My reasoning was this: Ashland is a small town. Ashland has many actors. After watching said actors in various plays and piercing the raiments, face-daubings, and hairpieces that concealed their forms, you would think that I should have no trouble recognizing them swanning about town. I spy them not. But, Felicity, you will say, they are actors. They are not running around town looking for somewhere to spend their ample funds like the average Ashland visitor. They are probably snugly leading normal lives in their Festival-owned apartments. But still, I told my husband, you’d think I’d see one or two occasionally. Whilst I cannot recall with absolute certainty the events of trips to Ashland over my entire life, I am quite certain the last three trips have produced no sightings. The cooking store? The Safeway? The Laundromat? Don’t they buy books, or go out to dinner? Where are they hidden? Thus did I reason as we strolled down Main Street.

Matthew smirked, “Are you saying that the Oregon Shakespeare Festival employs automata?”

Of course I wasn’t, but neither am I constitutionally able to pass up such an opening, so together we sketched a wee phantasmagoria of clockwork actors and the implications should Actors’ Equity become aware. We laughed and continued on our way, passing with (me) covetous looks and (Matt) averted eyes a display of shoes and hats, and just as we were about to pass the Varsity Movie Theatre (“The management does not endorse the views and opinions expressed in Fahrenheit 9/11. The Varsity is pleased to present a wide variety of films presenting many diverse viewpoints over the course of the year.”), a compact, muscular man with an energetic stride and a mane of tousled cornrows bustled by. We did not need to see his austere face, or hear his hearty projection when a hippy importuned him for directions, to recognize Kevin Kenerly, a truly excellent actor we were lucky enough to see as Romeo last year (and Caesar. And Oswald in Lear, this year). I stared at Matthew as the actor dwindled down Siskiyou, and he was convulsed in giggles. “Had nothing to do with it!” he chortled. On the way to King Lear that evening, we saw two other actors strolling down Main arm in arm. I turned accusingly to Matt.

“Those…” I hissed, “were actors!”

“Oh, were they?” he said innocently, with a smirk jigging behind his eyes.

So tell me. If the Shakespeare Festival does in fact employ ingenious automata to transmit the Bard’s word to the masses, if they keep their imagos secretly in storehouses until they deck themselves mechanically with finery for the matinee or evening performance, if they have hidden among the arcane workshops that produce thrones, crowns, stairways, riven trees and twining flowers some laboratory capable of shaping a variety of perfect human likenesses capable of every expression of joy and pain… how in heaven’s name did my husband get a remote control for them?

I’m back. I bear a little less money, a little more tan, and many stories to tell. Watch this space.

Okay, people, it is that time again. Matthew and I are packing our bags, counting our vacation days and our blessings, and heading south to bask in the cricket-singing summer warmth and fascinating doings of Ashland. This makes twice, so I guess that makes it a tradition. We had a gorgeous time last time, and I see no reason to vary our pattern for many years yet, unless we have somewhere more exotic to go. So I’ll be gone from the site, probably until July 12, in order that we may properly celebrate that flurried day we married; that ritual and festival that all the other weddings this summer so vividly recall to our minds.

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

Carys put out her hand for Eirian’s, but Eirian was already pushing forward through the leaves, evidently seeing no cause to fear. Carys sighed and followed.

“So, what are two little girls doing out at night? Or, for that matter, listening in on Runner business?” His voice drawled casually, but his eyes were intent.

“We didn’t mean to listen, we were hiding,” said Eirian with a toss of her tangled curls.

“We…we know it’s dangerous out at night, and we didn’t know that it was Runners coming!” Carys hurried out, grabbing Eirian’s hand and giving it an admonitory squeeze.

“I see. I see. In from the country?” he said, looking at their boyish boots and pocketed aprons. Carys nodded, ignoring Eirian’s general glare. “Here to seek your fortune?” he said, as if that were well nigh illegal and in questionable taste.

“No! We’re here to live with our aunt and uncle,” burst Carys.

“Indeed. Documentation?”

Carys stared at him for a moment, then delved into a pocket. Then, another pocket. With a blanching face, she turned out all her pockets, and even searched the little pouch she had hung around her neck behind her apron front. All their store of coins was there, but no letter. She looked up at the Inspector. “I had it only just now!” she stammered, “We ran from some dogs, perhaps it fell…we can go find it!” She remembered that they’d very likely been trespassing in the little shed, and hope fled her face as well as color.

The Inspector raised one expressive eyebrow. “I see. Where are this aunt and uncle?”

“Hardock Street,” she said, gaining a hold on her composure, “Iestyn and Marged Bleddyns, Number 8 Hardock Street. Or Number 18, perhaps it was.”

None of the skepticism gone from his face, the Inspector nodded. “Perhaps. You go find your aunt and uncle, then. But this is your warning. We don’t hold with loitering or vagrancy in the City. You’ll move on to somewhere off the street, or you’ll come across the Runners again, and we’ll put you somewhere. Do you understand that, Miss…”

Carys nodded, wide-eyed, and waited for something more, or for the dark figure to turn away. “Your name, miss.” He almost rolled his eyes.

“Oh! Carys.”

“Both names, miss.”

“She’s Eirian, sir.”

“And your last name?”

“Last name, sir?”

“Yes, miss, out with it, I’ve not all the time in the world.”

“Our father’s name was Owain, sir,” she faltered, exchanging glances with Eirian, “but we’re not City folks, we don’t have —”

“You do now. Carrie and Erin Owens. To be taken in if not properly housed by next evening.” he cocked his head to one side, the first even faintly ridiculous gesture he’d made — apparently he thought it was friendly. “Do you understand, children?”

Carys nodded, and he turned on his heel and walked off into the night. Feeling dreadfully impudent, Carys trotted a few steps after him and tugged at his silver-trimmed sleeve. “Please, sir, is Hardock Street in the Southdowns?”

“Of course. But you’re not in the Southdowns now, not by any stretch. It’s on the north side of the river,” he said briskly, and dissolved into his element.

Carys looked after him wanly, and Eirian walked up beside her. “Then what is it called ‘South’ for,” the younger sister grumbled reasonably, and slipped her hand, chapped with work despite its chubbiness, into Carys’s. And as the sun began to burn away the night ahead of them, Carys smiled.

The Grey City X

I am waiting. In 48 minutes I get to give the dress to the mama. In two and a half hours, I get to go home. In two and a bit days, I get to finish my work-week, and drive south on my anniversary trip. In three and a half weeks, I get to visit my sister. In half a year, it gets to be Christmas again. In two and a half years, I get to start trying for a baby. So many things to wait for! Usually they sparkle out before me like a delectable buffet, all the things to try and do and enjoy…but just occasionally, with sugar bouncing through my veins and the promise of glee around the corner, I hate to wait, and the time seems all too slow.

And I only killed 6 minutes blogging. sigh

You’ve puzzled over the deformed scribbles of my pencil, you’ve followed the twisted skeins of my writing. You’ve even feasted from afar on the fruits of my baking labor. But never before has Faerye.net shown you…the products of my needle and thread!

Being, as I am, and as you cannot failed to have noticed, quite mad, I decided that the departure of a kind, generous, patient and invaluable co-worker from the Land of Office for the Land of Mommy required a really extravagant gesture. Therefore, I bought some galloon-edged eyelet and a baby dress pattern (the baby’s gender is known). I also needed some species of adorable floral fabric, perhaps in the calico family, but this was Fraught with Peril. Can you imagine going into the largest clothing fabric store outside New York—heck, or even one of the many quilt shops dotting the precincts—and trying to choose JUST ONE adorable calico? The thought is terrifying. I’d be there for a week, leaving at closing and coming back at opening. I’m a vacillator. I’d end up sobbing in the middle of the store surrounded by 15 sprigged florals, wailing, “Can’t someone tell me which one is cutest?”

So, I did what we all do at some point in our lives—probably, at several points—and put the whole decision in the hands of my Mom. My mom, the gifted quilter, has an extensive, nay, prodigious supply of fabric, and soon enough she sent me an adorable pink floral with which I am well-pleased. It was also she who contributed the mom-knowledge of what size/age I should make the dress for. After all, I don’t want to do all this work only to have it outgrown in a week! After a great deal of labor and learning, here is the result:

But wait! I’m not done gushing or bragging yet, so there are more pictures. (Hey, cut me some slack, I’m going to direct my mom and other sewing-type people to this article! Plus, I may never see it again!)

Here be the dress by itself:

Here be some more general pictures:

Here, last of all, are some detail shots. In case anyone wondered what the heck “galloon eyelet” is, here you go. Eyelet is fine fine cotton with embroidered holes in it. Galloon eyelet is the same, but with an embroidered lacy edge:

Looks cute, less hemming :)

And here is my first ever buttonhole:

And here is my third ever buttonhole. Little smoother, eh?

Anyways, I am very proud (in case you missed that somehow) and excited to see what the mom-to-be says at her shower tomorrow. I learned a lot!

In support of argument with Wonko about whether my leeriness about staying up to go to the midnight opening show of Spiderman 2 makes me less of a fangirl, I have created a new word: fanfoo, which means “either fangirl or fanboy as appropriate”. From the computer nonsense syllable “foo”, you see. Comments? Jeers?

For several weeks now, I have been running. Some of you will doubtless not realize the overwhelming significance of the statement, ‘I have been running.’ The fact is that I am asthmatic, riddled with environmental allergies, and generally a puny weakling. Whenever I was forced to run laps or the mile in school, I would labor along as far as I could, struggling against the invisible pliers—with handles of 3 feet or so, judging from the force—that tightened around my airpipe. Finally I would lapse, humiliated, into a hurried walk. Sometimes, I just held my head high in haughty indifference and walked the whole time, disregarding the frustration of my PE teachers. I think I had only one PE teacher before college whom I never regarded with white-hot hatred. It’s damn lucky I didn’t end up X-factor positive, because odds are I would have discovered it by detonating some unfortunate PE teacher’s head with my mind or burning them to death with my scorching gaze.

This, then, was my traditional stance on running: running, beyond a short, joyous sprint, is torture; it is a pointless exercise in getting from place to the same place with maximum effort; it is choking, terrifying suffocation; it is mental boredom and physical anguish. Even the endorphins people told me about never seemed to materialize. The only sensations that followed any attempt at a distance run were a throbbing headache; raw, rasping throat; and sore everything.

This, then, is the girl who is now running at least three times a week, gleefully buying her first running shoes, and complaining when her allergies or engagements deny her the chance to run.

I’m not sure when this started—sometime in April perhaps, or May, I drove home through idyllic, mote-dancing sunshine, golden honey-beams dropping off every leaf and wing, and I simply had to get out in it. I wanted to drink in the sun and air…I wanted to (GASP) run! So I did. Strapping on my old, worn, rather clapped-out tennis shoes (no, literally. Designed, bought, and used for the sport of tennis) and pulling on some vaguely workoutty clothes, I decanted my kitchen-work audio-book into a walkman and hit the sidewalk running. Of course, it didn’t last, and I ended up subsiding into a brisk walk. But my breath, though short, was not tortured, and my walking rested but did not humiliate me. After all, I was doing this because I had wanted to, not because some tyrannical PE teach held the (unfair) power of lowering my grade point average. My audio tape held my attention and staved off boredom, and the sunny streets, flowers, parks, and basking kitties made for interesting viewing.

Before I knew it, I had done it again, and soon I was doing it at least once a week, more often if the sun was shining. After a brief lull because my allergies were acting up and making strenuous breathing difficult, I had had enough of my slow weight gain, and decided to run in earnest. I stopped claiming, when people such as sister sledge inquired, that I didn’t like it. I do! I started running whenever there was nothing else to get in the way, and at least once a weekend (this weekend I did it both days).

Last week, I lost weight for the third week in a row (unheard of in recent months), even though I had stuffed myself on wedding food and Burgerville on my trip to Washington. I ran almost every day that week in fear that that wedding food would catch up to me — and promised myself that if I kept the momentum going, I could buy myself running shoes to replace the pinching, tired shoes that were designed for sideways hops on a clay court, not running on sidewalks. I did keep up the momentum, and I ended up splurging on running shoes—lovely bouncy things that grip the pavement like gecko toes on glass—and a running outfit, which is cooler, comfier, full of pockets, and makes me feel confident as I set out for the sidewalks.

I still puff down to a walk between spates of running, but the spates are stretching, and I am doing more circuits of our little neighborhood. Running is wonderful—there is no more primal way to exercise. You don’t need anything but yourself (though shiny bouncy shoes are a plus.) I come back to my house tired and happy, proud of every drop of sweat. Before heading to a bath or a shower afterwards, I sit on the couch with a glass of water, feeling those lovely endorphins that always seemed like a cruel joke in years past. I can feel every bit of my body, and control it, and it has a power I swear it never had before. My quads are bigger already, and I can leap effortlessly up the stairs, enjoying the amazing froggy feeling of coil and release. I stare into the blue sky and feel beautiful, strong, and keenly alive.

I have kibbled up the speak-talks that come from my mouth. In my headplace there are thinks that have form and fluid, howso when they tiptoe from the dribble lip they are brokens. Is that the coffee is adulterer of syrup and foamy, theretwo not make fluids the tick-talk? Is picketty nonsense all the throw-out of my crane now? I have tripping in my tongue, and knot in lacey poem paths. I have silence when I speaks and speakses when I try quiet. I have blicky-blicky stick talk tongue and the fractal-fracture jars of words under my hair.

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

Carys was still moving slowly and shudderingly down the street, trying to find another explanation for what she’d seen, but Eirian was either refreshed by her brief sleep or in that state of paradoxical energy children sometimes inhabit — animated by her own will and a perverse resistance to sleepiness. She was hopping from paving stone to paving stone, humming, when she stopped, poised on one leg, and said curiously, “Carys, do you hear someone running?”

Carys spun to look behind her, but Eirian pointed forward. “It’s over there, silly!” Without a word, Carys grabbed the smaller girl’s hand and started pulling her back the way they had come. Eirian looked over her shoulder and dragged her feet.

“Hurry!” said her sister.

“Why are you so afraid of everything?”

“Because everything here is strange, and awful, and…” Carys stopped with a sob, and Eirian pointed.

“There’s someone coming this way, too!” she said brightly. Carys opened her mouth to scold, but the measured sound of someone walking did indeed filter along the street. With a look of such strain and fear that Eirian shushed and followed, she ducked into a tangle of heavy shrubs pushing against an old wooden fence.

The footsteps grew closer, until the slow, steady thock of the walking feet became the counterpoint to the urgent tapping of the running feet. At last, two figures emerged, black from blackness, like a pattern piece falling from its parent cloth. Carys breathed again — neither was the upright old woman she’d feared.

“Are they soldiers?” whispered Eirian noisily, and Carys covered her mouth. The two men did indeed wear uniforms, black or darkest blue, brightened by silver buttons and braid and the gleam of the streetlamps off their polished shoes. The walking man had sharp blue eyes under his dark hair and uniform hat, and the running one was younger, freckled and fair, but they had the same taut bearing, and when they stopped in their progress, their curt, measured nods of greeting were matched.

“Sir.”

“Brinker.”

The young man did not even seem out of breath, and plunged ahead mechanically, “A child of seven years has been reported missing from the Gables district, Inspector. Emmaline Lacey, daughter of Sir Albert Lacey, widower. Child was playing in the square gardens at one o’ clock, gone when sought for tea with her father. A search of the common and private gardens has just concluded and has produced nothing of interest. No reports of the Boy in the area, and no letter received as yet.” The young man drew up in his report and awaited a response.

“But quite certainly a Butcher case. Intercept the letter when it comes, we can’t have a gentleman distressed unduly.”

“Yessir.”

“The last we’re sure of was a beggar child, the one before that a blacksmith’s boy. There is no pattern,” he said with deep disapprobation.

“If he’d stick to the beggar boys and street leavings, I’d say let him,” the younger one said boldly, and was frozen by the Inspector’s blue eyes.

“The Butcher, Mr. Brinker, is a Bedlam influence. He acts on whim, from want, like a wild creature. While we can be thankful when he confines his depredations to flotsam like himself, he is still an enemy, a sickness, and must be rooted out without complacence or clemency. Are you now clear on this point, Mr. Brinker?”

“Yes indeed, Inspector Blackburn. You explain it most excellently,” the chastened junior said.

“Return to nearest post, Brinker, and inform the desk sergeant that every man is to be schooled in the likeness of the Butcher’s Boy and that said Boy is to be arrested on sight. Whatever his significance, he is the only real clue.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And, Brinker, have a letter sent to Sir Albert Lacey regretting to inform him of the discovery of his daughter’s body, and that it would be advisable to keep the casket closed. Issue a weighted coffin.”

Brinker’s expressionless face looked even more blank. “But what if we find the body, Inspector?”

“We won’t.”

The young man nodded, spun on his heel, and ran off steadily the way he had come.

The Inspector took one step after him, then turned and examined the bushes. “Come out, children, in the name of the law,” he said, almost casually.

The Grey City IX