my heart is a glorious machine;

Heavens, it's been nearly a week since last I posted! For shame! But really, I've been rather shockingly busy, in, yes, the offline world, what with writing a Hire Me letter and composing my first proper resume ever (it's very short and not terribly impressive, but the fonts are lovely!) for the job at the local paper, and then accidentally spending the night at the Meholicks', which has become such a tradition -- with the Nielsons, too, when they still lived here -- that I really ought to put together an emergency survival kit consisting largely of pyjamas and spare underthings and leave it in a convenient corner. You see, burningstarsxe was coming home from three months in Maine, and when she arrived at last, there was such a riot of conversation and general jubileeing that I kept not leaving, and then it was eleven thirty at night... The next day was Friday, which was also Season Premiere of Dollhouse Day, so Sarah and Hannah came back in the evening, and we had a drawer of inappropriate starches (a real drawer, too), only someone neglected to tell me that none of the normal channels work anymore. We have bloomin' satellite, so this really oughtn't be a problem, but apparently it is. So here we are, panicking, staring at the grey screen, frantically eating cookies and squeaking... oh, it was dreadful. Eventually we gave up, took the drawer upstairs, and cosied up on my bed to show Hannah the Supernatural pilot, while I refreshed downloady sites to no avail. (A link finally surfaced about ten minutes after their father collected them, of course.)

Saturday was spent at Hershey Park, to which we acquired free passes from buying certain products at Martin's. Dad took Heidi and Timmy and I in the shiny new car, while Mum stayed home with Leandra (who would be no fun at an amusement park, as she would climb everything and be impossible to keep track of and she'd probably try to jump into a roller coaster or kidnap a duck or something). Ah, new car, how marvellously you glide along! And how exquisite it is finally to listen to CDs in the car again, instead of ancient tapes! (Okay, that often meant that we listened to a lot of Steeleye Span, but after two years it begins to be tiring when road trip music always consists solely of the surviving remnants of what Dad listened to twenty-five years ago. A lot of it is modern jazz, which I'm not especially keen on, and even Dad isn't that interested in anymore, and some of the singer-songwriter stuff is too eightiesified, and there isn't any of Dad's awesome psych folk stuff from the seventies besides Steeleye Span.)

Anyway, I'm not the largest fan of amusement parks in general, especially when I think about them too much ("this would be a really rubbish way to die, in the service of something so frivolous", I occasionally think on roller coasters or even swing rides, where a line might suddenly break; and then I think about how ridiculously much money goes into building these town-sized clusters of sheer entertainment, when people are, well, yes, starving in India and being murdered in the Sudan, and I am well aware that this sort of thing makes me the epicest of wet blankets), but I enjoyed myself rather -- they had an excellent carousel that actually went around quite fast, and tearing down an old wooden roller coaster is fantastic, and those spinning swing rides I adore because they're exhilarating and relaxing at the same time. Also there's something peculiarly sordid and fascinating about amusement parks and fairgrounds and circuses, something I can't quite put my finger on -- something about the colours and the sticky-sweet smell and the odd music and the mechanisms and the peculiar names of things and the way so many things seem strangely frozen in time. I do so want to put Mr Caruthers and Evy onto a carousel or something. (I have also always wanted an old carousel horse, a real one, on a golden pole, to keep in my bedroom and try to know the stories of it.)

And then it began to rain. Bah. It was cold and wet and we braved it for several hours, but then they started closing the roller coasters because they weren't safe anymore, and the rain wasn't letting up at all, and we were soaked and shivering and finally toured the Hershey not-factory -- mostly it was an array of Yay Capitalism Buy Our Overpriced Stuff, but it was very interesting to learn all of the different processes involved in making a simple chocolate bar, and when we finally wrenched the siblings away from the piles and piles of obscenely expensive mass-produced chocolates we decided to just go home. Ah, warm car warm car warm car.

Sunday I woke to rain, and when one is under the covers and indoors, grey rainy wet days are cosy and wonderful. Alack, I had to get up for church, and was rather cross, but at least it was chilly enough that I could wear my little black and grey double-buttoned schoolmistress dress, and people left quickly, and at home again there was magnificent chili for dinner, the first of the season, and then I ran off to finally watch Dollhouse with Sarah and Hannah at their house, and there was much conversation, merry and thinky and both, and I do so like people (and having Sarah back). Also Mr Joss Whedon is rather a meany-pants, but I expect you knew that. (Also JAMIE BAMBER IN HIS REAL ACCENT IS SO GORGEOUS AND WIBBLE-INDUCING AND ALSO CONFUSING. WHY DID YOU HIDE THIS BEAUTIFUL ACCENT FROM ME FOR SO MANY SEASONS OF BSG, MR BAMBER? WHY? THIS IS CRIMINAL. And, oh yes, there was also Alexis Denisof with his real accent, which is, alas, American, but his voice is still quite splendid and I am afraid that Sarah and Hannah and I could not possibly be prevailed upon to tell you a word of what he said in his little speech, as we simpered like very silly girls all the way through it.) 

Today, there was leftover chili and rain and coffee and a little autumn-coloured cat in the morning, and a library run in my new favourite purple sweater and my elegant pashmina scarf flowing around me in the brisk belligerent wind, and I am really quite enjoying it all. Except for these silly advertisements all over my LJ and being reduced to fifteen usericons. Pah!

I had all of this stuff written up and thought I might even post it, but it's all out of order, so I'll wait. I keep trying to record things, but I didn't start at the beginning, so it'll take a bit of organising which I haven't got time and internet for. So, yes, I'm sitting in a little coffee shop in Baddeck, Cape Breton, Nova Scotia (it's bad-ECK), thinking about ordering a pastry or two, and falling in love with this place. Have just bought several things at various shops; one of these was a beautiful multi-coloured necklace from an antique shop; the proprietor thinks it's from the seventies or eighties, and it's very quirky but sophisticated. There were so many marvellous things therein: commemoration cups and things from the coronoation of King Edward of England that never happened; an old tintype of some forgotten stranger in an elegant little frame; stunning Art Deco jewellery; a Victorian china tea set; all sorts of phantasmagorical little trinkets gilded with story. And a suit of armour standing outside the shop! I wish I could have taken him home.

Stanfest was amazing musically, and dreadful weather-wise, as it rained almost constantly and there was mud everywhere and we didn't have any wellies or anything, so I trooped around in my tall gothy lace-up boots and got soaked and muddy and managed to remain determinedly cheerful most of the time through sheer force of will, and the aid of some pretty spectacular music. New favourites: Po' Girl, Kellin Watson, Christina Martin. Lots of dancing, especially as I was so cold. It sunned and warmed up on Sunday -- around the time we were leaving, of course. Alas! More on the festival in the bits I haven't got into any kind of order yet.

Now we're staying in a little hundred-year-old farmhouse -- actually probably quite a large farmhouse, for its day -- called Green Gables, though it hasn't any gables that I've seen. (Clearly the name is meant as a tourist lure, but this tourist is glad to be sentimental.) I keep crowing joyously to myself, L.M. Montgomery was right!! Of course it's faddish in the States to belittle Canada, and I've always been a bit scowly about it, partially because I don't really like dismissing an entire country like that, and partially because, growing up reading Montgomery -- not just Anne of Green Gables, but everything -- I've always seen Canada as a wild, beautiful, fascinating place, with little pockets of old world culture, and sunsets and seashores and crags and forests and stars. And it's true, every bit of it! The people here are impossibly friendly and alive; my father and I have commented on how incredibly refreshing we find that. Everyone at Stanfest seemed to want to say hello to us, not because they knew we were visiting from Foreign Parts, but because we were human and deserved to be acknowledged. Festival people tend to be pretty fantastic and helpful and friendly in general; I've had a lot of wonderful festival encounters: but I have never been so helped and welcomed, or felt so loved by strangers, than I have in Nova Scotia. Instead of giving me directions, people would frequently walk me to stages; an older man helped me jump a fence with the water jug (I was pretty good at jumping fences by then, but I had stupidly worn a silk skirt); people offered me their extra chairs and tarps to sit on, the people in the shops are so friendly and interested in everything and full of stories and conversation: I've never been to a place such as this.

Anyway, the house -- acres of land, wildflowers nodding everywhere, forest growing up to one side, all gnarly and shadowy and cool; high ceilings and bright little rooms and a fireplace, creaking wooden floors, and there’s a shed and a bunkhouse (Timmy’s elected to sleep there) and I don’t even remember, over thirty acres of land?, and an outdoor shower, which is glorious, and a lake and a dock and trees trees trees and wildflowers, hills, hollows. My bedroom is technically a sort of office, but it’s got a fold-up futon sort of thing that’s a sofa by day and folds down into a bed by night, and there’s a desk for my laptop which is very useful, and a lovely window edged in creamy linen curtains and a pink-flowered yellow valance.  I've been reading and romping (and watching BSG -- OMG THE END OF SEASON TWO WHAT OMG WHAT WHAT WHAT OH SHOW), watching films with the family, going for walks and hikes -- lovely pictures from woods and waterfall I shall show you all upon my return! little fairy mushrooms and strange trees -- visting the very fascinating Alexander Graham Bell Museum -- he lived in this town for quite some time, and he's much more interesting than just The Inventor Of The Telephone. The holiday's been doing my poor story some good, too: Mr Caruthers has revealed some key pieces of his Sordid Past which solve a great deal of puzzles, and I am quite excited about them. (Poor Mr Caruthers, what a wretched life I've given him.) Still have some things to figure out, but The Things I Figured Out close most of the gaps in the story and give hints towards most of the ones that are left.

Dear me, I've been typing on and on and on and there's still so much to tell! But there's still a lot to happen. And I think I'd like a pastry.

I really love my job.

Now, not every day is the giddy glory that the eight hours last Saturday were, but going to work and doing my work continuously makes me happy. Borders may not get a ringing endorsement from me as companies go, and certainly I have to wade through a lot of bureaucratic nonsense, and sell a lot of rubbish books (and even rubbisher things which are not books and sometimes not even remotely book-related), but the real part of my job, the centre of it, is taking care of books and interacting with customers and I love it.

I've had some really lovely customers lately. On Wednesday this dignified woman in, I think, her sixties, in a long coat and an elegant scarf and glasses and possessing an accent somewhat suggestive of upper class New England came in looking for a copy of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, which she said was an old, old favourite that she hadn't read in years. We had a very companionable conversation and I think I will have to put her in a story someday. Today an attractive bearded young bloke (in a Death Note t-shirt with 'L' on the back, n'aww) bought a copy of the sole Dresden Files graphic novel, and we enthused about the series together. (I am currently on book six -- begun this very evening -- and am utterly addicted; it is marvellous.) 

And although I have to reschedule my library-and-Hockman's day, I really love working Saturdays, because the bookstore is very, very busy and full of book-loving people (in varying degrees) looking for something to fall in love with, and I have the best interactions and am happily occupied all day. We didn't have anything to shelve or repair today, so I was told to concentrate mainly on customer service -- hurrah!

Now, a question for the f-list. What books would you suggest for a) reluctant readers (of both sexes), and b) girls who like Twilight and are primed for introduction to better things (or the friends and relations of girls who like Twilight, trying to find them new things to read)? I can suggest plenty of books for women and older teens who enjoyed Twilight (or hated it!) -- Robin McKinley's Sunshine, of course, for proper vampires and a heroine who is not a dishcloth, and Emma Bull's War for the Oaks for a much better supernatural romance (inside a plot that is actually awesome, and more importantly, there!) -- but younger girls? I am at a loss. There are plenty of other rubbish teen vampire pop romances (they litter the YA section lately), but I feel the need to somehow instil a love for actual literature. As for reluctant readers, I was in no way one and find their minds difficult to comprehend. ;) What sorts of books would hook a boy or girl without the ravenous lust for literature I seem to have been born with? I want to recommend favourites of my own, but I don't know which of them would be the most apt (though I imagine Gail Carson Levine is a good place to begin with girls), especially since I was reading things like Dickens and Alcott and L'Engle at the age of nine, and Tolkien by twelve, and T.S. Eliot by fourteen (not counting the Practical Cats, which I think I must have been in love with all of my life, because I have no memory of being introduced to them but every memory of being familiar with them). A lot of people come in with, especially, ten- to fourteen-year-olds looking for something, anything that they'll read, usually because their schools require them to read some fiction, and I try my best to help them, but am floundering rather a lot.

I made brownies to bring to work, because... look, I'm not a suck-up, really! Uhhh. Heh. Anyway, this time I didn't forget to bring them, as I forgot the cookies I made a week and a half ago (and then I forgot them again when I meant to bring them to Jonathan's...). I also bought a baguette on the way to work and brought cheese from home for a lunch of bread and cheese; very old-fashioned and delightful.

And I'm bicycling again! I've missed being Bicycle Girl! The weather today is marvellous -- rainy and warm and windy and alive, and there is little like strenuous excercise in pleasing weather to lift one's spirits. Of course on the way to work it was very wet, and while the rain was mostly drizzle and not much trouble, the streets were full of puddles and I had to sponge mud from my entire person upon arriving at work. Siiiigh. But the way home was dry and absolutely perfect, and there was wind in my hair, and I may have sung a lot.

(Also I may have kind of wandered into Rue21? And they were maybe sort of full of their usual clearance racks of awesome and win? And I may have purchased one (1) grey and black striped shirt with a bow, two (2) elegant waistcoats in different styles, and one (1) very lovely summer dress consisting of a white ruffled blouse and polka-dotted skirt -- for two dollars apiece. However, dear readers, it is highly unlikely, for I only ever spend my money on extremely important and serious things.) 

Tomorrow, Dad and I are going to see Slumdog Millionaire (which has somehow made its way, very late, into our cinema, probably on sole virtue of having won many Academy Awards, because indie films are about as common in my cinema as capital letters in an e.e. cummings poem). I'm kind of enjoying my life right now; and that feels good.

So here I am in the Minas Morgul Funhouse, also known as the Abode de Meholick. Mrs. M is, you see, the Witch-Queen of Angmar (my mother is the Dark Lady Sauroneena, and ths has been going on since Sarah M and I were ten and eleven, respectively), so her hom ei snamed accordingly. Except that now we are living in their former home, so I suppose the old Minas Morgul has been upgraded to the Dark Tower? Something along those lines.

Well, I am sitting here feeling immensely and cheerfully exhausted, fulll of minty chocolate cookies and carrot cake cupcakes, listneing to the little girls watching Cinderella across the room. Did I mention that I am quite utterly happy, even amidst three girls under the age of eight who somehow manage to seem like fifteen? I love all the kids, though; Sarah and Hannah are almost-fifteen and just-thirteen and seem awfully older, and we hobnob splendid-like; Eli, eleven, the ony boy, plays football and piano, which could not be any more awesome; Becca, who is seven, likes to polish my shoes and refers to me as Lady Shelob; Sophie, age five, never goes anywhere without her felt pirae hat (but she is also very girly at times; and Not Quite Baby Anymore Xenia has finally stopped calling me "AAAAAAH" and is suddenly talking, in long, rambling, pacifier-muffled sentences, and I have no idea how or when this happened.

Father Jack Sparrow (who really is a priest--Eastern Orthodox, which means he can get married and have children, as he has so obviously done) has been working most of the day, but he is a great fan of Monty Python, and tomorrow night, I will finally get to sit in on a family viewing. (Monty Python is funnier in groups. Seriously, watching it with my dad is way funnier than watching it all alone.)

Did I mention that my mother bought me MINTY CHOCOLATE COOKIES? My life is now complete.