The Black Mare

.....and the little tag reads "Warm water wash, gentle detergent, air dry. Do not iron." Why would antennapedia hang such a thing on me? Oh, wait, the other side says "meme". Ah.

Seven quirks/habits/facts about myself:

1. Early every morning I am awakened by a small [56g] green parrot who flies into my room and hollers "Peek a BOO!" from my desk chair. If I don't get up, she bops over to the bed, runs up my body, looks down in my face, and does it again at the same volume. I get up, make tea, add milk, and dunk her Barron's Rich Tea biscuit, which she then inhales. Then she falls asleep on my shoulder and I usually fall asleep again, too.

2. The one male in the world who wants me with every fiber of his being, loves me passionately, croons and dances and nibbles and snuggles, weighs 126g and hasn't yet grasped the avian/mammal reproductive divide. People watch him dance on the back of my chair and say "Oh, how pretty" without knowing that he's desperate to fuck me senseless and hopes I will one day succumb to his charms.

3. The male most who adores me in an entirely platonic way is a big red horse. I adore him, too. I would even adore him if he wasn't a gelding. Occasionally I meet primates that would make better pets/companions/citizens if they'd been fixed.

4. Omnivore. Love to cook for friends, can't be bothered to feed myself more than the minimum necessary.

5. Am falling in love with this landscape. I chose it carefully, hoping that I could be at ease here, spirit flowing out along the steep valleys, flickering among the trees, following the small streams to wherever.

6. Don't watch TV. Love to watch DVDs, but seldom do of late. Netflix is making a bundle off me because I keep the same three discs for two months. Idiot. But I am writing a lot these days, not watching. It goes in cycles.

7. Tea, with milk. Whole leaf tea: loose, fresh, varietal.

7a. I posted this first as a comment on Ms. Pedia's post, but then saw everyone else was put theirs in regular entries, so I moved this. I'm not gonna tag anyone because the seven folks I might tag have already been tagged. Probably with things like "Dry clean only" and "Made in Canada" and "Rated PG-13 for language" and "This Side Up"

Rating: FRT Pairing: gen Author's Notes: Written for Summer_of_Giles. See Pt. 1 for full notes in header. Antennapedia is a Goddess. Without her this would be a tragic heap of format fripplitude.
( To Giles's relief, he found a large packet of geimacha tea in the top cupboard... )

Pairing: Gen
Word Count: part 1 - 10,500K
Illustration: Khaoschilde
Disclaimer: The BtVS characters belong to ME, Joss, et al. No infringement intended.
Author's Notes: This was written for Summer_of_Giles.
This story continues the recasting of S4 that I began in "Blood Oranges," which describes the evolving relationship between Giles and Buffy and the rising threat of the Initiative. As before, a story from Rudyard Kipling's "The Jungle Book" is central to the structure. If you would like to read "Kaa's Hunting", it can be found at http://www.cs.cmu.edu/~rgs/jngl-Hunting.html and on the Gutenberg Project pages. I would like to thank Antennapedia for her rapid, accurate beta, help with the Japanese, and formating my huge document. I would be lost without her help. I would like to mention that Khaoechilde's story "Watcher's Keeper" first gave me the idea that Giles could become involved in the political relations among the non-human/demon sentient nations. Perhaps what happens in her story might have gotten its start from the events in this one. I found the scrumptious image by Khaoschilde only two days ago, but it fit so well with this story that I have borrowed it and can only hope my story does it justice. Finally, I apologize for not being able to post the entire thing on my day, but I had an unexpected invasion of family houseguests which delayed the completion of the tale. I will get the rest up as quickly as possible. It would also help if I didn't let my characters run amok and force me to take detailed notes, i.e. the thing completely got away from me, and grew much bigger than I initially intended.


( “How very odd,” Giles muttered... )

Ack! How was it that I missed this memo? Well, I will beg the Muse's forgiveness and point to the 80" long shelf in the large guest room that is entirely full of poetry and poetics -- the first time in my entire life all those books have been together in one room, in one house, in one place. It was wonderful to greet them, to sense them greeting each other.

And, in an act of shameless hubris, I will post a villanelle I wrote a in, um, 1987 [maybe?] in a dark hour. Have seen darker hours since then, and felt this phenomenon more than once: just when you want to give up, some little thing comes flickering up out of the darkness and catches your attention for just long enough that morning comes and you are still in the world.



Kept Awake by a Villanelle


This dark is warm, I do not wait for sleep;
I want to catch the coda of my dream.
I need its words: the silence here is deep.

Like the tattered calls of winter-weary sheep
or the scattered tracks of deer beside a stream,
I hunt these words; the path they take is steep.

Round forms that grow in caves where water seeps
and fragile, sightless, darkness-drinkers team,
the words I need are hidden well and deep.

I have found the hollow hill and made my leap.
I lie still while echoes of my landing ream
a tunnel through the night toward words to reap.

I sift each sound and find the ones to keep
to fasten up the night without a seam;
I gather all these words into a heap,

then turn and start my journey home to sleep.
I want to catch the coda of my dream.
The dark is warm, I do not wait for sleep.
I need no words: the silence here is deep.

Seventeen hours after the amazing event, I have a dozen pictures of the day, and the three fine sons, up in a gallery called "Chinchilla Kits." The usual -- go to "user info", scroll down to "pictures", and click for the four galleries. The entire furry family is doing well and I was unbelievably restrained in posting so few images because I am utterly besotted. And these little guys are so fast! so jumpy! so bold! Totally ready to take on the wide world. I am in awe as well as being in love.

Not two babies, but THREE!!!!!

She was cuddled over the last one and I didn't see it until everyone started shifting around and there was an Unexpected Tail. Now they are all dry, UNBELIEVABLY soft, and incredibly lively. Considering how active the adults are, I'm not surprised the kits are rarin' to go after 120 days in such a crowded, tiny bedroom.

Happy, happy, joy, joy!

This morning, between 6:30 and 7:00 a.m. Eleanor and Sam became parents for the first time. Eleanor is safely delivered of two fine babies, one silver [like Sam] and the other undetermined, because it's still quite damp and tucked up under her staying warm. I arrived on the scene at 7:15 when mother and babies were still soaking wet; I set up the space heater to help keep the chill off the bonnie wee chinnies until their coats dry and fluff. Eleanor, who takes exceptional care of her ebony coat, is not pleased about the moist-and-matted aspect of this process, but in all other ways is proving to be a splendid mum. Sam has been watching and checking in, but not in the way. He's down with them all now, snuggled into the towel to offer additional warmth and comfort. Later today I will have to sequester him in one half of the very large cage as Eleanor is receptive to breeding over the next ten days, and I don't want her strained by a second pregnancy so soon. Once that heat has passed, they will all be together again until the babies are weaned at about 8 weeks.

I've been hand-feeding Eleanor Calf Manna pellets, which are rich in calcium and protein. She's had them throughout the pregnancy as a supplement, but I think a few more are in order after her superb performance. She's quite whacked, and currently tucked over her children sound asleep.

The kits are about the size of a healthy adult gerbil, even soaking wet. Dry, they will look larger. They are fully furred and their eyes are open; their tails have a thick coat of short hair that will grow to become the fine plume of an adult in about three months. Their ears are adorable, and what can I say to do justice to such exquisite and delicate whiskers? Their noses are busy pushing around in mum's warm coat, and they have the most astonishing chirping call, quite loud, and probably translating roughly to "nipple? nipple? NIPPLE!"

I am taking stills -- though not happy about the flash, so keeping that to a minimum. Wish it wasn't such a gray morning here. I am also taking digital video, of course. I'll get pictures into my gallery later today for all to see. Must get back down and watch!

This is in honor of Write About Socks Day, with a side of Rupertus Domesticus. Just to get y'all fired up and ready.

Title: Socks
Rating: FRC
Pairing: B/G friendship
Set early in S5

Giles was putting the final stitches in place when he heard Buffy’s tap on the door. It had gotten later than he realized. She settled herself beside him on the couch, watching him work the needle carefully over and under to secure the last row before tying off.

“Why are you sewing a light bulb into a sock?” she asked.

“I’m not. The bulb is just in there to hold the shape of the heel while I darn it.”

“Darn? Y’know, you could just say ‘damn’ like a normal person.”

“No, ‘darn’ as in mend. These are some of my favorite socks, and I’d rather take a few minutes to repair them than throw them away.” She reached over and stroked the area he’d already mended.

“Wow. These are so soft.”

“Cashmere blend. My aunt made me a dozen pairs when she found out I was being shipped off to the colonies.”

“She thought your feet would freeze in California?”

“Not exactly,” Giles said softly as he snugged down the knot and snipped the end neatly. “More that she remembered how my father was, um, well after –“ he stopped abruptly.

“Oh.” Buffy’s small fingers slid from the sock to rest on his larger hand. She gave him a slight squeeze then released him. Giles busied himself with slipping the bulb out, folding the sock together with its mate, and setting it on the pile of neatly folded laundry beside him.

“She sent hugs for your feet,” Buffy said quietly, her tone so pragmatic that it made his breath catch.

“Yes,” he answered, “that’s it exactly.” Setting aside the darning needle and yarn, he sorted carefully through the stack of fresh clothes and found a pair of cheerful yellow tube socks with pink cuffs.

“These are yours. From last week, when you stepped into that nest of Skokill eggs under the dock.” He handed them to her.

“Giles, how’d you get that stuff out? I figured they were goners.” She took them happily.

“Vinegar soak, followed by a cold wash and air dry. Then you shake out the remaining dust and there they are.”

“Whoa! Stain-removal secrets from the Watcher’s Handbook!”

“Not really. Just a guess about the protein content of the eggs, and the pH of the natural pigments.”

“You’re kidding.” she eyed him narrowly. He gave her his best scholarly eyebrows. “You asked Anya, didn’t you?”

Giles coughed, then grinned at her.

“Guilty as charged. But I had to suffer through the most amazing catalog of demonic laundry secrets before she got to the one I wanted. Apparently being the, uh, patroness of scorned women does bring one an encyclopedic knowledge of domestic disasters.”

“Next time I’ve got to get that sticky snot from those Trocha-whatsits out of my favorite shirt I’m going straight to her. Not that the Council would ever consider providing a clothing allowance, even if we were actually talking to them, which we are so not.” Buffy stroked her restored socks and found the tidy row of stitches across one heel. She turned the sock over and inspected it more closely.

“You did the lightbulb thing with this, didn’t you?”

“The egg shell cut it there, so yes, I did.”

She tried to catch his eye but he was settling the large end of the bulb into the heel of the last sock that needed his attention.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

I just followed the links on malnpudl's post to the rant from the current VP of the Science Fiction Writers of America about those who give professional level work away for free on the internet. You can read the rant here. The comments, too, are excellent and worthy. He used -- incorrectly -- the word "scabs" to describe those who distribute their work for less or for free when others have fought to be fairly paid. Apparently his cabin in the woods has no dictionary and he, for all his years in college, did not take American history to learn what that word means and what it does not mean. The rant is worth reading as an item of anthropology. The comments are worth reading, too. Plus, you seldom get to see such a public display of cowardice: he refuses all internet interactions, and had a friend post the rant on his behalf, and is refusing to engage anyone not in SFWA [i.e. who has access to the membership directory and his addresses] in furthering this conversation. The only thing I can say that is positive is that at least he knows he shouldn't run for president of the organization. He seems to think there is sufficient support for him that he had to write this to dissuade a grass-roots write-in voting campaign. Surely the members or SFWA are savvy enough to know he's not their best choice.

I would also point out how happy the sex workers in places where sex work is legal and unionized [e.g. Las Vegas and the Netherlands] will be to read this. Taken to a logical conclusion in another field, he is saying that no one should engage in sexual activities with the partner of their choice for free when there are folks out there who have organized and set standards for the proper fees for such work. Clearly love has nothing at all to do with work or our motivations for doing it, even when it requires sacrifice in other areas of our lives.

I have more to say on this topic, but it is sufficiently divergent that I will put it in a separate entry.

Well, I returned last Monday from a pleasant Easter visit with my brother's family and found a note in my inbox informing me that "Blood Oranges" has been nominated at the Sunnydale Memorial Fanfiction Awards in the categories of Best New Author, Best Characterization [Giles], and Best Plot. Voting is, I gather, now underway. This came as something of a surprise, since SunnyD isn't known for its attention to Giles other than as a supporting character. They devote much more bandwidth to other characters, and seem to be having quite a strong harvest of Spuffy stories. I think that "Blood Oranges" might be the only Giles-centric story in this round. It is certainly the only Giles characterization nominated. So I am a bit flabbergasted, and very flattered that they would find my story worthy of this honor. Should any of you feel so inclined, you can go weigh in on this and many other categories at The Sunnydale Memorial Fanfiction Award Nominees They have an extremely extensive list of nominees, so there is much fic there to be explored.

Having barely gotten my head around the first note, a second one appeared a couple of days later, and "Blood Oranges" has been nominated at Bodice Ripper for Best Plot, Best Gen Fic, and Outstanding New Author. I am now officially gobsmacked. Truly. I sent effusive notes of thanks to the persons who manage these things, and now I guess I wait to see what happens next. I've never been in quite this position before, and I'm finding it peculiar, though in a mostly pleasant way.

I have gotten some very satisfying feedback on the story too. One person asked "who are you and where have you been all these years?" Not having much to offer in answer to her first question, I sent her to The Bird Bone Flute by way of offering a fanfic alibi. This is an archive site made for me by meegat. I started posting this story on Tweedy Book Guy in January 2005 and it got long enough to be cumbersome for readers to find all the bits. Calamities throughout 2006 prevented me from continuing the story, so not many folks know about it, as unfinished things are often skipped until they are complete. Also, this story is over 70K words, and many folks don't like novel-length stories.

I am finishing The Bird Bone Flute over the next few months. antennapedia has already beta'd the next chapter, and I will post it as soon as I have a firmer grip on the two following, which are well along and must be tightly anchored in their predecessors. Prior to posting the new material, I also thought I would post each of the existing chapters here on LJ. Meegat is going to be updating the archive as new stuff is ready, too, for those who like one-stop reading.

Oh, and I suppose I should add that The Bird Bone Flute is entirely a Giles story, set four years before he arrives in Sunnydale. A more detailed summary appears on the title page of the archive site.

( To: The Weather Caterers )

Blood Oranges 1/1
Author: The Black Mare
Rating: FRT
Spoilers: up to “Hush” and AU from there
Distribution: just let me know where it’s going
Feedback: bigblackmare@yahoo.com
Author’s Notes: This story is a belated contribution to Antennapedia's "Rupertus Domesticus" ficathon, which is actually more like an anthology, because she is so merciful about deadlines. Thanks gobs to Antenna and M for beta help with this. Those who wish to refresh their memories of “Mowgli’s Brothers” by Rudyard Kipling can do so here, courtesy of the Guttenburg Project: http://www.xs4all.nl/~vangeijt/junglebook/mowglisbrothers.html
The EU declared the blood orange’s native terrain in Sicily a protected geographic area because until quite recently, it was the only place where these oranges grow. Blood oranges are now cultivated in California [the Moro variety] and Texas [the Tarocco variety]. These orchards are quite new, and didn’t exist during Giles’s time in Sunnydale.

( As he set the last eerily beautiful orange down on his kitchen counter and tidied away the grocery bag, Giles thought about the volcano. )

Okay, all you literate flist persons. I am looking for a word. I'm not certain that English has one, either native or commandeered. I suspect that other languages do, however. French is a good bet for cultural reasons. This, dear librarians, is just the sort of thing for which I value your skills, as it is not a search that can be done in a dictionary or thesaurus. It takes wetware and intuition, and probably a grasp of metaphor as applied in translation.

Yesterday while chatting with Ms. Pedia, it struck me yet again that there is no adjective for activities involving one of the senses. I have encountered this gap before, and this time I am asking for assistance. To whit:

Sight -- visual, etc.
Sound -- audible, etc.
Touch -- tactile, etc.
Taste -- gustatory
Smell -- ................. <-- gap

I am looking for an adjective that applies to the actions of that sense. Not to the item or event being sensed, but to the act or fact of the sense itself. A sample instance of application:

Antennapedia discovered in her laptop bag three bottles of BPAL and an Altoid tin of Imps. I wanted a way to modify the noun "cacophony" such that it applied to the riotous interaction of so many scents in the nose.

Jackson Pollack paintings are a visual cacophony to me; an orchestra tuning up is an audio cacophony, and so on. Perhaps I am being dense, but I wanted that adjective and couldn't find one. I could, however, immediately remember instances where I needed it in the past and had to generate some kind of work-around solution that was imprecise and therefore less pleasing. As a species, we are not [gap: fill with word to apply to scent] oriented. Dogs probably have twenty-seven words for this. The French, with their profound devotion to wine, perfume, and the intricate manipulation of foodstuffs for pleasure, almost certainly have a word for this. The ancient Greeks had a word for nearly everything, so they probably did for this, too.

I was ambling around LJ yesterday and saw a wonderful icon on one of your flists. It said, "English: the language that beats up other languages and rifles through their pockets in search of spare vocabulary." [Forgive me if I mis-quoted that, but I did love it.] This is one of those times when we need to fan out into the shadowed alleys and pounce on languages likely to have the thing I seek. Please extract it and bring it back to me so I may incorporate it into my active vocabulary and use it so rigorously that it eventually forgets it came from somewhere else.

In return, if I can be of any assistance to any of you in the vivid expression of a linguistically intractable phenomenon, please do not hesitate to ask.

I finally managed to get images uploaded, captioned, and annotated in three galleries. There is one for chinchilla photos, with shots of Sam and Eleanor; I'll add baby pics when the kits arrive. There is one with pictures of the birds, and one with pictures of Fox. All of the Fox pictures were taken during training sessions with either Bob Burrelli or April Hart, who live and work in Massachusetts and taught me my foundation skills in natural horsemanship.

You can view the images by going to my profile, scrolling down and clicking on the public images link on that page, and off ya go. Please note that the thumbnails are cropped; to see the entire image you have to click on the pictures and go through the album one photo at a time.

Off to put dough into bread pans for a second rise.

There is a poem called "The Wild Geese" by Wendell Berry that starts out

Horseback on Sunday morning....

And that is how my week did begin. On a sweet black and white walker mare who knows these hills and loves her purpose, who carried me out with new friends for two and a half hours through the unusually warm December day, up the lower flank of Sleepy Creek Mountain, across harvested cornfields laced with deer tracks, past veteran apple orchards, down into damp hollows and stony streambeds, scrambling up steep paths into sunlight, the horses laughing with their manes and Lee and Mary trying to convince their respective mounts that we were going to slow down enough at the top to enjoy the view. The poem goes on:

Geese appear high over us,
pass, and the sky closes. Abandon,
as in love or sleep, holds
them to their way, clear,
in the ancient faith: what we need
is here. And we pray, not
for new earth or heaven, but to be
quiet in heart, and in eye
clear. What we need is here.

There were geese, and a few startled ducks, a redtail watching from the emptied trees on the field edge, and always the wide, graceful arcs of vultures going about their necessary work in calm vigilance. Yes, quiet in heart. Yes, in eye clear.

Truly, what I need is here.

That I have arrived mostly intact, and my little ones are all well, and the big red boy looks so marvelously happy wearing only wind and sunlight: home at last.

And this is last night of autumn; tomorrow the shortest day and the longest darkness. For me, that is the turn of the year. For me, it is the morning of that first day when the light will be longer that is the welcome and longed-for gift. And I am so very grateful. There were enough times since the last axis of dark-to-daylight when I did not believe I wanted to wait it out, did not believe that I was strong enough to keep my balance, to keep my heart and ethics and all the damaged bits of me gathered close enough. There were times I wanted to just set it all down and stop. A story with an end but no conclusion. A failure of narrative and nerve.

Yet here I am. Here. My biodiverse loved ones with me, in MY house, sound and strong. Tomorrow I will set out to see my family for a few days; there is this major holiday that had quite escaped my notice these past years, though this year I managed to scramble a bit and put some things together. I'll do better next year, when I'm not so tired.

For now, I have what I want, all I want. This is the place to lay down the grief and know the land will handle it. This is the time I had hoped might come when breathing is even and easy and each day I am not afraid. I am not choosing one pain or loss over another. I am not sorting the essential from the merely loved. There is no emergency.

There is emergence.
Here, in the dark of the year. Such peace.

Much love to you all, whom I have thought about often and am glad to read again after such long absence.

Hi all,
I'm fine, all the creatures are safely settled in their new places, and my stuff arrived in excellent condition several days earlier than expected. So I am working my way through boxes and installing shelving and so forth. Now and then a much needed treasure bobs to the surface, like the garlic press, or a knife sharp enough to get through butternut squash, or an unexpected cache of clean socks. However, I am entirely without phone or internet connections because Verizon screwed up not once, but three times. And, contrary to their sales reps remarks, there is no DSL in the area, only dial-up. I can't get cable internet without paying for cable TV, which I refuse to do. So tomorrow I investigate the wireless broadband possibilities. For now I am writing from a friend's computer while doing several loads of laundry. And I suspect that it's time to buy a cell phone, if only to harass Verizon several times a day until they deliver on their services for which I have already paid. Murmph. But in all other ways, doing very well.
I hope all of you are thriving, and I will get all caught up on my reading and comments when I am back on the grid.

It's a foggy morning, which I like, accompanied by rubber hotel breakfast scrambled eggs and Lipton tea bags, which I don't like. But soon I will have the foggy mornings with my own favorite runny eggs on crisp toast and excellent loose leaf tea accompanied by birds in my own house. My closing is in one hour.

( Big Fox and Henhouse on the road from MA to WV )

I just went to see "The Prestige". My sister-in-law had been adamant that I go see it, and gave me the same warning that I will pass along to all of you: Pay attention.

( Here follows some spoiler-free thoughts on various elements of the story. )

Has anyone else out there seen it yet?

Okay, my turn. Seeing as how I don't have such a splendid library of my own fic to quote from, I am going to do the cruel thing and give y'all a teaser from an upcoming chapter....

( Huge spoiler for The Bird Bone Flute's near future... )

Oddly enough, it isn't the biggest or the only surprise coming....

So edgy. High winds always does this to me. During daylight I am just skittish, but at night I am deeply uneasy. There isn't, as far as I know, a name for this phobia, although given the damage done around here by falling pines in this kind of weather I'm not certain "phobia" is the right word, the danger being quite real and rational.

I have been this way since I can remember, curled up in my bedroom as a kid where the bed was placed right under a large west-facing window. The dangerous winds come from the west in that part of the Colorado plains. I remember hearing the wind gage at the National Center for Atmospheric Research blew apart at 119 mph. It was on the foothills above Boulder, about 20 miles west of us. What kind of gage is it that fails before it's measured what it was supposed to measure? That puzzled me at age eight and puzzles me still. The glass shook and flexed against my hand: it was very personal dare to reach up in the dark under the curtains and feel it moving. No sleep on those nights.

The windows in this house don't do that; they are triple glazed and extremely strong. But the walls vibrate, and I feel it. When the wind is cold, as it is now in rehearsal for winter, I cannot find a comfortable place to be, cannot feel safe. Warm wind has a very different personality, less purely frightening and more a matter of respect-for-the-hunter.

Of course in this house, right now, there can be no peace, even in still air. Himself has actually decided to help with the final painting work, which means we have to speak to each other and I have to tell him what things are where, and how to use them, none of which he wants to hear. So we are both holding ourselves pretty fiercely in check. I think I will take myself out to tonight, maybe see a movie. I need a few hours of respite. We are coming up on the end of things, all the effort, planning, packing, negotiations, logistics, and severing. In about three weeks I will be gone from here. So soon, so much to do; yet not soon enough. Deep breaths. One chore after another. I am larger, stronger, deeper than all of this. Stone: I must remember the stillness of stone now, how the wind passes over smooth stone unbothered and without malice or grasping. These are the last days of the past eighteen years. I am paying attention. I am here now. There are things on this dangerous ground I must learn, things I must watch for, small lives to guard lest they be startled or damaged in the sudden shift of the world that is about to happen.