a storm brewing

The wind is rip roaring like an express train over the moor. It comes from the south-west, so not cold. Just angry. Unreasonable. It wrenches branches from the trees standing guard over the generations of buried dead in the churchyard. It shrieks in the smoky chimneys of the cottages, rattling windows and doors in their frames and filling the heads of sleeping children with unpleasant dreams of shapeless things.

And the rain. Did I mention the rain? Torrential, unceasing. It was rain like this, I’m sure, turned old Noah to shipbuilding –

that absurd habit

October 13, 2018

sun sea and gull

Yes, I read. I have that absurd habit. I like beautiful poems, moving poetry, and all the beyond of that poetry.

I am extraordinarily sensitive to those poor, marvellous words left in our dark night by a few men I never knew

Louis Aragon
Treatise on Style

• Never turn around to check behind you. You’ll see nothing, but once you start doing it you won’t be able to stop, and an ominous feeling will follow you until you don’t lock your house’s door behind you.
• If you stand very still and listen you will hear the woods calling for you. Don’t answer. Never answer.
• You’ll hear things quietly following you, hidden in the trees by your sides. It’s okay, they’re just checking on you.
• Don’t be scared, but be really, really wary.
• If you have a bad feeling about taking a certain path, don’t. You’ll avoid whatever is waiting for you at the end of it.
• You never know what may be buried under the soil you’re walking on. Remember that every time you take a step. Pray that whatever it is, it won’t wake up.
• Be careful not to step on any beetle, or you’ll never get rid of them.
• If you bring a knife with you, name it. Otherwise the blade will turn against you as soon as you try to use it.
• Make sure you remember the way back home. As soon as you get lost, you’re just another piece of fresh meat.

Almost Blue


Ophelia’s virginal and vacant white is contrasted with Hamlet’s scholar’s garb, his ‘suits of solemn black.’ Her flowers suggest the discordant double images of female sexuality as both innocent blossoming and whorish contamination; she is the ‘green girl’ of pastoral, the virginal ‘Rose of May’ and the sexually explicit madwoman who, in giving away her wild flowers and herbs, is symbolically deflowering herself.

Elaine Showalter
Representing Ophelia


October 13, 2018

Maidens stand still, they are lovely statues and all admire them. Witches do not stand still. I was neither, but better that I err on the side of witchery, witchery that unlocks towers and empties ships.

Catherynne M. Valente
In the Night Garden

unwise love

October 13, 2018

It had flaws, but what does that matter when it comes to matters of the heart? We love what we love. Reason does not enter into it. In many ways, unwise love is the truest love. Anyone can love a thing because. That’s as easy as putting a penny in your pocket. But to love something despite. To know the flaws and love them too. That is rare and pure and perfect.

Patrick Rothfuss
The Wise Man’s Fear


October 13, 2018