“The Nazis called them ‘Night Witches’ because the whooshing noise their plywood and canvas airplanes made reminded the Germans of the sound of a witch’s broomstick.”–NYTimes
Which raises the question–how did Germans know what a flying broomstick sounded like in the first place?
It’s up! Go check it out.
Speaking of “Beyond, Behind, Below,” nm assumed it was a John Donne reference. My experience reading John Donne is limited to almost none. Which I thought was justified by him being a boring old fart. So, no, not a John Donne reference.
But I just googled “Beyond, Behind, Below John Donne” and got this! Which would not be safe for work except that it’s written by John Donne, who your boss is also going to assume is a boring old fart.
But John Donne, I apologize. You are a hell of a hot love poem writer.
Check just this part out!
Licence my roving hands, and let them go
Before, behind, between, above, below.
O, my America, my Newfoundland,
My kingdom, safest when with one man mann’d,
My mine of precious stones, my empery ;
How am I blest in thus discovering thee !
O, my America. That’s so fucking awesome.
We did not stumble across any more kittens. Thank the gods. But I did work through one last little thing that had been nagging me about the Sue Allen project and get that stuck in a couple of paragraphs here this morning.
I’ll have a post going up on the Hooded Utilitarian this week, maybe today, that directly comes out of our talk about Man of Steel and supersessionism. I think it turned out really good.
I also continue to work on my witches for Halloween. Which I mention because it would be fun to have you participate.
I have to find a way to get down to this next Saturday, even if it means cutting into my grocery money for gas money. Old churches, a secret figured out by going to a cemetery? This is my thing. My happy thing.
In other happy news, I sold “Beyond, Behind, Below” yesterday. And the editor who bought it really, really seems to get it. Which makes me happy, because it’s not a regular story. It’s the story of a… “man” of sorts… and his relationship to an outbuilding on an old plantation. It’s a story about geography. Creepy, terrible, tragic geography. So, whew, thank goodness for someone who gets that.
If you were there, it’s the story I read a draft of at East Side Story back in October. Which involved brief singing. Ha ha ha.
More as I know it.
And I guess that is that. This living alone shit is tough, but, if it means I can write, it will be worth it. Just the first ten or twelve days scared the shit out of me because it was all panic and feeling terrible about my ability to write.
I’m happy to clean the litter box if it means I can also craft some sentences I feel good about. But the prospect of having to clean the litter box and feeling like my writing sucks? Ugh. No thanks.
In related news, I have to remember to text the Red-Headed Kid and see if he’s going to mow my lawn or if I need to remember how to start the lawn mower.