December 15th, 2011

dark and stormy.

and i awake

"if you take to prophecy," says he, "listen to that."

there came up a violent squall off the open solway, and the rain was dashed on the great windows.

"do ye ken what that bodes, warlock?" said he, in a broad accent: "that there'll be a man mackellar unco' sick at sea."

when i got to my chamber, i sat there under a painful excitation, hearkening to the turmoil of the gale, which struck full upon that gable of the house. what with the pressure on my spirits, the eldritch cries of the wind among the turret-tops, and the perpetual trepidation of the masoned house, sleep fled my eyelids utterly. i sat by my taper, looking on the black panes of the window, where the storm appeared continually on the point of bursting in its entrance; and upon that empty field i beheld a perspective of consequences that made the hair to rise upon my scalp. the child corrupted, the home broken up, my master dead or worse than dead, my mistress plunged in desolation - all these i saw before me painted brightly on the darkness; and the outcry of the wind appeared to mock at my inaction.


***


thanks to global warming (it's getting harder to deny) it's not snowing tonight, but rather in the low 50s and rainstorming (thunder at four, i won't be awake for, sadly).
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    this is the first night of my life
flame

we are dumb trees

but when beryl looked at the bush, it seemed to her the bush was sad.

“we are dumb trees, reaching up in the night, imploring we know not what,” said the sorrowful bush.

it is true when you are by yourself and you think about life, it is always sad. all that excitement and so on has a way of suddenly leaving you, and it’s as though, in the silence, somebody called your name, and you heard your name for the first time.

“beryl!”

“yes, i’m here. i’m beryl. who wants me?”

“beryl!”

“let me come.”
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    i look a lot less like jesus / but
obsowleted

obsowlete

obsolete, adj. no longer used by the timid. said chiefly of words. a word which some lexicographer has marked obsolete is ever thereafter an object of dread and loathing to the fool writer, but if it is a good word and has no exact modern equivalent equally good, it is good enough for the good writer. indeed, a writer’s attitude toward “obsolete” words is as true a measure of his literary ability as anything except the character of his work. a dictionary of obsolete and obsolescent words would not only be singularly rich in strong and sweet parts of speech; it would add large possessions to the vocabulary of every competent writer who might not happen to be a competent reader.
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    it's a fool who plays it cool
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