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An idea I'm working on. If blame is to be apportioned, it goes to
ravurian.
Sometimes I think she's a little bit mad. But then I'm hardly one to talk, am I? It's just that, in Nora, our mother's witchiness and our father's mathematical precision seem to have been spun together into a thread made up of spider silk, nearly unbreakable, but strange and a little sinister.
I, on the other hand, seem to have been spun of bulkier stuff: I am practical, like father's careful engineering and mother's herbal concoctions. I am just wool--and none too finely spun, either. Mother said that my magic was of earth, and Father would say, "That's just ingenuity, Lorna. Just plain human ingenuity. Our Jamie has a lot of it."
When I came into the shed that day, Nora was elbows-deep in a bucket of dye--a kind of brownish violet. Three other buckets were lined up on the trestle table. She was just lifting a hank of yarn, dripping darkly, and muttering to herself.
"Is it more blue or more green?" she asked. Then she turned her face toward the dusty window and said, "Why won't you tell me?"
It was a moment before I realized that she was speaking to a crow, whose hoarse call came in from the yard. "Why won't he tell you what?" I asked. Nora started, then turned, careless of the dye dripping onto her apron.
She sighed. "What color his wings are."
"They're black," I suggested.
Nora looked at me steadily for a long moment, very little expression in her eyes. Finally she said, "No. They are not black." The "you idiot" was silent. "They are blue, and green, and purple, and brown. But the colors are all black."
I supposed she was right. Very little in the animal kingdom is really black. Even a black cat will show ruddy and golden in strong sunlight. Lots of birds have an iridescence to their feathers. I had never thought of a crow as being other than black, but of course, Nora was right.
"Why do you need to know?" I asked.
"Because I want to make a wing."
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Sometimes I think she's a little bit mad. But then I'm hardly one to talk, am I? It's just that, in Nora, our mother's witchiness and our father's mathematical precision seem to have been spun together into a thread made up of spider silk, nearly unbreakable, but strange and a little sinister.
I, on the other hand, seem to have been spun of bulkier stuff: I am practical, like father's careful engineering and mother's herbal concoctions. I am just wool--and none too finely spun, either. Mother said that my magic was of earth, and Father would say, "That's just ingenuity, Lorna. Just plain human ingenuity. Our Jamie has a lot of it."
When I came into the shed that day, Nora was elbows-deep in a bucket of dye--a kind of brownish violet. Three other buckets were lined up on the trestle table. She was just lifting a hank of yarn, dripping darkly, and muttering to herself.
"Is it more blue or more green?" she asked. Then she turned her face toward the dusty window and said, "Why won't you tell me?"
It was a moment before I realized that she was speaking to a crow, whose hoarse call came in from the yard. "Why won't he tell you what?" I asked. Nora started, then turned, careless of the dye dripping onto her apron.
She sighed. "What color his wings are."
"They're black," I suggested.
Nora looked at me steadily for a long moment, very little expression in her eyes. Finally she said, "No. They are not black." The "you idiot" was silent. "They are blue, and green, and purple, and brown. But the colors are all black."
I supposed she was right. Very little in the animal kingdom is really black. Even a black cat will show ruddy and golden in strong sunlight. Lots of birds have an iridescence to their feathers. I had never thought of a crow as being other than black, but of course, Nora was right.
"Why do you need to know?" I asked.
"Because I want to make a wing."
Tags:
(no subject)
7/1/12 22:52 (UTC)(no subject)
7/1/12 22:57 (UTC)Hey, how about that dinner raincheck?
(no subject)
7/1/12 23:11 (UTC)I should be free most nights the next couple weeks, and weekends except next Saturday afternoon. What works for you?
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7/1/12 23:22 (UTC)(no subject)
8/1/12 02:37 (UTC)(no subject)
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7/1/12 23:03 (UTC)(no subject)
8/1/12 11:29 (UTC)(no subject)
8/1/12 22:03 (UTC)Well, it's not everyone's cup of tea, but...oh, such a good show. A sibling relationship is at the heart of it. Well, a sibling relationship, and space cowboys. And plastic dinosaurs.
(no subject)
9/1/12 13:11 (UTC)(no subject)
9/1/12 20:10 (UTC)Enjoy!
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9/1/12 20:34 (UTC)(no subject)
9/1/12 20:38 (UTC)You can't go wrong with Speranza.
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7/1/12 23:12 (UTC)(no subject)
7/1/12 23:19 (UTC)I think there's a kind of Simon and River Tam thing going on (though I wasn't conscious of it), and your comment makes me suddenly aware that there's a little Hakkai and Kanan in here, too. Oh, the unconscious mind and its magpie's nest of shiny things.
(no subject)
7/1/12 23:22 (UTC)You are kind of evil to dangle that in front of us and then be all, "oh, I do not know where the rest of the story goes yet I may have to write it someday lol".
(Also, I am obsessed with crows and ravens, of late, thanks to S's long love of them and the artwork I crafted for him for Christmas that features a raven. Not a crow, obviously, but same zip code, and the artwork featured a stanza from The Raven, and so.)
(Also also, ever since reading the delightful Dreamdark books (by my friend and Portland author, Laini Taylor), I have kind of become enamored of them.)
(Also also also, speaking of crows and wonderful books, they seem to be featuring in all of my reading of late. Laini's latest book -- Daughter of Smoke and Bone -- had them, and of course they feature in Colin Meloy's fairy tale book about Forest Park, and even the two books I've just read had a crow as part of the story. THE UNIVERSE IS CLEARLY TRYING TO TELL ME SOMETHING THAT I AM OBVIOUSLY NOT GETTING.)
(no subject)
7/1/12 23:28 (UTC)I love crows, and I'm aware that
Thank you, in any case, for the encouragement. I'm finding my way back to writing. Slowly, slowly. And writing seems to be changing its meaning too.
(no subject)
7/1/12 23:31 (UTC)It's an attempt to break the stranglehold that obsolescent forms and formats have on my creativity. You've done a lot of that with your art journals. It just seems to be time (and past time) to respond to the obvious call of Change.
(no subject)
8/1/12 01:06 (UTC)Just posted on Sal's raven piece on G+ if you want to see.
(no subject)
8/1/12 01:55 (UTC)(no subject)
8/1/12 02:28 (UTC)The contrast issue aside, however, I'm fairly happy with it, at least for just hanging in our studio. I'm lucky that he's such a good sport about receiving my homemade concoctions instead of more conventional fare. It's probably a good thing I don't knit or he'd be the recipient of many a lumpy and misshapen sweater....
(no subject)
8/1/12 05:12 (UTC)(no subject)
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8/1/12 01:55 (UTC)(no subject)
8/1/12 02:50 (UTC)Where is it set, do you think?
(no subject)
8/1/12 05:08 (UTC)I hope it will become clearer.
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8/1/12 12:06 (UTC)(no subject)
8/1/12 21:51 (UTC)But still--gotta start somewhere. And must keep writing something or one loses the knack.
(no subject)
8/1/12 12:43 (UTC)I think
(no subject)
9/1/12 20:12 (UTC)(But yeah, he's a great encourager of writing. Very special talent, there.)
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8/1/12 21:02 (UTC)(no subject)
8/1/12 21:52 (UTC)(no subject)
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14/1/12 06:16 (UTC)