they claim it will ricochet through my life
Apr. 20th, 2026 02:52 pmIn some cases, the choice is easy (I still have not forgiven the Kings for 2012 and I have a fondness for the Avs; I root for Dallas because of
Overall, I would like to see Buffalo win it all, and I enjoyed their game, but if it has to be a Canadian team, at this point, I would pick Montreal over Ottawa (disqualified due to Brady Tkachuk) or Edmonton (ugh, McDavid's vibes are rancid, imo). At least I like Martin St. Louis, and their kids seem fun and their game was also entertaining.
And as I said on bsky last night, Henrik Lundqvist looked like an ANGEL in his silver suit. He just gets more handsome every time I see him. *dreamy sigh*
Anyway!
Today's poem:
White Noise
by Alice Pettway
I ordered silence online,
from the makers
of that robot vacuum,
the one that terrifies cats.
They claim it will ricochet
through my life, siphoning
the mewling of the computer
in its dark cubby, the shiver
of leaves, even the snap of fish beaks
against coral, the air conditioner
accelerating endlessly
around its distant track.
I asked customer support
if there was an attachment
to suck the cacophony
out of my head. For this,
I said, I would pay extra,
whatever they asked, really.
No response came.
I lay on the rug. The machine
ran along my legs, the side
of my face. I imagined
as loudly as possible, waiting
for the indicator to switch on,
for the whir and pinch of suction.
The room is quiet now.
Even the stuffing in the couch
does not exhale beneath my weight.
*
As always, this is about discovering something and thinking it's NEW!!!
Apr. 20th, 2026 06:00 pmI will slightly concede that maybe women have not had quite the opportunities in film and TV that they have had for centuries in written fiction, though even so I suspect with a little thought we could come up with instances where female gaze was significant in creating popularity even if it hadn't been part of the purpose in making.
But as ever, the instances about fiction are limited in their genre range (OMG there is a long history of ROMANCE) and appear never to have read anything that was not on the radar approximately five minutes ago.
E.g.
[T]he genre has altered the way female worlds are received. “I wasn’t the only one who thought that if you were female in the fantasy world it wasn’t going to end well: if you fall in love it’s going to be used against you, if you have any sort of power you’re going to die or become the mad queen,” she says. “You never really saw female characters represented in any way where you felt safe, thinking they’re going to be here in the end and not have to give up their sense of identity to do so. People, almost, have been waiting for these books to come.”
Good grief.
Okay, will concede that I am currently reading The Books of Earthsea and I occasionally look up from Ursula Le Guin's commentaries and thinking a very strong case can be made that she had never, at least when she was writing those works, encountered anything by Naomi Mitchison. Which would blow out of the water certain of her contentions about female protagonising....
But leaving my much-neglected and overlooked precious aside, I scan my shelves for the works I was scooping up during the 70s-80s-90s, ahem.
And no mention of fanfic.... dearie me. Did not do the research?
***
On another topic, there was an interview with Will Self in The Observer which is paywalled, so not linking. But in it he moans that after his divorce and ex-wife claiming mental abuse, ALL their friends cut him off, even his oldest besties: which makes me rather wonder whether a) they had actually observed things going on or b) they were fed up with him whingeing on about it.
A Sapphic Dream, George Moore
I love the luminous poison of the moon,
The silence of illimitable seas,
Vast night, and all her myriad mysteries,
Perfumes that make the burdened senses swoon
And weaken will, large snakes who oscillate
Like lovely girls, immense exotic flowers,
And cats who purr through silk-enfestooned bowers
Where white-limbed women sleep in sumptuous state.
My soul e’er dreams, in such a dream as this is,
Visions of perfume, moonlight and the blisses
Of sexless love, and strange unreached kisses.
Moore (1852-1933) is best known for adapting French naturalism into English fiction, but before he turned novelist he was a poet under the influence of French symbolists. (He was also a childhood friend of Oscar Wilde.) This is from his first collection, Flowers of Passion (1878). After all the preceding orientalist imagery, that “sexless love” gets some heavy sideeye. Commit to the bit!
---L.
Subject quote from Hotel California, Eagles, and yes colitas are cannabis buds.
2617 / Annual AO3 Meme
Apr. 20th, 2026 06:44 amFirst up, ordered by hits.
( Annual AO3 Meme )
As is traditional to say: no huge movement. Every fic in my top 10 had fewer hits this year than it had the year before, with MCU having the steepest drop-off. H50 continues to be popular to an extent that quietly baffles me. Maybe one day that silly Suits ficlet will drop out of the top 10.
halves of nothing at the center of time
Apr. 19th, 2026 03:12 pm*
Today's poem:
Mother, Kitchen
By Ouyang Jianghe
(Translated from the Chinese by Austin Woerner )
Where the immemorial and the instant meet, opening and distance appear.
Through the opening: a door, crack of light.
Behind the door, a kitchen.
Where the knife rises and falls, clouds gather, disperse.
A lightspeed joining of life and death, cut
in two: halves of a sun, of slowness.
Halves of a turnip.
A mother in the kitchen, a lifetime of cuts.
A cabbage cut into mountains and rivers,
a fish, cut along its leaping curves,
laid on the table
still yearning for the pond.
Summer's tofu
cut into premonitions of snow.
A potato listens to the onion-counterpoint
of the knife, dropping petals at its strokes:
self and thing, halves of nothing
at the center of time.
Where gone and here meet, the knife rises, falls.
But this mother is not holding a knife.
What she has been given is not a knife
but a few fallen leaves.
The fish leaps over the blade from the sea
to the stars. The table is in the sky now,
the market has been crammed into the refrigerator,
and she cannot open cold time.
***
Culinary
Apr. 19th, 2026 07:25 pmThis week's bread: brown oatmeal loaf: strong brown flour, medium oatmeal, turned out a little dense and crust a little cracking, the yeast that was rather delayed in transit coming to the end of its useful life.
Saturday breakfast rolls: (fresh yeast acquired) brown grated apple, light spelt flour, molasses.
Today's lunch: chestnut mushrooms quartered in olive oil, when checking recipe in Claudia Roden's New Book of Middle Eastern Food spotted the adjacent recipe for sweet and sour okra - saute for 5 minutes in olive oil, add sugar, salt, pepper and lemon juice (as I had half a lime going spare I also added that) and a little water and simmer for 20 or so minutes, I also added half of a red bell pepper than was going spare (possibly rather younger okra would have been nicer but this turned out quite well); aubergine cuts into rounds, placed on oiled foil on grill and grilled (turning a few times) until tender (the recipe was a little optimistic as to how long this might take) and then splashed with teriyaki sauce mixed with ginger paste; served with couscous with raisins.
2616 / Fic - ER
Apr. 19th, 2026 07:28 amER | Carter, Gen | ~1100 words | Episode coda for 4.15. Thanks to
(Also on AO3)
( 'And then,' Carter said, beaming, 'the fire captain told me that I personally did okay! Under the circumstances!' )
burning in the open field
Apr. 18th, 2026 04:52 pm( Landscape with a Blur of Conquerors )
the greenest saddest strongest kind of hope
Apr. 18th, 2026 05:40 pmA Certain Kind of Eden
by Kay Ryan
It seems like you could, but you can't go back and pull
the roots and runners and replant.
It's all too deep for that.
You've overprized intention,
have mistaken any bent you're given
for control. You thought you chose
the bean and chose the soil.
You even thought you abandoned
one or two gardens. But those things
keep growing where we put them—
if we put them at all.
A certain kind of Eden holds us thrall.
Even the one vine that tendrils out alone
in time turns on its own impulse,
twisting back down its upward course
a strong and then a stronger rope,
the greenest saddest strongest
kind of hope.
*
Rounding up stuff
Apr. 18th, 2026 04:51 pmDept rus in urbe: A prickle of hedgehogs and an armada of newts: wildlife settles in at London’s new Queen Elizabeth garden
***
Dept of, why not work with creating opportunities for the mute inglorious already there....? (sigh): Creating Baby Geniuses to Thwart the AI Threat? (Yes, Really.) Honestly, these people.
Possibly relevant here....: State school kids do better at uni
***
The Rise and Fall of Jukeboxes: where are the grooves of yesteryear?
***
Women artists in the Georgian era: a constant, delicate calibration to keep the balance between personal reputation, artistic success and the need to earn a living.
wild iris, duff, waterfall, dew
Apr. 17th, 2026 08:13 pm( Yes, That's When )
2615 / Fic - The Pitt
Apr. 17th, 2026 08:10 pmThe Pitt | Santos/Mel | ~2700 words | Episode tag for 2.15. Thanks to
(Also on AO3)
( 'Do you like karaoke?' Trinity asked, which wasn't a question that Mel could answer in a particularly empirical manner. Mel generally found bars and clubs to be intimidating. But maybe that might be different if she went into one of them with a friend? )
Lately I've stopped worrying about the end.
Apr. 17th, 2026 07:59 pmMaterials for a Gravestone Rubbing
I have long wanted to be starlight in spring
and the late snow that lingers there, coming down
at Harpers Ferry over the river or gathered
on a windowsill on third street in Brooklyn
when I was twenty-two — the potpourri
of sky the wind carries after a storm.
The gray darkening on a far ridge. If you are reading this
there is still a way. I can take your smooth palm in mine
and lead you toward a distant city and a night
when you were on the mountain and dreaming of the other world
and we can walk together past the pre-war homes
converted now to low-rent apartments for college students
or workers come in from long days on a road crew,
coveralls draped over the backs of kitchen chairs
and the light swaying just so. We can go on —
along the cracked sidewalks above the train tracks
that can't exist again even as the grasses come up between them
and look through a fog and a single pair of headlights
making definite beams in the material cold.
No moonlight to get netted up in on the surface of the water
no traffic at this hour just the scraps of paper blown
into gutters and the electric hum of streetlights,
a few voices, which almost walk like footfall down alleys
overgrown with briars and creeping vines, their crude
latticework against the brick and the exhale
of a bartender on a smoke break and the smoke
which still drifts. Now it must be all worn through
but then it was barely remarkable though I stop
to look back at the homes and at snow melt on roads
the flat glitter on the black road, the moiré pattern
yet to be captured by language — and for a minute believe
in something as my stepfather believed in the smell of fire
whenever he left in the middle of the night
and returned before dawn and spoke to no one, didn’t
wake anyone up. Sometimes I feel that alone,
that pure, as if looking back at myself
through the scrim of time and you are there
standing in our kitchen at this hour and I can almost
hear you and the first singing caught-up there in the back
of your throat. Lately I've stopped worrying about the end.
Each day my hand is smaller on your shoulders. New birds
still return and the hillsides green all around, the stars
have traveled over the horizon and in the blink
of an eye you are here — grape-vine charcoal in your hand;
little hyphen I have become.
--Matthew Wimberley
*
What IS the point
Apr. 17th, 2026 04:05 pm(Reporting in vaxx-boosted, by the way.)
Have been noting hither and yon stuff about blokes 'looksmaxxing' and 'mogging' (which apparently does not involve cats? is there some reference to tomcats facing off and fluffing out their fur? probably not. Who knows.)
This is yet another of those things That Blokez Do apparently in order to attract the opposite sex and I do not think it is because I am Old, and my tastes were formed in A Different Day, that I feel that there is a significant Failure To Do The Research about What Actually Pulls The Chixx.
Not that this is exactly a new phenomenon, when I was reviewing those books on yoof culture in the 60s/early 70s, I was thinking that various of the paths being pursued by (presumably) cis het men, because Teh Gayz were in separate chapters, did not seem to me necessarily terribly productive - maybe being a great dancer, but not if it was all about him showing off moves, ditto the being A Mod Face.
And after all the idea that women only go for men who look a certain way is to laugh at, cites yet again the instance of The Late Rock Star Historian, who was a scruff who was not perhaps quite at the John Wilkes level of having serious disadvantages in the way of appearance to overcome but was - well, I suppose it depends on the artist you're thinking of and there were painters who would have turned out an excellent oil-painting of him but was hardly of male-model looks. But was if not of universal appeal, considerably popular with the opposite sex.
We are frankly not surprised at reports that young women are eschewing the dating game, because what it turns up is very likely young men blatting on about their self-maintenance regime and probably trying to shill for supplements and peptides.
Am also given to wonder whether the people who follow these creatures are all acolytes of their maxxingmessage, or whether at least some % are treating them as the modern equivalent of the old-style freakshow. (Though for all I know, in the darker reaches of the internet you can find videos of men biting the heads off chickens and so on.)
While I was thinking that it would be preferable for them to contemplate upon the natural world and build bowers for, or offer particularly attractive stones to, the objects of their interest, I also became cynical as to whether female bower birds and penguins are quite so appreciative of these efforts as naturalists would have us suppose. ('Him and his bloody bowers' - 'Not another pebble')
The Pitt finale
Apr. 17th, 2026 07:43 am( Read more... )