my heart is a glorious machine;

Oh, how lovely; the incense twine of woodsmoke is coming in through the open window, and today it is autumn. I finally realised that sitting in my bedroom all day ruining my eyes on screens, not getting any air or exercise, and only seeing the exact same things I see every day was doing my psyche no good, and on a whim took up my iPod and my embroidered bag and betook me to my bicycle, and to the hill.

The hill is behind my old house, where Sarah and Hannah now live (again: it was theirs before it was mine), and when I lived in the Rectory I would steal up there often, especially last August and September, before we moved. It's a large hill, and if you look in exactly the right directions, the long waving grass and clusters of trees hide all the signs of civilisation and you can pretend you are Nowhere. I mean, there's the statue of the Founder of Our Town and the grave of his horse, but they're sufficiently worn-down to be interesting. There's a path up the side to the top, and if you skirt off the path to the right there's a marvellous little grove of trees, very fey and out-of-the-world feeling. I've always wanted to string candle-jars around it and have a mad tea party at dusk. It was here that I lay myself down in the old leaves and listened to a lovely new album by Thistletown -- pretty, jingley, multi-voice freak folk with the occasional jazzy horn riff reminiscent of Nick Drake -- and then the Magickal Folk of the Faraway Tree, because lying on my bed did not do them justice. (I posted them on musicyardsale yesterday; go join and/or have a look!) Sometimes I wandered over the hill and picked an autumnal bouquet of leaves and late flowers, but mostly I lay in the leaves and twigs listening to lovely music and watching the sky change and the orange-edged leaves flicker in the wind, and great flocks of birds fly hither and thither overhead -- the shadows of birds, skirting over and through leaves in the sun, is an image I will never forget.


Of course, while I was sitting in my woodland grove with leaves in my hair (and purple earbuds incongruously in my ears), a herd of college students suddenly flowed into my hidden paradise. Funny how this never happened, ever, when I actually lived in the neighbourhood. Apparently they were on some sort of botany mission? I stayed where I was as they trooped past me and smiled and felt very peculiar. I wonder what they must have thought of me? We sort of grinned at each other amicably and nervously and they went off to do their botany things and I went back to my music, but it was very amusing. (Fortunately they had left by the time "Here's a Health to All True Lovers" came on, because I had to dance to that, and I wasn't ready to stop after that, so I queued up old favourite Steeleye Span song "All Around My Hat" and kicked off my shoes and shouted somewhat tunefully along with the chorus. I can sing well, but not usually so well when dancing.)


And then I had boundless energy! Well, not really, and I think I swallowed an insect, bleah. But I did feel a great deal more motivated and brain-working-y and went home and made chocolate chip cookies and had debates with the radio again.

HEY YOU GUYS NEW SWELL SEASON SONG. \o/
OH GLEN AND MAR I HAVE MISSED YOU SO. ♥

(New album Strict Joy due out 29 September!)

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.

Woke this morning feeling strangely alive -- well, no, not as soon as I woke; mostly I was sleepy (and cosy, as there was a fluffy little calico making brrrriiir! noises and curling up on my legs), and fuzzy-headed, but lying in bed listening to Morning Edition and the bedroom all full of breeze (oh lazy Saturday mornings, how I love you!), I felt very -- attuned to things. Which is lovely. Let's hope it lasts, cos I've got a lot to do today, mostly of the errand variety. Want to pick up: book I put back for myself at work, paycheck(? I keep forgetting when it's been two weeks -- if it hasn't been, I'll arrange for it to be automatically deposited); scan the mall once more, rather hopelessly, for a fetching straw boater, and, perhaps less hopelessly, a pair of white or cream stockings; then to Walmart to investigate car adapters for laptop, actual not-earbud-headphones, ribbons; come home, pack, have chocolately goodness and curl up with a book. War for the Oaks, which is one of my very favourite books in this world, came the other day -- I finally broke down and bought it, and I meant to save it to read on holiday, but that resolve lasted all of fifteen minutes. (Ergo I will re-read it on holiday. Re-read again, that is; but I re-read books hundreds of times, when I like them. You find so many new things in books when you read them over again -- both things that you didn't notice were there the first time, and things that mean different things to you at different parts of your life.) And I got Mum to order Thomas Wharton's Salamander from PaperBackSwap for me, and that came a few days ago, and that's definitely a good holiday book -- this will be the second holiday I've read it on! -- because it involves a lot of concentration and immersion, being, as I mentioned, one of the very oddest books I have ever read, which is precisely why I love it so. There are a lot of echoes of it and its ideas in the Evangeline story -- Evangeline's father's job was probably subconsciously invented just so I could imagine about the same kinds of book ephemera that Thomas Wharton does. In a world with magic, how are books different? Especially ones that aren't meant to be straightfoward novels. (And, in a world with actual very present vampires, did Bram Stoker write Dracula? Did he write it, but differently? Hmm.)

Oy, brain, that is hardly what I set out to talk about! But speaking of holiday preparations, I ordered a parasol some days ago, as I have always wanted one, partly because they're lovely and distinctive, and partly because I loathe being tanned and burnt is worse, and as I shall be in the sun at Stanfest for days, I'd like to finally have a bit of portable shade. And it came today, and it is exquisite; I am so glad I picked this one! Note to all: for parasols, look on eBay. There are plenty of varying quality for auction, of course, but quite a lot of sellers with very nice and inexpensive ones, too. I chose the one I did because it is all real materials -- bamboo, wood, silk, no plastic in sight -- and is simple -- white silk, spray of painted flowers, pink spokes -- and pretty and has got a handle with a tassel. And it looks so sophisticated and quirky and I cannot wait to use it. I also keep opening it and spinning it, because I can. (Also nice that it is silk rather than paper, because I am clumsy and I am sure something terrible would happen.)

Anyway, let me see! Wonderful Cape Bretony things! First off, there's Stanfest, where I will see Sarah Harmer, Po' Girl, and a lot of other Canadian folk musicians wiith whom I am unfamiliar -- but discovery is my favourite thing about festivals. And you know how I love festivals -- dancing, community, music all day, pretty dresses, vendors, magic. But first we drive for two days. Er. Eep? But I am a bit mad and enjoy road tripping. (Though especially if siblings are quiet. Hoping to plug in laptop, watch films, sleep, read books, get deeply acquainted with some albums. Hence the purchase of headphones.) We pick up my aunt near Philly, and eventually turn up at Jonathan's family's house in Maine, stay the night -- it's the halfway point -- then continue on to Canada. After Stanfest, we've got a lovely house by a lake, and I believe it's a swimmable lake? (I hope so, as I have a lovely new vintagey polka-dotted bathing suit, the first suit I've had in five years, and the first I haven't hated the look of in some time.) And there will be relaxation and much reading and I WILL GET WRITING DONE. That is in capitals because I am sternly reminding myself of this, you see.

I have no idea as of yet what if any internet access I will have in Nova Scotia -- if our house will have any internet, if someone will have unprotected wireless nearby, if we'll stumble into a coffeehouse with free wireless. I would much prefer there to be easily accessable internet, for many obvious reasons -- not least because I suddenly realised NPR is American and therefore not on Canadian radio (most likely). With no NPR and no internet, how will I get the news? (I refuse to watch televised news anymore, as it is always sensationalised and makes me angry, and frequently goes on for hours about Britney Spears' latest exploit or talks about nothing but Michael Jackson for ten hours after his death was announced, bypassing actual important news, especially that which takes place in countries other than America -- and anyway we won't have television, either.) Also, how will I resarch things? :p

Looking forward -- oh, starwatching; I'm sure our house will be isolated enough that the stars will be clear. I feel as though I need a good star-communing at least every six months, to keep on balance. It makes me feel bigger and smaller and connected and loved and loving and amazed. Wandering about, taking pictures, exploring. Watching films with the family. Watching films all alone. The dramatic landscapes. I can pretend I'm in an L.M. Montgomery novel -- which would be magnificent! Jo of the Clifftops! Listening to music in new and interesting places. Gathering memories like wildflowers.

(Though just now what I'd like to gather is food.)

Work adventures of yesterday: a girl and her mother bought a great pile of books, on top of which was an Eva Ibbotson (The Morning Gift)! I was delighted and told them so; the girl confessed that she also adores Ms Ibbotson. Dear me, I feel like starting all over again -- I have five Ibbotsons in matching editions lined up in the book closet now -- although I've read the books to figurative bits in the last six months. I can't tell you how incredibly cosy and happy-making her novels are; the clichés are mostly of the comfortable, well-worn-quilt sort, and her prose is so delicious that I can feel it in my mouth. Also it is something of a relief that I finally have comfort reading that actually resembles comfort reading to the outside world -- Sunshine and I Capture the Castle and Baby were beginning to be a little worrying. (Of course there's also L.M. Montgomery -- whom, actually, Eva Ibbotson considerably resembles, except she writes in great loving tender detail about England and Vienna rather than Canada: but they have similar approaches to characters major and minor, and similar hard-won optimism, and delightful prose, and the ability to make me read romance-plot books and adore them.)

I am working again tonight -- hurrah paycheck! also hurrah for working Saturdays, when it is exactly my favourite kind of busy: viz. a lot of working with customers and selling books, rather than endless shelving and organising and packing returns into boxes and not having anything to do so bouncing sparkly light-up rubber balls behind the counter instead. (This is okay because it occasionally causes small children to beg their mothers for such a ball, and then we sell some. Yes, the problem with corporate chains is that we sell all sorts of entirely non-book-related nonsense.) And, I must say, I am quite pleased with my outfit today: sophisticated black skinny jeans; my white Lip Service blouse with black lace round the collar and puffed sleeves with little black bows on the ends; a brown plaid vest that criss-crosses in the back; a Mona Lisa brooch pendant; darling checked flats; and the most charming and job-appropriate earrings ever, made for me by the marvellous lexiedoh. Yes, they are indeed wee books. ♥

And this morning my wake-up call consisted of being pounced upon by a small fluffy beast who seems to believe that it is my Sacred Duty to pet and cuddle her. And by this morning, I mean not so very long ago: there is little of the day to report, as it is nine thirty in the morning, and I am sitting up in bed (dressed and awake and the bed is made, really! -- I had to make it around the laptop, though, which was a bit ridiculous) listening to NPR.

(note: I am almost certain that Mr Arnalds wrote the song I am playing after watching Pan's Labyrinth: note the title, not to mention that it sounds like a riff off the main theme. Gorgeous.)

Despite being barraged by sun and humidity, aching all over, somehow managing to catch a cold in eighty-degree weather, having to choose between four different bands in one time-slot, and finding my face has been sunburned dreadfully, I have had a marvellous weekend. Marvellous. To begin with, at least one festival a year tends to be my father's and my special togetherness, that thing that just we share, and as people in general go, I can be alone with him better than I can be with most people. (It helps that we kind of know each other really well, but also we're similar kinds of introverts and know when to let each other be, generally speaking. And he's one of the few people I know -- especially offline -- who listens to music in the same way I do; drinking it in, living inside of it.) And, as seems to be tradition these days, I discovered some really fantastic bands -- Scythian, who I mentioned before I left, are brilliant, especially late at night on a dance floor. Especially as the band is made up of four extremely, um, attractive young men who were wearing waistcoats the first night. And they're amazing instrumentalists. That violin almost broke my heart... except when it was going too fast to think, and I was dancing so hard I was losing my kerchief. At one point near the end of the set, all of the boys except the drummer leapt off the stage and played while dancing with us, and the main fiddler and I were dancing -- more at than with each other, but either way it was magnificent. Definitely a memory to fold up and keep, like Kristen Andreassen telling me that my then-pink hair was awesome, or Abigail Washburn turning to Bela Fleck and saying, "Don't you remember her? She was dancing to us at Merlefest...", or star-watching after Nickel Creek's two-and-a-half-hour set two years ago.

My other new favourite band is the Belleville Outfit, who play old-timey string-band swing music. SO GOOD. Their violinist and female lead vocalist has an extraordinary voice -- very 1920s, and unique. They also played the dance tent. The best things seem to happen there! (I also went to see the Duhks at their dance stage session, which was just as amazing as the other two I mentioned. Also the "new" -- as of two years ago -- lead vocalist can sing, my oh my. I've known this, but it kind of comes home to you when you're two feet away. Also it's very fascinating to me how different Cajun French sounds from European French -- Cajun French has swagger. Somehow it manages to sound like a completely different language.) -- Oh, and there were the Farewell Drifters, who sounded a little like an American Mumford & Sons -- they had the roots influences and the string-band thing going on, but with indie singer-songwriter sorts of melodies and lyrics and arrangements. And then there's the legendary Doc Watson himself, who may be eighty-six, but he's still a very compelling musician and showman.

So much to discuss! So little energy! We got in late last night (and then poor Dad only had time to snatch a few hours of sleep before driving to Ohio for a confernence with our church's denomination), and all day today it has taken much, much willpower to do much besides lie on the bed. Or sometimes on the couch. My legs ache -- in a good way, but still in a don't-want-to-move way; and the cold has drained any remaining energy out of me, except for the tiny reserve I dug up in order to run errands by bicycle this afternoon. (AUUUGH. But I had to fetch my new glasses, and my Ritalin except it still isn't here.) Even turned down an offer of ice cream from Jonathan, because... food. Ack. And bicycling again. I might fall off on the way. plkhsglkhsdf.

In other news, four days from now I will be flying to stay with lady_moriel. (She somehow manages to say calmly and off-handedly. AKJSGHG.) 

...To talk about my summer plans? 

I realised just now that I haven't actually written about them yet, and some of the more pertinent ones are approaching rather quickly. In about a week, Dad and I leave for Merlefest in North Carolina, where it will be gloriously warm... oh, right, and the music, yes. We won two free tickets to the festival last year, from a radio call-in, and really, really loved it -- not only the music, because clearly, it's one of the biggest folk/roots/bluegrass festivals in the country, and nearly everyone good ends up there sooner or later, but because of the atmosphere of it, the locations of the stages -- two are at the bottoms of hills, making for spectacular natural stadium seating! -- the community spirit, the wonderful people who run it, who strictly encourage a family friendly and comfortable atmosphere, the beautiful weather of North Carolina in springtime. Summer would be miserable for me (although I survived physical labour in Mississippi in July, so perhaps I'm hardier in the face of humidity than I give myself credit for), but spring is delicious. I've been daydreaming about it for months, all through the miserable chilly wet grey cloud-heavy winter, dreaming about lying flat in the long grass underneath the afternoon sun, listening to Emmylou Harris. (Emmylou, you guys! EMMYLOU HARRIS. And the Duhks, and Missy Raines & the New Hip, and Ollabelle, and the Greencards, and... wow.)

For me, summer is folk music festivals. Of course this is April, but April in the Carolinas is summer enough by my standards, and by the time May rolls around spring and summer tend to blend into each other anyway. But since I was nine, we've been making pilgrimages to various festivals every summer, and I feel so tremendously at home -- almost at peace, in a way, when I come to another festival; it's almost the same sort of violently familiar and safe feeling that finds me at my grandparents' house, even their new little apartment in a retirement community, because it's full of the pictures and artifacts and furniture and photographs and refridgerator magnets and particular snacks that I remember. Perhaps it's even stronger at festivals because it's music, and the music sometimes takes me further back than the festival experience alone. Emmylou Harris, for example -- she's been crooning to me since I was a baby. There are certain songs that bring back that -- safeness -- and her voice alone relaxes me, and yet makes me ache with remembering.

And festivals are fun. Music, all day! And sunlight, and people, and booths full of delightful oddities, and dancing, and good food, and all of the excitingness that long drives and camping bring (...look, I really like car trips, okay? I don't even know why, I just love them).

And then four days after Dad and I get home from North Carolina, I'm getting on a plane and flying to Kyra.

Pretty much yeah.

So, you remember last summer, lady_moriel came to stay with me for a week? And how we've known each other for like seven years and had never met in person until then? And how it was pretty much the most amazing thing ever? (And how glorious and strange it was, how incredibly familiar she was -- because I've met internet friends before, and there's always that first sense of vertigo, because they're really familiar, except not, because they're occupying physical space, and suddenly they have habits of waving their hands or sitting in a particular way or pacing or being really still and it's just... weird at first? But with Kyra it really wasn't at all, and that was nice.) So, she's graduating from college next month, and after she left we kept saying, we need to do this again, we really really really do, and she thought maybe she could bring me up for her graduation, because she has all of these frequent flyer miles, and... then there was a lot of planning and deciding, and now it's happening. There are tickets, and everything, and I'm going to get on a plane in two weeks and fly all the way to Alaska and watch her graduate and stay with her for a week and a half and I AM SO EXCITED I CAN'T EVEN TELL YOU. I mean, first, PLAAANE -- I love flying, although I've only done it, what, four or five times in my life?, and I love airports, and travelling in general, and all of the weird little things about it, like packing carry-ons and having travel-sized things and snacks and choosing the exact right books and... that sort of thing. And thene KYRAAA. FOR A WEEK AND A HALF. (Also, ALASKA. Have never been there. Have never been off the continental United States, really, unless Quebec counts, in not being the United States but still continental. Anyway.) 

So... yes. Lots of planning going on there. And flailing. And deciding what movies and television to watch together, and planning photoshoots and geekery and things... I HAS A FLAIL. (Not the, um, weapon kind, with the spikes. Really not.)

Then, in July, my family is going to Cape Breton in Nova Scotia -- renting a house, seeing the sights, THERE WILL BE CEILIDHS, real live ones, oh my goodness, this has been a crazy dream of mine for so long, to go to a ceilidh, and I had no expectation of it ever coming true. (Now to make it come true in Ireland...) Aaaannnd, because we're us, we're going to another folk festival out there, the Stan Rogers Folk Music Festival -- we don't know a lot of the artists, as they're mostly Canadian and ergo less well-known over here (although Dad knows and loves James Keelaghan, and some of the artists they've had in previous line-ups kind of made my jaw drap), but... WAIT, SARAH HARMER? WAIT WHAT? SHE WAS NOT ON THE LINE-UP WHEN LAST I CHECKED. Also need to check out Po' Girl, as they seem very much my sort of music. Anyway, it's going to be gorgeous. My aunt is coming along too. I can hardly wait... except there's quite a lot of else to fill up the waiting NOT LEAST STAYING WITH KYRA.

...Which reminds me, I have to start gathering some things for Merlefest... I need sunglasses, and there's a set of feather jewellery I'd like to have (shut up), and I really want a parasol. If I can't get one in time for Merlefest, I at least want one for Stanfest. I've got an old-fashioned sunhat, and plenty of flowy summer dresses, and the first sandals I've owned and liked in about eight years, and a laptop... for which I need a case...

I find that I am rather enjoying the mentally energised feeling that comes with one's fever breaking; although I am not entirely certain that it makes up for being in bed all day and missing five good hours of work, much less the first vomiting I have done in three years. And it was a Friday afternoon shift, too! Very busy! I love being busy with customers! Harrumph. 

So yes: yesterday everyone was sick but me, until suddenly around ten at night I began to feel the first curls of nausea, which steadily got worse; I took Pepto-Bismol and went to bed, and promptly woke up an hour later to vomit. This I wasn't expecting,  because I can remember the last time I vomited, and it was, as mentioned, a very long time ago. It was not pleasant. I really wished I hadn't eaten all of that rice for dinner, now that it was coming up in maggoty litttle lumps. Then I took more Pepto-Bismol and went back to bed, until about four in the morning, when I woke up to vomit again, thus terrifying the cat. And I missed the bathroom by a foot or so, which was awkward. And then I went back to bed (after soundly brushing my teeth), and the cat eventually rejoined me, which was very cosy of him.

This morning much of the nausea had abated, and I was stubborn enough to want to try to go to work. This involved me trying several times to get out of bed and failing. Half an hour before I had to be at work, I finally stood up, went over to the closet, and blacked out. I came to on the other side of the room, sitting, with a sharp pain in my thigh. It was very strange -- I had this -- sensation? hallucination? vision? -- in which I was crashing down something, very loudly, and it hurt, which imaginings don't usually do. In retrospect, both the imagery and the physical sensation afterwards heavily resembled Duchamp's Nude Descending a Staircase. (Brain, I don't even know.) And I know I must have crashed into a few things if I -- stumbled backwards across the room? Whatever it was I did when I blacked out that got me to the other side of the room. I may have hit my music stand and a bowl on the way, but they certainly didn't make all of the noise that I heard in my -- hallucination? And I asked if anyone had heard a crashing noise, and they hadn't. It was very strange, and sort of fascinating. I kind of want to know if it fits into a specific psychological something-or-other, and why I envisioned so much falling and crashing, or amplified the little that might have really happened...

Except then I was still saying I was going to go to work, because I am stupid. Only I couldn't stand up for more than a minute at a time without feeling horrible. Or sit up comfortably. ...Look, I really like my job. I finally decided in favour of actual sense (and also in favour of not infecting my poor co-workers) and called in sick, and spent the rest of the day lying in bed, occasionally listening to music or NPR, and falling asleep rather frequently. Oddly, some of my senses seemed amplified, which was sort of enjoyable, where music was concerned -- I felt sound very intensely, and listening to Ashtar Command's "In Dust" and Conjure One's "Center of the Sun" was very fascinating.

Leandra, age two, came charging in around sevenish to give me my wallet: she found my iPod on the bed, put the earbuds on, and demanded, "Lai-lai, please?", referring to this song by Rupa and the April Fishes, which for some reason is her very favourite song ever. Her whole face lights up whenever she hears it playing, and she starts dancing round in little circles, which is adorable. After Lai-lai, we listened and danced to Benny Goodman, the Beatles, Abigail Washburn, and Crooked Still. Hee.

And then I dressed in my softest, cosiest cotton dress, just in time for sunset. I think I can go to work tomorrow evening -- and I'll need my strength tomorrow, because Heidi's having a birthday party, which means there will be a horde of little girls from about seven to twelve shrieking through my house, oh help.

The laptop has decided that it no longer believes in wireless. No, let me rephrase that. The laptop has decided that it no longer believes in my wireless. It is more than content to pull up other people's wireless, which is all password-locked. I am, as is to be expected, not very pleased with it at all. (I can connect it to a wire, but that involves dragging it downstairs and having to sit at the dining room table, and having a ridiculous amount of cords which people, especially Leandra, trip over or play with, and the silly computer is fragile that I'm terrified to carry it down the stairs anyway.) 

In other news, thank you to everyone who linked me to the Inland Territory leak! Naturally this happened just as my wireless was beginning to misbehave... I shall review soon, but in a word: glorious.

And today I have work. Hurrah! I should go make a sandwich. There are many other things I can and ought to discuss, but there is a certain lack of time at the moment...

Fairly often, when I am at my job and having to entertain myself by people-watching (which is not as interesting as it could be, in a town of this size and location and culture: nearly everyone looks the same, and sometimes their clothing is very depressing, what with the pyjama trousers and sweats and horrible horrible shoes), there is a an attractive young bloke wandering about looking resplendent in a long black leather duster. He has extremely nice hair. I mention this because he looks so very much like someone who ought to be in a story that I am trying to find one he goes to. The last time I saw him he had a dress shirt and tie under his black t-shirt. It was pleasing unto my sight. Of course someday I will find out that he has some horrible name like Ryan or Jared and can't carry on an intelligent conversation, and anyway I suspect that he is some sort of evil fey creature stalking about the mall looking for souls to eat, though he seems fairly amiable. (Despite this, the Phouka from War for the Oaks will insist on springing to mind although the coat bloke looks nothing like him except for the dark hair and eccentric dress sense.) 

Work has been absolutely as usual, though perhaps even slower, and the weather has been dismal: no, the weather is extremely pretty, and I would love it if I had a warmer house and didn't have to go out in it. Lately I have been driven to and from work, though, which is good, especially as supervisors and co-workers keep looking at me very concerned-like, and saying things like, "you didn't bicycle here, did you?" and "YOU ARE NOT BICYCLING HOME TONIGHT I MEAN IT." One of the girls quit (?! why would you quit with no notice when you only have a week and a half left anyway?), so shifts have been shifted around -- so to speak! -- and I have the evening shift on Friday, and the morning shift on Saturday; the latter in particular makes me happy, because that leaves most of the daylight hours free. You get up, do your work, and the rest of the day is ready to be used as you will.

Last night I did find my magic, almost by accident. I went upstairs and lit the candelabra on my desk and put on a new album -- Liam O Maonlai, To Be Tender, which I was attracted to because apparently Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova funded this album out of the proceeds from the last Swell Season tour (as if they didn't need another way to be awesome), and Mar sings on some of the tracks -- I think Glen sings on one, too? -- and anyway it was stunning. Otherworldly and heady with story -- story is the only word I can come up with for that feeling of being tangled up in some strange and wondrous tapestry of love and grief and joy, human experiences and textures and windows and street corners and the motions of hands. Vienna Teng does this to me; Over the Rhine; Patty Griffin; Sarah Slean; Lisa Hannigan; Richard Shindell. And sometimes I'd get a dizzying glimpse of Ireland in its ancientness and strangeness. And I wanted to do something while I listened, because I wasn't ready to go to sleep yet, and when I opened up the short story I am trying to write the mood was all wrong for the mood I was in and the music, so -- somehow I started re-writing the Evangeline story. I've got two pages into the first chapter, which is very satisfying now that I know most of the primary characters -- Lottie and Mr Caruthers are introduced straight off, and the library, and it actually feels like it's going in a direction, which a first chapter ought to do, and I think the vampire will come in very soon, as a sort of foreshadowing.

And then I played Crooked Still's new album, which I finally nicked out of Dad's office, and it is gloriousl. I had been dubious about them getting a fiddler in, because I loved that their particular flavour of newgrass was the low raw grinding moan of cello and upright bass, and fiddles are hit-and-miss with me, especially in roots music: often they are too shrill, or too -- they don't have enough huskiness. They sound too narrow. It's hard to describe because I can mostly only put it in synaesthetic terms, dear me. I love string instruments that creak and moan like ship's timbers. And Britanny Haas is fantastic and very raw and old-timey in her fiddling! And the new cellist is not a disappointment either! (He will probably not crowdsurf or dress as a pirate as Rushad Eggleston did when I saw the band at Grey Fox in 2007, but one cannot have everything. Anyway I love his name: Tristan Clarridge. Delicious. It sounds exactly like a name I would concoct.) And the album is so full of textures and going interesting places with melodies, and gorblimey, Aoife O'Donovan has a truly extraordinary voice.(She went to school for it, so it is good that it worked out, but wow.) It was all wrong for what I was writing -- very very American music (though very much part of the genre I like to think of as folkasmagoria) for a very very British story -- but it fit the mood and the candles and the late nightness.

Now I have cocoa with a stick of peppermint in, and the candles are on again, and somehow the internet has come back on on the laptop, which is very cheering. And the lovely Aoife's low lonesome sound is reminding me that I want very much to make up a sampler of my favourite female vocalists.