lenora_rose | Viable Paradise

So, I spent yesterday afternoon digging out weeds and pouring salt on slugs while suffering a headache (The evening was much improved by hanging out with Mom and Grandma for Thanksgiving). Then I spent today trying to make sense of the pile of stuff I was left after a week away from my work -- while still suffering from the same headache. Is it any wonder I really want to be back on Martha's Vineyard? Yes, even with Jim bugging me about finishing Disco Dracula.

Of course, I'd have to get Colin and Élise (And probably Irina, to keep Élise company) out there if I did.

Anyhow, to resume where I left off Sunday. By last Wednesday, Steven Gould had given me his cold, which is the primary source for the ongoing headache and lack of energy today. At the time it was mostly stuffed up nose, though, which didn't prevent me from heading out on a walk along the beaches, to look at the shells in daylight, because frankly, an entire shore covered in shells is just cool. (It's not exaggerating much to say that parts of the ocean-side shore were half snail-shell.)

But first, I paused on the bridge from the night before, and looked down.

At first I thought I was looking down on an immense school of small fish, swimming hard against the outgoing tide. I thought the occasional gleams were fish turning sideways and catching what little sun there was on this misty day. Silly me. I caught on pretty quick to what the flashes really were, but even so, I get to feel dumb for not recognizing ctenophores in daylight. They look pretty cool in light, too. But I'm definitely glad they weren't the same jelly fish I was wading amongst.

Eventually I moved on along the ocean-side beach, then cut through the grass back to the road, collecting a few shells as I went. Most of the grassy area is marked off as protected plover and tern habitat, but that first bit didn't seem to be, and it's where I found the first nice crab-shell.

Oddly, or maybe not, considering the proliferation of shells everywhere, I found one of the nicest ones of all right beside the road.

I should explain, too. The beach road is actually a breakwater of sorts, and it's surrounded by water on both sides, the ocean on one, and an enclosed area on the other. I don't recall the proper word for that bit of water, so, even thoguh it's not a boat mooring area, I kept thinking of it as the harbour, though that's the wrong word. The harbour side makes for lovely views of island, and houses, and woods across the water, and of fisherman standing only hip-deep outside their boats in the middle of it, taking advantage of the sandbars for better catches. (On my return trip, the tide had gone out enough to expose some of the sandbars, which immediately got covered in seabirds. I got to watch them all crowd onto one the *instant* it started to emerge. But I get ahead of myself.)

The "Harbour" side beach is harder to get to, having only a handful of truck-sized paths to reach it, and visible tire-tracks on the beach. Between the road and that side, there are big stretches of rosebushes, and juniper, and various low brushy things that sometimes rustled with the local sparrow-birds (I never did get to see them closely enough to tell if they were actual sparrows of some species, or another small songbird. Not Manitoba's house sparrows, though.) The rosebushes of course were all hips at this time of year - I did wonder what they look like in summer. On the way out, I mostly looked at it from the road, as the mist grew thick and made the far shores vague, then cleared away once more.

On the ocean side, you can hear little but the waves. By the road, you can hear mostly the rush of cars, and catch the sound of the sea only in hints when the traffic thins -- and the traffic's not so heavy as that. By the harbour side, I found out on the return trip, you get an illusion of quiet (You can tune out the cars), except when the seabirds, gulls and cormorants mostly, choose to carry on. (I saw two herons, one flying, one standing out on an islet.)

Anyhow, I spent much of the walk out on the ocean-side, where I was mostly absorbing the sights and sounds - one kind of seaweed on the beach looked like nothing so much as partly burnt spilled ramen. I saw a small horseshoe crab shell, its legs a distance away, then, a short while later, another horseshoe crab shell, upside-down,the empty leg segments still folded inside it. I turned it over, to see the much prettier outer shell, and then measured it with my runner - before the trailing tail-end, it was about the same size. Very pretty, but I opted not to take it away. (I suspect it's the very one Zak took a picture of, later. It wasn't *that* far down the beach).

Anyhow, for those getting bored by seashells and shorelines (I wasn't, though I don't deny it would have been super cool to see something bigger than seabirds, or a crab alive), I walked clear to the other end of the beach, which is a good distance, though don't ask me how long. I passed the second and third bridges, and I was getting out of beach, and into marshy-bits and woods, when I first considered turning around. That had been my first plan.

Then I thought, "Well, Edgartown is supposed to be right past here. I'll take a look." I'd brought some money along with my ID, so why not?

Turns out Edgartown (Pronounced Eggerton) is further than I thought, past more woods. In spite of the humid air I was getting thirsty. The spider-webs glimmered from the mist, which made it that much easier to observe that they were mostly wolf spiders, familiar from home, though the trees and brush were all different to me. (Okay, Pine and cedar I have seen - in yards, not in the wild.)

I made it into town, got a bag for my shells, browsed the CD store, bought some groceries, and made the long walk back, making my way down to the "Harbour" side beach eventually, for a part of it (Where I found a gorgeous crab shell I opted not to take as it still had the eye-stalks attached, then a smaller, not quite as pretty version of the same species, which thankfully was not staring at me. While on the ocean side, I fulfilled one weird habit of mine, and did a rendition of Heather Dale's "Sedna," starting out crummy then warming into it. About the time I finished, I first spotted some supremely delicate, beautifully iridescent tiny shells cast up as the tide went out. Alas, none of these survived intact -- they didn't even survive the trip out of the hotel room the next day to identify them (Another kind of crab - that makes at least four whose cast-offs I saw, and only two I got to take home.) They were pretty enough, though, and I saw them all the length of the ocean-side beach that I walked down, that once and never again in the week, which I took for a sign that maybe I'd sung okay.

On the very last leg of the trip, past the first bridge and along the golf course, I ran into my roommmates, who told me that, since I'd vanished mysteriously, they were following the horror trope of going out without telling anyone, to look for me. I'd only been gone four hours by then... they continued on their (Rather shorter) walk, and I went back and made supper, then wrote some more, finishing my now rather strange Titanic story. Around nine, I was itching for company, so we went on a quick check around the compound, but everyone seemed to be sealed tight in their rooms, so we did the same. Anna reminded me that as well as my own hot seat, I did have one more story to read for the next day, so I set to on that. (A *good* piece, what we saw of it, but from the middle of a story, which is known as "Arrgh!" for being able to tell how it fits together with the rest, especially as the background he gave was more "what you need to know to read this segment", not "What happens".)

Then a little more scribbling, mostly idea-scrambles for Disco Dracula.

I felt very good for the long walk. I needed that bit of quiet, and ocean, and just absorbing things without having to have productive critiques about them, without having to produce story, or words on the spot about it all. A lot of it will probably inform my current selkie story, in its own time, the same way bits of Fiji and New Zealand do, as well as the obvious hints of British lore, and too much reading. (Irrelevant trivia - the best version I currently have of the seal-woman story is an audio version from South Africa, not any book from the British Isles.)

Thursday was not only my turn in the hot seat about the project I'd had on hand, but I'd also get my critique from Patrick on the other project - that is, the Selkie novel. Having received some reassurance, based on Steven and Jim's thoughts, about the project I'd sent in, I was relatively calm through that critique, and the various opinions were useful -- they certainly picked apart things neither Steven nor Jim had beaten on that deserved beating on. I wrote notes all over the draft Jim had already marked up, to save space.

Teresa had given her lecture on exposition Wednesday morning, so we'd already heard her opinions on how often it's overdone, and her thoughts on how to do it better and more smoothly, and who to read to help with this same thing. So when she uttered the line, "You'll have guessed by now that I almost never say this, but you could use a little *more* exposition at the start of this" -- well, if I had Teresa's illness, she'd have probably dropped me with that line. She also recommended a book that I'd already seen on her generic rcommended reading list and thought "That sounds interesting..." I'm almost looking forward to that rewrite.

But there was still Patrick's critique to come, and I found myself getting progressively more nervous, through Doyle's excellent lecture on research, through my last rewrite and print out of my Titanic Story (Now named "Wily" because, really, I couldn't name it anything else.)

At lunch I handed the staff my second loaf of bread, as there was no way I'd finish it over the weekend, and maybe they could use it for supper.

After lunch we read our stories out loud in small groups, to get opinions. I seemed to be in a group all inspired by mass-media in some form. I'd heard my roommate, Michelle, thinking out loud and discussing her creation of Great Aunt Murgatroyd, so I was looking forward to that, and reasonably well rewarded. I overacted my piece, which at least fits, but also let me notice that I never actually mention it's on the Titanic, and some awkward phrasings. Yes, that "read it aloud to see if it's really good prose" command works. Like I don't talk to myself enough already.

So I'm on total tenterhooks, when Patrick tells me he accidentally double-booked some of his Thursday time, and could I wait until he's done with the other student? I say sure, and then he adds, "Yours won't take long anyhow. I really don't ahve much to say besides it's good, keep going."

Which, of all things, makes me more nervous. Still, I go back to my room to wait for his knock, and glut myself on Heather Dale while I try to get something substantial down on the Disco Dracula story. (I'd already typed out all the lyrics to the only nominally disco song I have in my CD collection, as an exercise to get me in the right frame of mind and give me a plot, and I had about three of the opening paragraphs before then.)

The critique was again relatively painless. He tripped on the same big thing Tobias Buckell had tripped on in the first two chapters. I'd kept it in because I thought it could be made to work, but that's two major people who think not. Of course, that wasn't the only thing he mentioned, since he also inquired after the stakes of the first scenes, and pointed out that I am allowed to take more time getting into the story with a novel. But overall, he said what he'd said outside the inn - the prose was good, keep going. (I didn't mention I was about 3/4 of the way through.)

Then he left, and I collapsed. There are times the release of tension is as bad as the presence. So I gorged myself on more Heather Dale -- she seemed to be the soundtrack for the week, in part because I was trying to memorize all of "The Trial of Lancelot", after about three years of hearing the song in one form or another and not bothering to learn it.

Then I rejoined folk downstairs for more conversation, and went on another walk, just far enough into evening to guarantee I'd be late for supper.

I went down to the beach again, found a stretch of rocks that seemed private, and sang "The Trial of Lancelot" in full, to see if the memorization had worked. I picked a key a little too high for my comfort, though not quite out of my own range (As a contralto who used to be an alto, I do this to myself periodically), and of course a man paddling along on a belly-board showed up from nowhere in the middle, said hi and moved on. I followed with "The Prydwen Sails Again" (So the ocean, like me, seemed to end up Heather-themed, though at least Sedna isn't also an Arthurian piece), which being a lonely song about war and sea journeys, seemed apropos. It also felt like I did it right, which means that's when an unexpected passerby should have horned in and listened.

Don't ask me why I sing to large bodies of water. I was at a loss to explain it when I did come in for supper at last (My bread was gone before I arrived - which I suppose is good news.) Maybe it's a lingering remnant of non-Christian beliefs, but I think it fits more in eccentricities, bad habits, and traditions by now. Lake Winnipeg also gets stories told aloud to it, but they take longer, and take more out of me, since they're usually my own.

Anyhow. I never ended up in any town but Edgartown, for that brief stint, and I never got to look on the real harbours and all their pretty boats until my departure on Friday. That's the cost of taking my long walk the beach way.

Anyhow, Thursday night closed with more games of both Thing and Mafia, and I at last got to be a Thing! There is something extra-fun about sizing your fellow-players up for doom. I can see why Teresa prefers to play ont he evil side. I did close the night with a little more picking at the Disco Dracula Story, but very little progress was really made. I'd already started to think through some possible changes needed to make the Titanic story better, but they required research on things I didn't have on hand, especially lacking an internet connection.

Friday, as you might observe, there was nothing left to critique, and Jim told me I could just hand him the Disco Dracula story by e-mail the next week, though he'd definitely remind me if I didn't. So the morning was taken up by two lectures, Steven on taking care of yourself as a writer, and Patrick on the current state of the industry, which is a topic at once optimistic and deeply pessimistic for those of us aspiring to get somewhere. (During which I attempted to sketch one fellow student, and failed, then succeeded reasonably well at a sketch of Debra Doyle, which I showed her, and her family, later).

After lunch, the day was taken up by the longest and most free-form collegium, which included some significant discussion of SF fandom, its history, a few infamous stories, then those who've been in fandom altogether too long started to wander into in-jokes they felt they shouldn't explain in that setting, which got annoying until they got urged back on track.

Friday night ended with a big t-shirt signing spree. Since I was wearing mine, the signing got interesting - Steven and Laura's younger daughter signed across my front, and so her signature gets extra messy where the pen tripped over the button from my slacks. Jen decided she had to sign my ass, and did so with a great big heart, too. And Suzanne Palmer, who is an artist as well as a writer, doodled a penguin in a hat on my shirt.

This was followed by much hanging around, and the reading of one of the funniest of the Titanic stories; the author wouldn't read it herself, and indeed, seemed to have vanished entirely so I couldn't tell her it was really good (And dropped Teresa). Instead, it was read aloud by the irrepresible Margaret-Anne. She's the other Canadian and the one who had brought, and passed around, a bunch of Canadian flags and Canada-themed pencils the night before, so that nobody could use the excuse, "She's Canadian, so she must be Mafia!" in the game.

No Mafia this night, but about the same time the staff realized tey ahd to clean up *Tonight*, not in the morning as originally planned, several people took Suzanne Palmer on an emergency trip upstairs, as she'd mistakenly thought that someone *other* than William McGonagall was the worst poet of all time. So I hauled up coffee makers and coffee makings into their suite, and finished in time to hop one suite over and catch the tail end of "the Tay Bridge Disaster", which Patrick followed by the good, and not-McGonagall, if rather silly, "The Book of my Enemy has Been Remaindered", thus luring in several other students.

Patrick and Steven were passing Patrick's guitar back and forth in an odd musical conversation that ran as an undertone for a part of the night. Teresa was passing around some kind of "Scurvy cure", which seemed to involve orange juice and alcohol, and I don't knwo what other ingredients, as I opted out of a taste. Jim, who had already written "You owe me Disco Drac!" in the centre of my back, reminded me again, verbally. And when I dropped into a crouch instead of sitting, Steven seemed to take it as a personal affront (He blamed Aikido training), and kept trying to spill me over.

Several people got to talking about how we were one of the mellower VP student classes, and talked about some of the things prior classes ahd done, including make themselves Sharpie tattoos. This resulted in five of us -- girls all -- getting our own VP tattoos in whatever colours out of Teresa's collection best suited. I had a bunny with a word bubble saying VP 9 made by Suzanne. She also doodled little green flies all around hers -- she'd also done the lettering, but I'd done the colours. Pippin, Jim's daughter, got a full rose-in-heart with Shanghai, and VP IX added above almost as an afterhtought - Teresa had been busy. Sharon got the letters amidst wind--like abstract lines, courtesy of Zak, who refused to get one himself as he wsn't a student this year,a nd certianly not guaranteed to be one next year, though his interest in applying seemed to have only grown. I don't currently remember Anna's Sharpie Tattoo, though of course it had the letters in the middle, too. I haven't got a picture of this one, yet.

Anyhow, the next day was packing up and heading out. I said my goodbyes to Anna and Michelle, and Carol and Pippin gave me a lift to the Vineyard Haven Ferry port -- so at least I saw bits of a couple of towns, and the real harbours, on the way. They got me there at 10:00 AM for what my schedule showed as a 10:45 ferry, which turned out to be 11:00 instead (Why I trusted the bus schedule to get the ferries right, I don't know). I didn't mind; one of the other students was there, and I hadn't had much chance to talk with him through the week, so we conversed long enough to get us on the ferry.

The ferry ride was less pleasant, mostly because this was the kind where the cars were all parked on the main platform, and there was nowhere to stand where you didn't have to take cars into consideration. Still much pleasant to see; and the first choppy, wave-some day. I got sea-spray on my glasses.

Then the bus, then the two planes - the first one proved to be delayed by over an hour, so I could have (Had I known) lingered a bit longer on the island -- the break between planes in Montreal was plenty long enough to accomodate that change, so that wouldn't have been a worry. Ah, well. I ended up in the bookstore, and even with the airport's selection, I ended up with new books. (Diana Wynne Jones' books Dark Lord of Derkholm and Year of the Griffin seem to have never shown up in Canada, even when the company that releases them up here had re-released almost everything else. No copies of Alan Clark's Diaries, though. Sorry Teresa. I'll have to track it down later.)

The flight was cloudy, and so a little disappointing from that perspective, though hey, we were in a relatively teeny propellor plane.

Unfortunately, due to my stuffed sinuses, one ear would not pop when I landed in Montreal. So I spent the next hour and a bit walking through a predominantly French-speaking locale while half deaf. My grasp on French these days is clumsy enough when I can hear. THAT was where I felt like I was in a foreign country. Martha's Vineyard was far from home, but it was like people, and a like language -- being speculative writers all, more of a like language than I have with many English speakers in Winnipeg.

Then home. On the last leg of the trip, the first one long enough of itself to be worth doing so, I pulled out my laptop and started the other assignment Jim had given me, getting it half done (And twice as long already as he'd asked for) before shutting down due to increased sleepiness. My ear still didn't pop on that landing - it cleared a little as time passed, but it didn't actually pop properly until partway through Sunday, and it's still acting not-quite-right. Prone to ear infections as I am, it's nothing new.

Then there was Colin, and a sit down meal, and bed. And then my cat, of course, but at least she mostly let me sleep. And now I should go and do some more of that.

(Coda: I did send Jim the second project he'd assigned when I'd finished and slgihtly cleaned up the chunk I'd intended to write, and what I've written so far of Disco Drac. But the latter has to be finished yet. Anybody know anything about Disco Culture I can maybe use?)

(Other Coda: Damn these mood icons. The word is Ebullient!)