The kitten is bigger and stronger now- his hands and head move in a more determined fashion, and his voice is getting more strident. Adorable!
Mortal Engines- it's an interesting world, so I wish it were a better book. Of course, it's "young adult", but I wished for more complexity and richness. All the characters think in exclamation marks! Oh no, that's a mean guy! How could he act like that! I'm upset and confused! Someone should rewrite it with a heavy dose of Gormenghast, all that ancient weight and ponderous energy...
Bobbsey Twins- actually did a quick shot today, the first one in all these months of talking about finishing this short. So that's one down, 47 to go.
Let's close the weekend with a poem, shall we?
Eavan Boland- The Women
This is the hour I love: the in-between
neither here-nor-there hour of evening.
The air is tea-colored in the garden.
The briar rose is spilled crepe de Chine.
This is the time I do my work best,
going up the stairs in two minds,
in two worlds, carrying cloth or glass,
leaving something behind, bringing
something with me I should have left behind.
The hour of change, or metamorphosis,
of shape-shifting instabilities.
My time of sixth sense and second sight
when in the words I choose, the lines I write,
they rise like visions and appear to me:
women of work, of leisure, of the night,
in stove-colored silks, in lace, in nothing,
with crewel needles, with books, with wide-open legs,
who fled the hot breath of the god pursuing,
who ran from the split hoof and the thick lips
and fell and grieved and healed into myth,
into me in the evening at my desk
testing the water with a sweet quartet,
the physical force of a dissonance--
the fission of music into syllabic heat--
and getting sick of it and standing up
and going downstairs into the last brightness
into a landscape without emphasis,
light, linear, precisely planned,
a hemisphere of tiered, aired cotton,
a hot terrain of linen from the iron,
folded in and over, stacked high,
neatened flat, stoving heat and white.
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