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From the Springtime

Bee bread, of bees' knees; The boule of sticky gold cooked So gently in the house of bees. Bake it, don't burn it, Sisters together turn it In the house that is oven, In the house that is alembic, Stir the gold and bake it dry. Dry the golden ball of bee bread, brother bees.   The sun is shining, lift your head, Wash your eyes in blue, in tears, Fill your ears with sunshine's clamor, Clash your teeth on the beam's bright edge. Lay true gold on your tongue as in a pan, Fill your mouth with sunbut

Christine

Christine

Stomp Stomp Aargh

When I'm reading some esoterica and the author does not science well, eg genetics, so I start stomping around my house yelling about how it doesn't work that way, and the ignorant m-f ought to know better... But then I have to get off of my high horse and finish the book, and feel grateful that it was published in the first place, and that lucky internet era me gets to read it at all. It's a really high, high horse, and anyone who wonders why my nose is shaped like this ought to watch me try to

Christine

Christine

Dead Letter Office

Unlike some luckier folk who received fairly direct knowledge from elders, my folks were so deep in the broom closet they were hidden from themselves. Power still came through, of course, in unexpected ways. Without a doubt the sweetest way was through my gramma's sock dolls. She made hundreds of dolls out of baby socks over the years for the church charity sales, and they always sold out the first day. She said it was the little smile she stitched on, but all the parishioners knew that even a t

Christine

Christine

Lightbulb Moment

"But Mom, how do you KNOW that magic is real?" asks my eldest. And there just is no answer to that. He wants of course a story about some successful spell, but what value has that before you start on your own work-- and anyhow parents don't tell that kind of story to little kids. That's for when they're married and you want to find out if they still blush.   For the longest time, I didn't know it. I mean, I didn't know all that stuff was magic, or psychic, or whatever. I thought the grownups wer

Christine

Christine

Scroop my Froufrou

On a lighter note, here's a thought I can blame on Gene Wolfe. You see, I was re-reading his New Sun stuff, and of course I realized that there was an obscure term I hadn't nailed down with a strong visual, so I wound up doing yet more research in antique fabrics in the middle of the night, again. I mean, as one does.   I want a taffeta chiton. Scroop is an onomatopoeic term for varieties of taffeta, based on the sound it emits when worn. Okay, first, this should be how far more fabrics are judg

Christine

Christine

That pesky water-horse

This time of year, which around here is the harshest, is the part when I feel closest to death. Not to my own personal death, nor to the dead ancestors, but to death. Not to the crazed struggle for life that is dying, nor to the shuffled coil, but to death. I feel close to the raw and stinky fact of death at this time of every year, and it's because of that dang nisky.   It's one of those difficult topics that I never have been able to talk about successfully. Sometimes it seems too banal, becau

Christine

Christine

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