A year later Lives later Daughters and sons Sisters and brothers Mothers and fathers Cousins, aunts, uncles Gone away now Not dust in the wind but Mesquite leaves beaten down by Hailstones falling all too quickly All too often
Those who might build shelters from the storm Take up their hammers and their Phillips-heads indeed But what do they seek to pound on and screw While some new La Llorona festers gestating Ready to be born into a world made wet with obscene dripping
She will scream as she is born And her own mother will scream Again and again And it may be that we have already heard the pangs of her birth Ringing in a tritone over Smaller cries silenced too swiftly
Read the previous entry in the series here. Read the next entry in the series here.
After more expressed concern from Bingtown about Sedric and Alise, as well as the ongoing exchange between Detozi and Erek, the penultimate chapter of the novel, “Mud and Wings,” begins with the Tarman running aground, the waters grown too shallow to float the old liveship and no clear current emerging from searches for the same. Leftrin sourly surveys the situation, discussing things with Alise as he reviews events. Reports of Greft’s death diminish morale, and Alise notes changes in the dragons. Leftrin announces that he will make a decision in the morning, and the crew tucks in for the night.
In Alise’s quarters, Thymara and Sylvie confer, the former asking the latter to examine and tend her back. The state of Thymara’s nascent wings is detailed, and Thymara urges Sylvie to keep quiet what she has seen. Sylvie agrees to wait only a day before taking it to Bellin.
Sedric calls upon Alise as she cooks dinner and reviews her notes, asking to speak with her. Alise rehearses her reassessment of her life in Bingtown with Hest, and she brusquely agrees to hear him out. Sedric confesses more of his perfidy with Hest and the Chalcedean dragon-parts traders. Alise commiserates with Sedric about Hest, and the two reconcile.
Thymara muses over the changes going on in her body once Sylvie leaves, and she makes to confront Sintara about them. The dragon exults in the process at work in Thymara, noting that she is being made into an Elderling–and admitting that the changes were not initially intended. Some of Sintara’s insecurities emerge as she rails at Thymara, and the commotion attracts the attention of the other dragons. Mercor urges calm, Spit violence, and further upset is interrupted by the unexpected return of Heeby and Rapskal, aloft, announcing the proximity of Kelsingra.
There is much I might point out in the present chapter. It is possible, if perhaps something of a strain, to read them as mimetic of transitioning, although I am assuredly not informed enough about such things to offer any kind of insightful commentary thereabout. (I might note, however, that it seems to run athwart of other parts of the author’s work, as Roberts attests.) It is also possible, and probably a stronger argument, to read the changes the keepers are undergoing as allegories or analogies to puberty, especially given the ages of many of the keepers and the pregnancy remarked upon among them.
The puberty-reading works well in part because of structural concerns. I’ve noted before, here, that the novel has somewhat of the Bildungsoman about it; I’ve commented, also, that other parts of Hobb’s corpus have spoken to such concerns (here and here, for example). There are possibly other places I have, and there are definitely other places I likely ought to have, made such notes–and that they were available for making at other points in the corpus and in the novel means they are possible, if not likely, in the present chapter.
It has been a while since my own pubescence, as might well be imagined, and, as also might be imagined, my memories of the experience will be somewhat occluded by that time. But I do recall that much of my experience was determined by things other than my choice. Forces beyond my control acted upon me to occasion changes in my body that were confusing and distressing at the time, and I am given to understand that the process is more…intense in that regard for those born with ovaries / uteri. (Having not directly experienced as much, I must rely upon the reports others who have have made to me, but I trust those who have made such reports to me.) Teasing out any metaphor is, of course, conjectural and conditional; all metaphors fail at some point (which is good; I’ve used that failure repeatedly in the freelance work I have done). But I think I may be on some solid ground with this one.
It’s not the only reading, of course. But it is a reading, and that is good enough to get started again.
Remember, I’m here to provide you made-to-order, hand-crafted, non-machined writing! Fill out the form below for details!
Skewering the one in a hot time Two going together in the split of a third Melting into each other and Leaving the sticky white clinging To the lips that taste them all Guided thence by a firm grip Again and again and again Something shared well with many people
No other comment needed. Photo by Calvin Hanson on Pexels.com
There’s still time for bespoke writing–all done by a real person, not a machine! Fill out the form below for details!
Pulling current Rheostat rolling back slowly to Let more power through Shine more light as the filament Grew more heated More strident More incandescent The gassy tube more charged and pulsing Scattering widely what it took in
Pretty neat, this one. Photo by Johannes Plenio on Pexels.com
Things wear out as they are used They rot in place as they are not And there is no preservation in the end Nothing to keep things as they have been Despite the desires and protests of many
The globe on the fixture has been swapped out And it may be that the bulb does not Cast so much as once it did When the switch is toggled But it still alleviates the gloom From time to time
Writing done to order, and by a real person, too! Fill out the form below, and see what I can do for you!
At the end of the week just past, I had the opportunity once again to take part in the International Congress on Medieval Studies at Western Michigan University in Kalamazoo, Michigan. As was the case last year, but not in the years about which I have written in this webspace (2018, 2019, and 2020), my participation was virtual; as was not the case last year, but was in previous years, the Congress did have on-site meetings, meaning this year’s exercise was a hybrid event. I continued my work with the Tales after Tolkien Society, about which here, and I do still have a few things to do for it in the coming few days, an attenuation of an academic career attempted in earnest but which was never truly begun.
Yep, this one again. Image is still mine.
Perhaps it is maudlin; perhaps it is elegaic. I would like to flatter myself that it is the latter.
In any event, it was good to have the reconnection with old friends and to hear new ideas. It was good to have a few of those new ideas, as well, and to push them out into the world, even if only in a small way. (The text of the paper I gave will go online soon; there’re a few things I need to adjust, infelicities noted in passing during the presentation.) It was good to be able to look ahead to some kind of a scholarly future, despite my utter lack of institutional affiliation and the correctness of my decision to get out of the profession of teaching. And, given some of the other context and contacts, there is some hope that others will take up where I have been obliged to leave off, save for the occasional bit of puttering that remains entertained by those scholars I am privileged to know, who yet persist and find reward in the work to which I had hoped to devote myself.
I am not apostate from that priesthood, but I had to leave the ivory tower, never advancing much beyond its basement, if at all.
I was reminded of it this weekend. I do not know if it was not a good thing.
Graduation is coming up for many, and bespoke writing is a fine way to commemorate it! Fill out the form below for details!
It’s often becried By those who’ve espied If you’ve done nothing wrong You have nothing to hide We know it’s not true Some things I don’t rue But don’t want others watching Me carry them through
How often they try To catch folks in a lie; If you’ve done nothing wrong What have you to deny? We know it’s not true We all know someone who Had their words twisted ’round And it might’ve been you.
Across many years We’ve oft had to hear If you’ve done nothing wrong You have nothing to fear We know it’s not true Whatever you do Something ugly can always Happen to you
I’m happy to write to order! If you’d like to place one with me, fill out the form below!
I had had the thought that, in discussing what I mean to discuss today, I would borrow from the Gettysburg Address and make some declamation beginning with “Eight square and no more years ago,” because it has been so long and because the word-play suggested itself to me for a moment. I know many would get the joke; I know, too, that I do not have the skills and insight to carry that joke through the way it really ought to be done, and I suspect that the joke would not go over so well as I would like. A great many of my jokes go that way, after all, as most know who speak to me for more than a few moments. Consequently, I shall content myself with but a short comment, knowing that the day needs but little from me said about it.
The birthday girl herself… Family photo
Happy birthday, Mom!
Custom writing makes a fine gift; fill out the form below to find out how you can get some for your own!
How many Look at things through Manichean lenses Polarizing into Chiaroscuro starkness And think they have the whole picture
Red and yellow and pink and green… Photo by Brett Sayles on Pexels.com
I try to look Not only at the shades of grey But across a broader spectrum Where others see only black and white And think themselves well bleached
I know I am deeply stained Both with ink and otherwise Unlike the Scottish lady at play That I cannot get those spots out And even so There are hues I miss
Like how I write? Want some of this done for you–or maybe for a coming graduate? Fill out the form below for details!
Today marks the victory of Mexico over France at Puebla, and, in the part of the world where I grew up and where I live again, it is spent as a celebration of Mexican culture. (Admittedly, where I am used to be Mexico, but it wasn’t still Mexico at the time Puebla happened. Oh, no, there was another war going on, and this part of the world was on the wrong side of it.) Given how much of the rest of the year a lot of people here spend decrying that culture, the observance strikes me as odd to disingenuous to hypocritical to appropriative and reductionist, at least as many make the observance. But then, that’s hardly unique to this day, as I think I might’ve mentioned a fewtimesbefore.
It’s admittedly not a holiday meal for me, but just a regular dinner. Photo by Chitokan C. on Pexels.com
For me, the day is something that attracts attention; again, I live where I live, and, for better or worse, I identify as a resident of that part of the world, so the common observances are part of the identificatory markers. And I confess to some hypocrisy of my own; I do love me some tacos, and they do tend to be on special on Cinco de Mayo. It’s far removed from the origination of the observance, and it doesn’t do me any credit, thought it does contribute to my waistline being what it is.
There is this, too: My wife and child are both Hispanic, specifically of Mexican descent. My wife’s grandmother, though born in the US, grew up south of the Rio Grande; her parents hailed from there, if memory serves, or her grandparents did. So they, at least, have the more direct tie, and I am happy to celebrate their heritage with them, even if I do not share it myself. It is part of who they are, even if it is not the part they necessarily foreground; I am rather quite fond of the both of them, so why should I not laud what contributes to making them who they are, so long as it does not hurt them?
But then, given how things are in this part of the world and many others, perhaps they would come to harm from the acknowledgement of their ancestry. Enough people do so where I can see it, and I look in few places and with poor eyesight; there is surely far more of it of which I am unaware.
Funny how that kind of thing can work out.
Like what I write? Want some written for you? I’m happy to oblige; fill out the form below for details!
Plant in the season Fertilize the fields Reap when the time comes But the rains will fail sometimes And some seeds Despite the best tending Never sprout Or Germinating Become plants that never bear fruit
Perhaps hope once sprang here. Photo by David Bartus on Pexels.com
I’m happy to write to what you need! Fill out the form below To let me know How you will want to proceed!
Elliott RWI 