... which I'd mostly dropped out of my life a while ago, but.

Posted this to Making Light, in one of the current discussions of the Sad Puppies slate and the Hugos:

A reader, fit for nominating, I
Cannot in earnest decency assert
Myself to be; that which I seem to buy
Is rarely current, slowly read. I flirt
With reading fiction once again and find
That fitting it is harder than it was,
That research reading envelops my mind
When I have time to read. (Despite its flaws
The internet’s diversions fit my space.)
The book I’m reading is from twenty-ten.*
(When the children leave to me a place
Where I can read it.) So, I find that when
My vote is claimed as good, I therefore go
“It’s nice of you to say so, but, just, no.”

* I Shall Wear Midnight. Came off my fiction-to-read-soon shelf for the obvious reasons after living there for several years.

I have more thoughts but I am not sure about actually articulating them. Aside from being darkly amused by the bit in the first thread on the topic having as one of its topics "a sure sign of compatibility with fandom is wibbling about whether or not one really belongs there".

I think, though, in the lack of a directly fandom-related icon, I will use the one based on [livejournal.com profile] papersky's "Which Village Are You" (possibly Kentish on the village, it was something more specific and I'm forgetting the details) game of years ago, which at least feels to me like it possesses the correct nature.
A revolutionary lady, skirts
Blood-hemmed and billowing with sparkling mist
Emerges from the river. She is curt,
Unfriendly, tangled, ready to assist,
At least when she is asked politely for
Her time. Her trading wealth she spent to gain
Her emerald necklace and her rebuilt shore,
The musty workings of her clatt’ring trains
Where street musicians ply their hidden tunes,
Her clapboard churches, brick-built schools,
The sounds of baseball games in steamy Junes,
Her compass-point (a neon sign for fuel).
This open, clannish nature, touchy pride:
The tos and fros of boats upon the tides.
That tree which borders on the realm of dream
And brings forth every twilight’s day as fruit,
The gate through which the generations stream,
Star-crowned and with life’s waters in its root,
Its wooden womb the cradle of the dead:
A hornéd lady takes it as her keep,
Her golden cat’s eyes off’ring joy and dread,
Her hair the blue-washed black of heaven’s deeps.
She carries a long wand spiraled with vines,
She wears her robes in green and gold and white,
Her voice intoxicates like ancient wines,
About her is a touch of summer light.
And from her branches she will pluck a sun
Within which seven blessings have been spun.
It is not enough to be broken
(broken in all the wrong places)
Not, he says, if what you need is to be broken open
(you are not big enough to hold yourself)
Come, straighten those limbs
(I will crack the bones of you to make you true)
Stretch yourself free of your confinement
(your shell is crazed from the stress of being bound)
And I will tear you open
To let the god fly free.
This is My age
My children
(Each and every one of you an imperishable star).

Your prophets cry that all things are upended
Your families broken
Your poor too wealthy
Your powerful overthrown.
Your barbarians are at the gates
And the downtrodden dare to speak.

Bewail the horrors of My age
The overwhelming chaos of choice
The terrible freedom that let you come to Me at last.

You come to Me alone
As you must
Leaving your kin behind to come to Mine.
You come to Me to build
With the full strength your solitude wreaks
In defiance of prophets and kings.

This is My age
And yet you build
Mighty, despairing works
Aspiring to what is long-lost
In the memory of My sand.
Earth is black with secret red
Flowing with dark molten iron
A pulsing of the heartbeat's blood;

Heaven, black with shining gems
Flower-strewn and rainbow-prismed,
Velvet depths in endless flood;

The silver-twining open road
From ferrous heart to shadow's sun -
The partner to the kiss of worlds,
A lover's breath, a dance begun.
This one for Geb:

I fell from heaven,
My love,
And now can only reach and wish -
My every oak tree striving for her depths
My every mountain aching to stroke her starry skin
Each skyscraper and termite mound rising up
With the force of my desire.
I fell from heaven and lie spent
Surrounded by her luminous darkness.

Stashed here so I can keep track of it in the long run, more or less.

Aside from that: I did something godawful to my shoulder, which is just. Fucking. Fantastic. I hate taking painkillers; I took a full dose of Tylenol (I typically take a half dose) and thus am down to "only moderate pain" rather than "someone is trying to pry off my collarbone with a knife", and thus may be able to sleep. Maybe.

I wish I had the slightest idea what I did. I was sitting on the couch nursing KJ, and then I was in wailing agony, with no transition I could discern. And for once the pain wasn't that she was overnursing and my nipples were bruised. :P

Tomorrow's goal: find a sling for the arm, since supporting the weight of my own fucking arm causes agony.
kiya: (egypt)
( Feb. 19th, 2010 05:47 pm)
... I just rewrote spell 6 of the Book of Going Forth By Day (Egyptian Book of the Dead) as a limerick.

Seriously. I did. )
kiya: (ma'at)
( May. 3rd, 2009 06:05 pm)
Mother of the manifest
Womb of the dead
Arched starry vault of heaven
Whose water jar
Holds cleansing
And oblivion
Swallow up the sun!
In your belly
Is making and unmaking
And grandfather dawn is born
Bloody and fragrant
Between your thighs.

(Some work has an interesting effect on my Egyptiana.)
We're going to blank some verse today
That's never been blunk before
And every time
We make a rhyme
It figures against the score ...

-- Walt Kelly
Whitney rereads her Anpu poem and nearly breaks down in tears.
Whitney says, "... okay then."
Tesla [[livejournal.com profile] oneironaut] says, "Oops?"
Tesla says, "Is this the one you wrote for Abbas, or another one I don't know of?"
Whitney says, "This one, the sonnet: http://lilairen.livejournal.com/223260.html"
Tesla says, "I know that entire poem off the top of my head."
Whitney says, "... goodness."
Tesla says, "I likes it. ;)"
Whitney says, "He and I wrote a good poem. Still. /You/ knowing a poem."
Tesla says, "I know, right?"
Whitney is kind of floored.
Tesla says, "This reminds me of something funny from earlier. The phrase 'Do I dare to eat a Peep?' drifted through my head. And was summarily squashed, because that way lies madness and terrible, terrible parody."
Whitney LAUGHS.
Tesla says, "I thought you'd like that."
Whitney says, "I laughed so hard [livejournal.com profile] teinedreugan asked me what the fuck I was howling at."
Tesla says, "Win!"
Whitney hee hee hee. Do I dare to eat a peep. I shall wear old flannel nightclothes that I bought on the cheap.
Tesla says, "I have created a monster. ;)"
Whitney says, "It needed to have a next line to satisfy the braingremlins."
Whitney says, "But now I'm okay."
Whitney says, "Though considering posting this to LJ."
Tesla says, "Feel free. I think the one moment of successful poetry parody I will ever experience deserves commemoration. ;)"
Whitney hee hee hee.
Tesla finds himself trying to work the line 'when we're here together dancing cheek to cheek' into this monstrosity, forcibly stops himself.
Whitney says, "I do not think that they will dance with me."
Whitney adds those two lines to the entry, posts. ;)
I can't remember the word for 'bibliomancy' that isn't Bible-specific. ([livejournal.com profile] jenett? Help?)

I've decided to use the complete E. E. Cummings poems (that [livejournal.com profile] otter3 gave me near ten years ago) for the purpose, you see. Just grabbed me on impulse, so I snagged the book, opened it, and found:

love is a place
& through this place of
love move
(with brightness of peace)
all places

yes is a world
& in this world of
yes live
(skilfully curled)
all worlds

This was ... interesting. Useful.

Embrace abundance, connection, creation, ma'at.
[livejournal.com profile] eyebrowsmcgee has produced some really neat preacherifying for Holy Week. Recommended for Christians and Christian-friendly sorts who want a shiny thought to play with.

In my strange world in which all my whims were satisfied, How AWESOME Will It Be?: A Teenager's Guide to Understanding and Preparing for the Second Coming would not have no Amazon reviews. It would have at least one. And that one would be written by [livejournal.com profile] elfwreck.

Have spent the last day and a half or so more or less insane. Was unable to deal with it for much of this time for various reasons; thus, spent a lot of today engaged in vigorous displacement activity. This led to the doing of a load of laundry, a load of dishes (including the washable stove components), the cleaning of the stovetop, the cleaning of floor around the stove, decluttering the foyer and slaying many dust bunnies, discovering that a suitcase was full of cat piss and cleaning that up, watering the plants, and cleaning out the right-hand soap dish in the bathroom.

My mead ferment came unstuck; my jasmine water and orange blossom water have arrived.

Added to to-write list: seeking homes; possibly something about fear/vulnerability.

Much processing around a bit of personality fragment that needs to be dealt with. Only slightly mad. Also dealt with the crazy eventually, as well as it can be done, by talking it out with [livejournal.com profile] arawen. (Among other things, mmm.) But it matters so much to have him willing to deal with my crazy with efficiency, even if there's nothing really to be done about it other than support and let time pass. (Time is an illusion. Lunchtime doubly so.)

Poem cut on general principles. )

Shower, full moon Rite, bed.
However, I've been tagged to write sexy/kinked/D/S haiku by Miss Syl of [livejournal.com profile] sexeteria, and how could I resist such charms and flattery?

Cut. )
Poem for Wesir and bread and stuff. )

Dua Wesir!

(I can't tell if this is awful. [livejournal.com profile] blacktarrant got it, and [livejournal.com profile] brooksmoses says it takes reading a couple of times to straighten the threads out but it came out in my head with the layers and I can't make it real any other way. Also, I suspect my capacities for evaluation would be in a much better condition if I wasn't sloshed, but since I'm completely plastered, there's nothing for it. This also is why the run on sentences. Be glad I"m correcting my typos.

Also not sure how to make the HTML work right. Faking it, sir.

Several times, until it works.)

Addenemium: Can't make the damn spaces go away. Cutting it as a result for courtesy. Dammit.)

Addendum: Hah! [livejournal.com profile] larksdream fixed my formatting. All better now.
Eris is my shepherd; I shall not wind up where I expected.
She maketh me to lie down in strange company: She leadeth me under the screwy waters.
She restoreth my soul; she leadeth me in the paths of serendipity for Her name's sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of inertia, I will fear no greyface: for Thou art with me; thy Chao and thy Hand they comfort me.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my pineal with chaos; my marbles runneth over.
Surely fives and transformation shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the Original Rorschach forever.

The thoughts that I was trying to assemble into language when this impulse struck will probably come up later. Unless I forget them first.

Plant you seeds.
You fear to speak what rests upon your heart
As if the past is root to some decay
A feather's condemnation of the part
Unborne, unwritten, never forth by day.
What was has been, what is is yet to come
That was must pass is cause enough for grief
But morning's voices will be ever dumb
If morrow's burnt to buy today's relief.
They say such endings come but once a life --
They say, though those who say are wrong --
In every transformation lies the strife
Of Phoenix flaming out to renew song.
You live through ending with each taken breath.
Come, take my hand, and have no fear of death.
kiya: (lightweaver)
( Dec. 8th, 2003 01:11 am)
I was praying to Sekhmet last night, and She told me that I should make Her a praise. I sat down earlier today to work on it and got curbstomped and told that free verse was not acceptable.

So I wrote Her a sonnet.

O Lady of the piercing, burning gaze
Flame-wreathed, flame-warded, desert lioness
Whose fearsome vengeance stalks the heart transgressed
Against the law; Whose brilliant shining rays
Allow no flaw to go unmarked. Ablaze,
Her cauterising touch is a caress,
A transformation shaping a distress
Into a strength within Her hands upraised.
How fierce Her countenance, how sure Her will,
How deep Her hunger and how broad Her reach,
How powerful Her voice, how sweet Her breath,
How bottomless Her knowledge and Her skill,
How relentless the discipline She'll teach.
All praise, Sekhmet, who holds both life and death.

Thanks to [livejournal.com profile] fyrekat for her list of epithets and titles, without which I'd have had a much harder time writing that.

Posted to my journal, [livejournal.com profile] dua_sekhmet, and the KOL board.
kiya: (buddha)
( Sep. 12th, 2003 04:08 pm)
This one looked actually interesting.

Friday Five. )

And this is because [livejournal.com profile] teinedreugan and I were snuggling on the couch and Arthur came over and proceeded to bonk everyone with his nose; [livejournal.com profile] teinedreugan said, "No, Arthur, you can't nose my banana" at which point Arthur promptly climbed up and started earnestly sniffing at the banana-grasping hand.

Rainy Day Arthur )


kiya: (Default)


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