I seem to remember Godbolt, my first little kernel for all my guests to elaborate on, meeting with critical acclaim. Here is another story kernel, again from real life.

I was driving along at 8:00 am on a sunny morning, and saw a large, tough-looking man in a faded heavy-metal shirt. He had a shaved head, and a red beard just in the middle of his chin and extending for some inches, as occasionally seen on bikers. But this fellow had no leather jacket, nor, indeed, a motorbike. He was riding a demure yellow bicycle with a handlebar basket, and clutching one or two flowers in one hand as he rode.

How did he get there? What happened to him? Who were the flowers for? I’ll come up with an answer eventually, and so should everybody else. Make me laugh! Make me cry! Make me hurl! (Or not.)

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

After they had passed out of earshot of the strange boy, the sisters
slowed and looked about them. They were well and truly in the market
now. Most of the carts and barrows were stopped and heaped with wares
for sale. A smell of greasy cooking came to their cold noses, and they
followed the delicious reek down to a row of food-vendors. “Fish pie!”
cried one old man, and Eirian pointed excitedly. Carys, remembering the
look of the river, pulled her onwards.

“Meat pies,” bellowed a large woman with a red face, and Carys stood on
her tiptoes to get her attention. “Yeah?”

“If I may ask, ma’am,” said Carys softly, “what kind of meat?”

The woman stared blankly, “Kinda meat, whaddaya mean? It’s MEAT,
and you don’t look too good for it.” Carys excused herself and hurried
on. Finally, she decided the ‘tater pie’ seemed the safest, and she
counted out a few of their coins to the young woman in charge of that
cart.

“Which way are the Southdowns?” Eirian piped up as the girl
handed down their pies, and Carys noted the direction. Digging into the
potatoes, carrots and occasional green things wrapped in the greasy
dough, Carys and Eirian continued to walk and munch, the food rendered
exquisite by hunger pangs.

Around them, the dingy, sturdy
buildings became more dingy and less sturdy. The wares jumbled in carts
were more often dirty or broken, and odd, misshapen rag-forms tended
blankets of oddments, ready to sweep away at the sound of a Runner.

“Do you really think our aunt and uncle live here?”
asked Eirian, and Carys could do nothing but shrug in response.

On the corner of one road, a young man in an oversized hat kept
watch, and on entering the road Carys and Eirian were surprised to see
no peddlers at all, let alone the cautious, dangerous trade at which she
had guessed from the sentinel’s presence. Along one side of the street,
empty-eyed, anonymous store-fronts loomed, while the river gurgled
noxiously by on the right. Shabby characters perched in the doors to
the shops, and one or another would occasionally call, low and clear,
“Cooooold meat!”

A rather distinguished gentleman in a good greatcoat and an elegant
hat walked furtively down the street, and a lugubrious man in faded
black called out to him, “Five eleven, gov? A hunert-seventy? Lovely
likeness I got back here, gov.” The gentleman hesitated, then went up
to hold a whispered conversation with the sad-faced shopkeeper while the
others looked on in envy. A cart laden with long dark boxes turned quickly into a side-yard whose
gates were open and shut in a twinkling. As
Carys and Eirian passed out of the street, they could still hear the
strange soft calls of the shopkeepers, “Wanna disappear, missus?”
“Never look for you further,” “Quite a likeness, if’n a bit moist…”
before they melted into the whispers of the river, that great keeper of
secrets and cauldron of lies.

The Grey City XII

At the insistence of sister sledge and the instigation of brother wonko, I am posting another attempt at lucid dreaming.

The night’s dreams did not get a scintillating start, as I first dreamt my co-workers and I were having a competition to see who was best at using the new photocopier. At some point in the wee sma’s, however, things got interesting.

I found myself in a clearing in a South American rain forest, outside some sturdy temporary housing built for a scientific expedition of which I was a member. Three of us stood about in the clearing, discussing our latest discovery: me, my brother (Nope, I don’t have a brother. Good catch!), and some incarnation of Joxer, the bumbling good-natured Ted Raimi character from Xena. Whatever we’d discovered, it was pretty neat, so we piled into the expedition’s airplane to carry the news to the outside world.

This airplane was bright yellow, along the lines of a biplane, but terribly small. The pilot had his own cockpit, but there was one long cockpit that seemed much like a burlap sack into which the rest of us had to fit. Whether burdened by the excess people or by the conventional reluctance of things that should fly to do so in my dreams, the little toy biplane simply would not take off. We taxied ’round and ’round, until finally we heard that a terribly dangerous gang of bikers (Yes, bikers in a jungle. Your point?) was on its way to pillage and destroy indiscriminately.

Suddenly, taking off seemed a little more crucial than it had when only Science had been at stake! We taxied around a bit more, and managed at last to gain the air. We were rising, rising, out of the clearing and high into the air. The bikers roared into the clearing below, and just as we were about to be lost to their sight above the trees, the plane blew up.

Luckily, we all seemed to have rainbow guidable parachutes for just such an eventuality, and were tethered together. In fact, my companions seemed so unconcerned I concluded the plane had been meant to explode all along. We glided along towards the river, and the bikers changed course to intercept us.

We landed without event on an old wrecked riverboat mired at an angle in the mud. A number of vague acquaintances of ours were there, seeking a hiding place from the bikers. They were friendly enough, but very impractical, as their wearing black suits in the jungle attested, and while they had handguns, they seemed to know little about them, and kept pointing them at friendly people, including myself.

The bikers appeared, lining up between us and the sheltering jungles, their laughter as deep and menacing as their engine sounds. I really don’t want to die like this, I thought. Piffle, you won’t! I replied, Do you REALLY think this is happening?

Well, when I put it like that — I hazily grasped that this was a dream, and, as if in automatic response to the realization, I raised one fist and blasted up through the roof, flying swiftly and surely into the air. (Much easier than usual!)

Suddenly, as I paused in midair above the boat, two things happened. The dream started trying to take control back, and I decided I had to rescue my friends. My lucidity began to fade, but the dream came up against the thorny problem of having a heroine flying confidently above the banks of the Amazon. So the dream settled the matter at once, and suddenly I was blonde and wearing a suspiciously familiar red and blue costume with a distinctive golden ‘S’ shield on the chest. I swooped back through the hole I’d made in the roof and rejoined my friends.

My brother looked at me, and I realized with a bit of a shock that my brother was Joss Whedon. He didn’t seem at all surprised that I was Supergirl — but, of course, supplied the dream, I had saved his life a bazillion times, of course he knew. He had only saved my life once, when we were kids, from a vampire — and he’d created an entire television franchise about a blonde superpowered girl who can kill vampires without her brother’s help just to needle me.

With a grin at my pesky kid brother, I zoomed out of the wreck and started laying waste to the biker gang with casual ease and flying super-strong fists.

Then I woke up. It was a good dream.

One thing happened yesterday in the park. One I saw today in the park. One is bad, the other is good.

This morning I saw a man reading while walking his dog. The world needs more of this kind of multi-tasking.

Yesterday I stepped on a slug going down a slightly inclined bit of park and nearly ended up sprawled in the mud. With the aid of a railing, I saved myself. Nothing could save the slug. It was a very Oregon moment.

My hair is too long. Far too long. It is long enough that when I twist it up and try to stick it in a clip, some part pokes out somewhere like a spray of feathers. Upon discovering this this morning, I searched for headbands, and found none. I pulled out a bejewelled dragonfly clip and spent approximately 15 minutes trying to get it to hold a substantial amount of hair off my face, only to fail, and hope that styling product and inertia would be enough to keep my hair practical throughout the day. So far, so good.

Why the angst? Why can’t I just get a haircut? Well, since before I was born, the hair of the women of my house was trimmed by only one high priestess of the Scissor. And while her ways are often arcane, tradition has long bound me to her. What entreaties or offerings might ensure a perfect cut, none can tell, for such blessings were fickle at her altar. Only I carry on the tradition now, the last of my house to live in the district of this priestess’s temple.

What madness led me to accept my sister’s entreaties to visit her hair-priestess in Seattle, I know not. Worries deep-seated and mediocre cuts long past prompted me to follow my sibling to this new shrine. And lo, though the young priestesses there had elfed their hair in strange unnatural ways, yet still the skill of Scissor was strong in their hands. My hair was shorn to perfection, and even now, many moons later, it looks passing pretty when left by itself. This cut was a blessing divine.

So now I languish in the environs of my native temple, unwilling to try my luck again for an uncertain prize. What new temple must I try, or how long must I wait to again visit the shining Scissor shrine of Seattle’s City?

It’s come again, the rain! How sick you must all get of my endless rhapsodies on rain, but I really can’t stop.

After weeks of sickly, stifling heat, everything seemed pale, languid, sealed in the light like a flower into a glass paperweight. But on Saturday, there was a rush of smell, sweet rich water borne on the wind as a herald, and the horrible taut sphere of the summer sky was broken by rain. I didn’t even realize how much I’d missed it until I looked out the window and saw the world returning, as if I’d missed it all this time. The trees and ground were bright and vivid again, everything seeming thirsty and joyous and alive, magically restored by just the first drops, as if we’d all been powdered and stored for later use. The cold, healthy smell filled my nose and eased the headache I’d been nursing. The raindrops fell like children’s careless kisses on my skin. We are back, we are home, we are real and wet again.

We all know that the Web is full of horrible spelling and grammar. However, some instances, for whatever reason, hurt me more than others. Here is one such:

rein (n.)


1. A long narrow leather strap attached to each end of the bit of a bridle and used by a rider or driver to control a horse or other animal. Often used in the plural.

2. A means of restraint, check, or guidance.

3. A means or an instrument by which power is exercised. Often used in the plural: the reins of government.

Now, people, I do realize you may live in places where horses have long since disappeared, but do make an effort to spell this word in a way that makes sense! While the Boy King George does seem to be afraid of horses, that doesn’t mean that we can’t spell the word correctly when we refer to him as having ‘the reins of power.’ Thank Providence, said Boy King does NOT have multiple ‘reigns,’ and, if we are lucky, shall have neither two four-year reigns, nor two concurrent reigns in different countries, in manner of European dual-monarchs. Further more, unless the Justices have taken up residence in the excrescence’s spleen or other sensitive region, I have no idea how the Supreme Court of the United States can be urged to ‘reign in the President.’

Please, make a note of it, Mr. Internet!

Some time ago—at the beginning of July, in fact, you may recall Matt and I went to Grants Pass and Ashland, and among our activities in the area was wine tasting in the Applegate Valley. Our favorite winery from the trip was Wooldridge Creek Winery, a friendly, imaginative winery brimming over with good cheer, small children, and dogs. After a lot of indecision, we finally didn’t buy any wine on the spot, but pre-ordered a few varieties that had not yet been released.

Yesterday, UPS attempted to deliver the wine. We know this because I spotted the yellow InfoNotice on our door, and was rather alarmed to see “Adult Signature Required on Delivery! (package must be handed to recipient over 21)” circled emphatically upon it. As I wandered into the house wondering how any age-restricted materials ended up being sent to our mild-mannered selves, I suddenly remembered the wine. I was much relieved.

I turned my attention to the InfoNotice, and was irked to discover that the options for “Adult Signature required” were what you might call unfriendly to the working couple. You could not have it delivered to a neighbor (even did I know which of my neighbors did not work and feel comfy asking them), and you could not sign to have them leave it on the stoop (doubtless for the protection of vino-seeking gangs of neighborhood toddlers). Having never had any success in the past convincing a courier service to alter the destination address on file, I assumed we couldn’t have them deliver it to either workplace. Apparently my qualms in this regard, founded as they were upon the behavior of FedEx, have no place in a consideration of UPS’s policies. Upon calling the InfoNotice line, a panoply of choices were presented to me, including changing the address. I had it delivered to work.

So this afternoon as I sat at my desk, feeling the gnawing presentiments of lunch, I received a call from the nerve center of Shipping & Receiving. “Umm, I have a package here for you,” she said cautiously.

“Oh, yes, I told Stan [the hands and feet of Shipping & Receiving] about that.”

“Well, it says ‘DON’T RELEASE TO INTOXICATED PERSONS’, so I’m going to have to Breathalyze you first!”

I laughed, and headed on over in the sun, plotting the blog rant that has now been postponed. As I performed my usual act of laziness by skipping the concrete ramp up to the building in favor of one huge concrete step, I miscalculated, stubbed my toe, and fell clumsily across the concrete stoop. Having managed to distribute the hurt across several toes, a skinned knee, a bruised hip, and both hands, I seemed more injured in pride than body, and I took a quick glance at the roofers across the way to make sure they weren’t laughing. Ruefully, I hobbled into Shipping and eyed the box of wine. “Maybe you shouldn’t let me have that, after all,” I said….

When I was little, my parents would take me to the beach, and my father would carry me in a sturdy baby backpack along the grey, shimmering margin. I don’t know, truly, if these are my memories, or back-formed images tricked out of photographs and later trips. But the later trips — those I know I remember. My mother would wear a quilted aqua jacket which I privately thought looked like Princess Leia’s Hoth vest, and my father would wear his sturdy brown corduroy coat with the big knobbly buttons, just as he would to work outside in bad weather. The corduroy was large of wale, and made a sound like a giant zipper when he moved his arms.

My sister and I would wear little hooded sweatshirts or jackets, gathered tight around our faces to save our ears from the whistling wind, but there was no way to save our red noses from cold and dripping. Our bangs would tangle and fill with salt and sand as we dug and played. I loved to dig, and my sister, I think, loved to build, so she would set me to making the moat while she used the resulting pile to build a castle — one year, my parents bought her sand castle molds, and her castles rose perfect and tidy until the waters came.

I would dance along the waterline, spinning in the wind or the sun, just as I do now, child that I am, when I see the sea. I walked along the coast alongside my long-legged parents, and ran like an excited puppy at every tantalizing treasure half-exposed in the sand — the fragment of sand-dollar that might have been a whole, the bit of wood that might have been a timber of a wrecked ship, the jelly-fish that might have still been alive, and wriggling, and dangerous. I would write my name in the sand, and then, as I grew older and came to look upon the ocean not just as a vast, beautiful noise, a force that had tried to draw me in when tiny, a mélange of shimmers and shadings, but as the source of life, I would dawdle behind my parents and my sister as they headed up the beach away from the waterline, and write in the wet sand, “Mother Ocean.”

One upon a time, there was a little skink named Stippi. Stippi had long golden stripes down the sides of his sleek body, and a bright blue tail. Now, most skinks in the area of the rock-pile also had these colorful assets, but Stippi was irrationally vain.

“All hail the most beauteous skink,” he would trill (for though it be but little-known, it is a fact that skinks converse solely in song), “Compared to me all of you stink!”

And the older skinks would roll their eyes at Stippi, and discuss, in low sibilant dirges, how best to trick Stippi into falling into the darksome caves, where no one could see his vivid coloring or hear his persistent paeans to his own beauty.

One day, Stippi was sunning himself on the road outside the rock pile, and even in his half-doze, he sang,
“Oh, the shining glory of meeee
Is plain for all to seeeee
Come and join my reverieeeeee
And laud the gloreee of meee…”

And then Stippi was run over by an RV full of Californian tourists, and all the other skinks rejoiced.