenix Guards, but this headlong, warlike little girl called out to be named Tazendra and taken home.

So I did both!

Tazendra, the Dzurlord created by Stephen Brust, is so fearless that she laments the unfairness of having five on her side against an army—she’d rather do it by herself. Tazendra, the tiny kitten in my lap, is so fearless that she explored her entire room of the house in the first 90 seconds and wants to get out and explore the parts of the house occupied by Qubit. Qubit isn’t terribly pleased about the whole other-cat smell and so forth. We’re hoping they’ll get used to each other’s smell under the door before Tazendra gets TOO stir-crazy. So, for the record, adult Qubit takes 3 hours to decide a room is safe enough to stop cowering under the couch; kitten Tazendra took 3 minutes to decide she wanted to go out into the unknown where an adult cat was hissing. Yeah, I named her well.

Here’s the little sweetie that’s been climbing my pant legs, walking across my keyboard, and purring like a tiny airplane in my lap:

More photos!

It’s hard not to write poetry when your brain is seething and bubbling with words, ideas, and craft. I thought I’d check in with this one, a first draft. The line breaks are definitely in progress. I think my inspiration was the rhythms of a talk from poet Dorianne Laux about music and meaning in poetry. She advised us to store poetry we loved in our bodies by memorizing it, so that we can come unconsciously to know its rhythms. Listening to her recite from memory helps, too!

Uncondensed

I heard on the news this morning

that a woman stole all twenty volumes

of the Oxford English Dictionary.

She drove a pickup through the store window

and pulled each thick book from the shelf

letting it fall

into the impatient tailgate.

She was apprehended

later that evening

in a disused warehouse by the Sound.

“You can’t take it back,” she told them.

"You

can’t.

“In all my life

it is the only thing I have ever

inherited.”

My first MFA residency starts today! 10 days of intensive seminars, workshopping, readings, and WHAT HAVE YOU. I will probably be checking in here from time to time, and of course if I see anything perty, you can find it on Flickr. I’ll doubtless be busy, but I won’t be without Intertron (thank Heaven. The shakes were pretty bad for a while on my Canada trip! ;) ) so I won’t fall off the face of the Earth.

Be seeing you!

Update: This was the first day of the rest of my life, and I am ecstatic about it!

So my desktop computer, Titania, has broken down. New parts arrived via UPS this very day. I had already, since her first construction, replaced her graphics card, her RAM, and given her a new, larger hard-drive; with this upgrade she’s getting a new motherboard, a new processor, another new graphics card, and losing the old, smaller hard drive. So, in short, absolutely nothing will be original to this computer except the case and its native power supply.

So…should I rename it? I suppose it doesn’t matter in the slightest. One could have a series of completely indepent computers, all named Frank, and as long as they weren’t on the same network at the same time, I imagine no repercussions would ensue (except people thinking you dreadful dull.) However, while I think most commentators would admit the existence of some sort of ‘essence’ in a sentient being that would allow one to apply the same name to it were all its pieces replaced but its memories and personality left intact, I’ve never heard any sort of ruling on nonsentients. If Qubit were replaced tomorrow with a clone of the same age, would we feel compelled to give the new cat a new name? Should I think of a new faerie name for my zippier and completely mindwiped machine?

If so, it sure as hell isn’t going to be ‘Oberon’. Because I KNOW her gender hasn’t changed with her innards.

UPDATE: I had to run out and buy a new power-supply, but I haven’t changed her name. Yet. I’m tempted to name her ‘Promethea’ :p But I won’t. For now.

The Grey City I
The Grey City II
The Grey City III
The Grey City IV
The Grey City V
The Grey City VI
The Grey City VII
The Grey City VIII
The Grey City IX
The Grey City X
The Grey City XI
The Grey City XII

Button Street was a narrow brown place with slight buildings leaning against each other like a drunken chorus line. Ragpickers yelled to and at each other in an odd trade patois which both girls felt they were one thought, one moment from comprehending. Dessicated old women sat outside, using the last daylight to piece together bits of many ruined shirts into one whole one.

Their brown fingers were pricked into roughness by the trade, and their milky eyes could barely see the tiny stitches they made by rote. Carys hoped she would never be such a crone, then shivered. As things stood now, she would need luck to reach such an age and station.

“It’s almost twilight, Carys,” Eirian said. “Will we reach Uncle Iestyn and Bopa Marged tonight?”

“I don’t know, Eirian. We must keep walking, and we shall see.”

“But the Spectre said—”

“In-spector, sweetling—”

“The Inspector said we must be in a house tonight.”

“So he did, so we must hurry on, and hope to be in a house, or to remain unseen, either one.”

So Eirian marched after Carys, keeping her sulks to a minimum, as they walked from the poorest part of Button Street to the most affluent, and back into the only mildly squalid; from evening into twilight.

They turned on Orchard Street, which despite its name was quite urban, rows of expressionless, decaying storefronts; and Brewery, where great red brick buildings gaped at them with all the ghostliness of day-busy places seen by night.

For it was night, now. The girls walked quickly, the cold breeze clutching at their stained skirts and pulling at their heavy bags. But the wind carried more than discomfort. Carys stopped and held out a hand to stay her sister. “Footsteps,” she whispered, feeling fear rise around her like the fog from the River.

“They’re running,” mouthed Eirian.

“To be taken in if not properly housed by next evening.” “’Ouse where they works you.” “You’ll be moved on when the Runners come.” “Wermin!” The approaching footsteps bounced clearly off the high brick walls.

Carys suppressed a sob, and turned. They ran back down Brewery and turned onto Orchard, arms aching and knees battered by the suitcase and trunk.

“Carys!” cried Eirian, pointing. Ahead on their left, the grey buildings fell away, leaving a decrepit plank fence. Behind it, bare branches straggled up into the night sky. “An orchard!” she said, and surged towards an inviting gap in the boards.

“I am quite sure that wasn’t here,” Carys gasped, but followed. They pushed the trunk and carpetbag past protesting slats, and grubbed in after them themselves.

They stood at the edge of a vast orchard. Moon and starlight diffused throughout the clouds overhead, and drifted down to earth in a pale uniform glow. Ahead of them, the lines of trees diverged, straight and infinite. Eirian walked a bit to one side, and different lines opened up, just as long and unchanging. She shuddered.

Carys looked around. “Come back!” she hissed, and Eirian wandered back. “This orchard is a great deal larger than it looked, dear. We mustn’t lose this spot, for who knows where else the fence may let us through?”

This seemed like good sense, and the two girls excavated great armfuls of dead, crisp leaves, leaving a dark, bare stripe of loam which pointed to the gap in the fence. Now they were even grubbier than before. Sighing, Carys scrubbed a bit at Eirian’s little face, and retied the ’draggled ribbons of her bonnet. They had spare aprons in their luggage, but those could wait ’til morning, since sleeping in an orchard was unlikely to be a clean experience!

They walked a few feet into the trees, and sat down on the thickly fallen leaves. Around them, the grey trunks stood in ranks, silent save for the far-away clicks of branch upon branch in some unfelt wind.

“Carys? Isn’t it March?” said Eirian, staring at the web of twigs above.

“Yes.”

“Shouldn’t the leaves be soil, and the boughs be in bud?”

Carys sighed. “We are a long way from home, dear. I scarcely know in which direction the sun sets here.” And the girls, nestling into each other’s arms on their crackling bed, shut their eyes and went to sleep.

Eirian dreamt that she was back on the Alcyone, belowdecks, lurched back and forth in the senseless tussle of the waves before she gained her sealegs (or, as she had called it, her ‘seahead’.) The black deckboards blurred and grabbed at her stocking feet; it was dark water and she was going to drown, pressed in by the blackness. She woke up to Carys’s screams. They were drowning, in a morass of dark, twining arms.

The Grey City XIV