November 11th, 2005

bear by san

Happy birthday, Mr. Vonnegut.


hernewshoes typed this in, so I don't have to:

So this book is a sidewalk strewn with junk, trash which I throw over my shoulders as I travel in time to November eleventh, nineteen hundred and twenty-two.

I will come to a time in my backwards trip when November eleventh, accidentally my birthday, was a sacred day called Armistice Day. When I was a boy, all the people of all the nations which had fought in the First World War were silent during the eleventh minute of the eleventh hour of Armistice Day, which was the eleventh day of the eleventh month.

It was during that minute in nineteen hundred and eighteen, that millions upon millions of human beings stopped butchering one and another. I have talked to old men who were on battlefields during that minute. They have told me in one way or another that the sudden silence was the voice of God. So we still have among us some men who can remember when God spoke clearly to mankind.

Armistice Day has become Veterans' Day. Armistice Day was sacred. Veterans' day is not.

So I will throw Veterans' Day over my shoulder. Armistice Day I will keep. I don't want to throw away any sacred things.

What else is sacred? Oh, Romeo and Juliet, for instance.

And all music is.

-- Breakfast of Champions, Kurt Vonnegut
bear by san

(no subject)

This is the text of an anonymous poem from WWII, which was recorded as a song by John Gorka.

Let them in, Peter
They are very tired
Give them couches where the angels sleep
And light those fires

Let them wake whole again
To brand new dawns
Fired with the sun, not wartime's
bloody guns

Make their peace be deep
Remember where the broken bodies lie
God knows how young they were
To have to die

Give them things they like
Let them make some noise
Give roadside bands, not golden harps
To these our boys

And let them love, Peter
'Cause they had no time
They should have trees and bird songs
And hills to climb

The taste of summer in a ripened pear
And girls sweet as meadow wind
With flowing hair

And tell them how they are missed
And say not to fear
It's gonna be allright
With us down here
  • Current Music
    Let them in, Peter - John Gorka
  • Tags
bear by san

(no subject)

Progress notes for 11 November 2005:

All the Windwracked Stars

New Words: 842
Total Words: 7,952
Pages: 36
Reason for stopping: end of scene
Mammalian Assistance:  Marlowe is Mr. Needy kitty.
Stimulants: cranberry orange tea and not nearly enough food.
Exercise: none
Mail:  nomail.
Today's words Word don't know: runneled, cowled, riven
Words I'm surprised Word do know: n/a
Tyop du jour: unwholesome sweatness
Darling du jour: She bent over him and breathed for him, knowing it was helpless, making the gesture all the same.
Books in progress, but not at all quickly: Ben Jonson, The Devil is an Ass & Other Plays; Lladislav Farago, the Game of the Foxes; The Adams-Jefferson Letters
Mean things: Nothing like being possessed by a dead gun runner, eh?
Spam name du jour: n/a
Other writing-related work: I have committed map. I am such a sad little fantasy writer.

Interesting tidbits: Map of Medieval Paris. Between these and all my books about Elizabethan London, I almost feel competent to draw that damned map of Eiledon my characters seem to want. They can't make things easy....

Of course, Eiledon is bigger than Paris, and unlike London, it never burned completely, being a stone city--though a good chunk of it was destroyed in the local equivalent to the 1700's and there was a misguided urban renewal push circa the 1960's-2000's cognate. So it's maintained more of its medieval character--think Prague--while portions of the city center are thoroughly modernized and there's a big, Canberra-esque planned business and government center like a bullseye sort of plastered over the medieval streets.

This is fun. I know a lot of the stuff it has and roughly where it is, but I never drew a map before.

What's interesting is that, now that I have the map down on paper and I'm staring at it, it's helping fill in setting details. There's a broken stair here, in this ruined square, the map whispers to me, and I take note.
bear by san

Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill!

Bestiality's sweeping the blogosphere, and it suddenly occurs to me that I'm sunk. Because Cathoair and Selene have POV in this version of All the Windwracked Stars.

Which means I have to deal with their relationship, rather than sideswiping it and moving on. So it looks like my hah-hah-only-serious deconstruction/homage to catgirl sex slaves, furrydom, and the Ballad of Lost C'Mell is likely to make me the next recipient of the Venom Cock All-Fandom Award.

Yay, kitten with a whip. Rah. Rah.