A third of the way along, and I have to wonder when the ceasefire will end Or if it has already ended and I have frown so accustomed to the voices Of Smith and Wesson, of Ruger, and of Sig That I no longer hear them as They call to one another from afar, Shouting out their responses to the Putative Prince of Peace, in Whose Name They stand forth proudly and Spew their innards all around, Leaving messes for others to clean because They are, after all, only tools
This is what I’m talking about, of course. Photo by Lisa from Pexels on Pexels.com
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The leopards lick their fangs in new delight
As gath’ring clouds choke out the fading light,
And we, bare monkeys, shiver in the night.
Who knew that orange shines so in their eyes,
Them serves as spice? There should be no surprise
On faces facing fountains spewing lies
That they are wet, made moist that they might feast,
Those spotted cats. No warnings yet have ceased
That such would be the fate brought by such beasts,
But though the klaxon sounded across years,
And though full many voiced aloud their fears,
No sound of thinking reached between the ears
Of those who shiver now and seek to cling
To falling trees as leopards ruin bring.
Here, kitty, kitty, kitty… Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
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I am remembering my dreams again–
Sleep-borne shadows of the world,
Not grand ambitions for how my life could go.
Those are long since gone away,
Others’ wills having worked in the world,
Mine never having been so strong,
No more true than the slumbering seemings
I have remembered more in these past days
Than for years that have pissed themselves away,
And I have to think that I was more at ease
When sleep was a blank
Than I am when it tries to show me something
I do not want to see.
I am aware of how My world is shrinking, how The walls between which l I run my daily course Grow higher Not because more bricks have mounted them, but Because I have been sinking deeper into ruts Carved by my staying on my single path, and Strong as legs may be that drag me sullenly forward, Plow tilling a sterile furrow, I ain’t got shit for upper body strength
It’s not paramount in my mind, no… Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
Read the previous entry in the serieshere. Read the next entry in the serieshere.
This chapter contains sexual violence.
After an excerpt from Bee’s dream journal, “Parting Ways” begins with Bee musing on changes among her abductors in the wake of Vindeliar’s suborning. The Chalcedeans’ ingratiation with Vindeliar is tracked as they test his abilities and begin to exploit them for themselves, and the threat under which Bee and the others operate with Dwalia out of power is made clear. Within Bee, the echo of Nighteyes she carries urges caution and calm, and she observes as the Chalcedeans fall once again into depravity. Dwalia attempts to redeem her people, but the Chalcedeans refuse, and amid the ensuing fracas, Bee and Shun attempt escape.
Image from Google Earth and tangentially related…
The present chapter is another relatively brief one, some ten pages in the edition of the novel I am reading, and I once again think I need to see about looking at a cohesive printing of the Elderlings corpus to see if there is, in fact, some pattern at work. I know I keep mentioning it, and there is a part of me that longs to simply spend the money on it…but I think it might be better either to visit a library or make an arrangement with a bookstore to so such a thing than to buy another sixteen novels that I already own. As it is, I have multiple copies of some of the works, and there’s at least one other that I’d like to buy, correcting a mistake I had the opportunity not to make. I am not so well funded as I might like (although, if you’d like to help, there’s a link below you can use for that purpose), so I would have to do some working-around to make that kind of thing happen.
As far as the content of the present chapter goes, though, I do not know that I can say much. If there is, as I have suggested might be the case, some reference going on to a real-world Odessa, I am not sure what to make of it at this point. It cannot be a pleasant one, given what befalls the thus-named character in the text, and I do not feel at ease explicating the violence being worked out upon her, even if it is somewhat “off-screen,” noted as occurring but not explicitly depicted. Hobb does not shy away from overt presentations of violence elsewhere in her work, as I well know, and she has been direct in presenting sexual violence elsewhere in the Elderlings corpus; Kennit’s violation of Althea comes to mind as one example, but it is not the only one. So I am uncertain what the import of the specific presentation of violence here is, although I expect there has to be one. As others have pointed out with great eloquence, and as I recall telling my students in those receding days when I had them, every word on the page is placed deliberately, and it is placed with the knowledge and consent of several people by the very nature of publishing. Something is at work, even if I and others cannot necessarily say what it is at any given moment…
More scholarly somedays, I suppose.
I’m happy to keep this going; put my pen to work so I can do more of it!
They beckon to me The harbor and the shore Saying I should see them once again If in another guise than I knew them before Once not seldom visitor Greeting them gladly under bright skies And I know I should answer Say my yes and go to them Sink into their willing salt wetness But my heart might as well be that bird Not the pheasant but the other one For I have worked to build the walls and shut the door And I no longer know that I can see in strong light
Something like this, I’m sure. Photo by Leigh Patrick on Pexels.com
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Cracked white rapping A brief shimmer of glissando on the black metal Shining steel pressing until Just before it burns And what might have been a life Made for a death and plucking away Is brought into another life Between how the children of grass’s descent Were crushed to dust Their bodies mixed together And cut apart again
But not so open-faced as this… Photo by Jane T D. on Pexels.com
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The blind old uncle, singing smoky,
Lauds the sweet clarity of pine-filtered moonlight,
But seeing Selene’s castings dappled by gnarled oaks,
I think I have had the better view.
The clock read 3:27,
And since I use the 24-hour kind of time
I knew it was the morning,
Earlier even than I usually make me wake up,
So I tried to go back to sleep,
But I remembered the dream
As I rarely,
Rarely,
Do–
So much so that I have thought
I have lost the ability to dream–
So I tried to write it down,
Myself as a landlord,
Living in the building whose pieces I rent,
Trying to keep everything together and moving,
Not entirely succeeding
Even though the residents seemed to appreciate
The work I did to keep them happy
This would also work. Photo by Charlotte May on Pexels.com
It seemed
It would be a good thing to write,
A source for several stories in diverse styles,
Something of an anthology although following one line,
But it vanishes even as I put pixel to page,
And only these lines remain of it.
That there is
Some suitcase overstuffed or steamer trunk whose hinges and latches strain
I’m sure
But an armoire into which to unpack is less certain.
Do you know anyone who makes furniture?
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Elliott RWI 