Yesterday, I took the twins out shopping for used books. Even if they don’t find something that captures their fancy, they still enjoy the act of seeking for hidden treasures. And, while I try to keep engaged with these young tween women, there are very few activities that we can agree on being exclusively in the realm of “fun” to do together. Treasure hunting for books is one of them.
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Humans and beasts are different species, but foxes are between humans and beasts. The dead and the living walk different roads, but foxes are between the dead and the living. Transcendents and monsters travel different paths, but foxes are between transcendents and monsters. Therefore one could say to meet a fox is strange; one could also say it is ordinary.
Human beings and physical objects belong to two different categories; fox-spirits stand somewhere between the two. The paths of light and darkness never converge: fox-spirits stand somewhere between the two. Immortals and demons go different ways; fox-spirits stand somewhere between the two.
~ Ji Yun, 1789, in Notebook from the Thatched Cottage of Close Scrutiny
“First of all, it was October, a rare month for boys. Not that all months aren’t rare. But there be bad and good, as the pirates say. Take September, a bad month: school begins. Consider August, a good month: school hasn’t begun yet. July, well, July’s really fine: there’s no chance in the world for school. June, no doubting it, June’s best of all, for the school doors spring wide and September’s a billion years away.”
~ Something Wicked This Way Comes, Prologue
I am having a bit of a dry spell when it comes to creative writing, which is neither unusual or much of a bother.
When the desert decides to take up residence in my head, I sometimes power through and other times I find “less creative” ways to keep writing (like this post). I don’t let it bother me when the ideas go fooom and I am left with a cranium filled mostly with fluff. But I do keep writing when that happens because I invariably discover something I want to write about as I am “just writing”.
(more…)sometimes
it is all just shite
and there's nothing
to be done but write
every stupid word you think
t'hell with poetry prose
give them a bop on the nose
and run away run away
run away 'til you fall
off the cliff of egocide
and sometimes
what you write is still
nothing but shite
and a bruised ego
is all that's left for show...
runawayrunawayrun