Old M(e)an(der) River

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I'm working on a couple of stories today -- "The Woman Who Shook the World-Tree" and "The Fire Gown" -- and if Sean drops by, I may request his help in plotting "Tawny Petticoats."  So this will be brief.

Just in case you ever wondered what's with all the flooding along the Mississipi, here's a geological map of a short stretch of the river, showing where it has also been.  It's an old river and it meanders.  Simple as that.  Of course, the recent and ongoing climate changes don't help matters either.


Beautiful stuff, though.  You can find more such maps here.




And if you want to read more about Dancing With Bears . . .

An interview with me which, for reasons comprehensible only if you read it, was titled "As Tough as Rats,"  appears in Diamond Book Distributors' ezine/blog/newsletter.  In it I hold forth on the origins of Darger & Surplus, my thoughts on Russia, and the one historical figure I'd most like to meet.  Among, of course, other matters.

You can read "As Tough as Rats" here.

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Scribbledehobbledehoyden: The Magpie's Eye: Page 104

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A to-do list (apparently all done), a doodle, and an email address which I can't be bothered to decipher.  I'm sorry.  Not everything I do I worth preserving for the ages.

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A Quiet Memorial Day

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When I first came to Roxborough over -- my God! -- thirty years ago, the Memorial Day services were pretty sparsely attended.  The vets showed up, of course, including a very old veteran of WWI who had to be helped when he laid down a wreath in memorial of his peers, and a smattering of folks from the neighborhood.  But not all that many. The Vietnam War was recent memory and patriotism was out of fashion.  Even in a blue collar neighborhood.

Marianne and I always went, however, because that's how we were raised.  Both our fathers were in the Second World War and they always attended services to commemorate the fallen, some of whom they knew.  Once you realize that those being honored were people just like you who, most of them, died obscenely young in the service of your country, your own politics become irrelevant.  The very least you can do is to show up.

So that was my day, a quiet morning, a memorial service, and then (because life goes on) a cookout with friends.  Perfectly ordinary.  As, I hope, was yours.

Above:  Rather a blurry photo of two vets leaving Leverington Cemetery.  Richard Harding Davis was buried there, and a number of soldiers and at least one nurse who died in the Civil War.

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Scribbledehobbledehoyden: The Magpie's Eye: Page 103

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Okay, first of all, I apologize to supporters of the American president immediately preceding Barack Obama.  I try hard to keep politics out of my blog because . . .  Well, because I respect people who disagree with me politically and I don't want them to feel unwelcome here.  But the following is a distinctly partisan political rant which I ended up deciding that others could handle better than I in forums that would attract more eyeballs.  So I didn't finish it.

Those whose feelings might be hurt should skip over the following.

 I want to apologize to George W. Bush.  When you ran for president, saying you were "a uniter, not a divider," I didn't believe you.  Yet you brought together legislators on both sides of the aisle to craft wise legislation, and ushered in the least divisive era in American history.  After 9-11, when you

I'd still like to be able to say that.  The rather obvious point of the rant which I never finished being that I can't.

And, drawing back from the present moment, I also wrote:

Every year brings us closer to Apocalypse, you and I, and this has been true since the mind has been mature enough to comprehend it.

We die.  All ceases.  For us, the Apocalypse.  

For the duration of the human race, this has been the norm.

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Rare Saturday Update

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I'm at Balticon, handing out free chapbooks, and about to go to my first Saturday panel.

What's astonishing is how many people so far have commented knowledgably about my breakfast.  Such is the magic of Facebook.

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Scribbledehobbledehoyden: The Magpie's Eye: Page 102

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For some reason, I doodled a cute cartoon animal.  Not well -- the legs are particularly bad.  But cute nonetheless.  This inspired me to write.

Oh dear.  Had I put my life into the creation of a set of cute anthropomorphic animals, how rich I would be now!  And how unhappy.   And bitter.  And raging for revenge.

Small wonder all great children's authors have gotten exactly what they wanted.

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Your Wretched Refuse, Yearning to Breathe Free . . .

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Here it is, the photo that all America has been screaming for!  Pictured above is Gardner Dozois, as he was when he first arrived in this country, a starving refugee from the great Dutch tulip blight.  Look deeply into those sad, sad eyes and you'll see the smallest glimmer of hope . . . hope that someday he might breathe free . . . hope that sometime in his lifetime he'll be able to eat a full meal . . . hope that the science fiction in his adopted homeland might not entirely suck.

Aww, God bless America!  I wipe a tear from me eye.



And as usual . . .

I'm on the road again!  I make no promises . . .  Saturday, Balticon has placed me on a total of eight items in thirteen hours . . .  and the last time this happened, at Lunacon, it all but broke me . . . But I'll do my best to post a photo of my breakfast on Facebook.

Because the world demands it.

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