By James Hoch
If the white meant snow, it was snow
the man was leading his burro through,
the man made of faint blue marks
who could not be taken for anything else,
as the lines framing the winter scene
could not be anything but the mountains
of China, sprigs of pine, outcroppings
under which the man crossing a creek
perpetually crossed; even as my mother
packed a casserole with a hodgepodge:
leftover egg noodles, ground beef,
a can of mushroom soup that briefly
held the form of the can, crumbs—
even as she set the dish like a stone
down in the oven's black mouth,
the snow remained snow, the man
lingered stick-still over the creek,
the creek vanishing back into white,
and the dish, when it traveled the walk
from our house to yours, was still a cheap
import, ignoble, nothing more, what we
could give to you who had lost a son.
Had one of those "where did the day go" days. Had Corner Bakery for lunch with gblvr and went shopping for really exciting things like laundry detergent and toilet paper; did not buy a single luxury item, unless new $6 towels to replace the utterly disgusting ones left on the floor of the kids' bathroom once too often counts. Wrote articles on Zachary Quinto -- yes, again! Though at least this time he pulled a Patrick Stewart and went on at length about the importance of stage performances instead of talking about Spock or Sylar -- and IDW's planned use for the Star Trek comics license, which, thank the Great Bird, does not include any adaptations of or joint projects with Pocket Books.
Pocket Books Trek these days reads like terrible recycled fanfic when it's readable at all, and since I know a number of those writers either used to be fanfic writers or still are under different names, it doesn't ever surprise me when stuff I know didn't originate in their brains ends up getting them a paycheck. Which incidentally does not only apply to Trek novels. Had to watch "Skin of Evil," the horrible episode in which TNG killed off Tasha Yar. Here is the interesting thing: both my kids watched it attentively and except for the utterly gratuitous nature of Tasha's demise, it wasn't a particularly horrible episode by first-season TNG standards. Troi and Crusher both came across well -- it's a real bummer it took killing off the non-nurturing female to get to that point.
The royal hounds are representatives of an animal rescue league.
Musicians play instruments throughout the Faire grounds.
A group of minstrels sings sailor songs outside the privies.
Musicians accompany the Queen everywhere, too.