Continuing the recent venting about the intellectual bankruptcy of literary academia, and the difference between "literary" and "popular" fiction, we have the following.
Hyena: Name a novel that was actually written during the Regency.
Dementia (who has a degree in literature): The Regency wasn't very long...
Hyena: I guarantee you know one. In fact, pretty much everyone in America knows one.
Hyena: It was written by a woman...
Yeah, that. 197 years later, never out of print, known by pretty much everyone. The literati occasionally try to claim it, but it has always been popular fiction, and it always will be, probably until civilization collapses if the last two centuries are any indication. Not that there isn't plenty in the book for the literati to play with, but that isn't what has kept it in print. Not too shabby for a ghost story written by the least talented writer at the party...
September 7 (Courtesy of the Facebook Dredge, from 2015):
(Inspired by a story about a Benedictine monk whose tendency to hide out on top of a wind turbine he maintained was discovered by a photo drone.)
Once I had a secret place
Where I could go to be alone;
Then some jerk got in my face
With a stupid flying drone.
Now it's posted on the internet,
As far from secret as a place can get.
But still, with all the drones around
My place is fifteen stories off the ground.
September 12 (Courtesy of the Facebook Dredge, from 2015):
I haven't seen the dog today;
I haven't heard him howl;
But I know he's not too far away,
'Cause I sure can hear him growl.
Did a brief foray through Waukegan Harbor, and just sort of tagged Lake Michigan proper. There was a 600 foot long ore carrier (M/V Sam Laurer our of Wilmington, DE) leaving the Gypsum dock, so I skirted the Yacht Club and THEN rowed out the channel, past the breakwater, and decided that today was not a good day to die. BIG lake, SMALL boat. Still, I did it.
I found myself alone with a mothballed, mine for the taking violin. I had never attempted to play any bowed or fretless instrument before. I tuned it to itself, plucked out some tolerable scales, and managed to bow one clear note on each string, in spite of more than half of the strands on the bow being broken. Watch this space.
September 18 (Courtesy of the Facebook Dredge, from 2013):
Back in September of 2002, I got stupid with a chainsaw, and tore up my right thumb. It healed nicely, but I still have the scars. Yesterday, for no apparent reason, the old injury started to throb. Eleven years to the days since it happened. Weird as all get out, but I have gotten used to that. Now I just want it to stop.
Dementia's ability to fake sincerity is wonderful and terrifying.
We had just finished watching the first episode of a new TV series.
Dementia (who owns the remote): OK to erase this?
Hyena: Technically, we should burn it and bury the ashes at a crossroads at midnight, but I guess erasing it is the best we can do.
(For the record: "The Good Place.")
September 22 (Courtesy of the Facebook Dredge, from 2014):
Dementia has tried to learn to play the guitar a few times over the years, but like many of us, lacks the necessary manual dexterity. Recently she has acquired a baritone ukulele, essentially a half-sized guitar with only the four highest pitched strings. She has been practicing it diligently, and making good progress. Last night as I was brushing my teeth she played through a long and melodic series of chords smoothly. When I had finished, I complimented her, and asked her what the song was.
"I don't really know the melody well enough to hear it," she said. "It's 'Sloop John B.'"
I smiled. "Strum the first chord." She did, I listended, found the note, and started to sing. She was working off a words and chords chart, and had no trouble following through the verse and chorus. When we had finished, I said, "That... WORKED." I smiled broadly.
"Yeah," she said with an equally broad smile. "That did."
One takes one's triumphs where one finds them...