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thanateOnce upon a time, in the days of courtly love (did I mention recently how dumb that concept is? but anyway...) there was an old knight who married a beautiful young girl, and his young & handsome neighbor saw her from afar (walking in the garden or something, I forget exactly) and fell madly in love. And eventually, they got to the point of sneaking out in the night to blow kisses over the garden wall, and her husband started asking why she couldn't stay in bed, already. To which she said, "oh, the nightengale sings so sweetly that I can't sleep." So the husband, who it's not clear whether he suspected this answer or not, sent his servants down into the garden to trap and kill the nightengale, and then he presented the dead bird to his wife, saying in perhaps a rather meaning tone, that now her problem was solved and she wouldn't have to go wandering around the garden at all hours of the night. So the wife sadly wrapped up the bird in a bit of silk or something and sent her page to take it next door with the explanation. And her lover was so taken with this that he sealed the dead bird into a little gold box which he carried with him always and presumably they pined after each other forever afterwards.
It's in the Lais of Marie de France. I swear I don't make these things up. But I mean... what an incredibly dumb token of love, anyway. Not to mention the whole idealizing breaking one's heart and never moving on from it, or young men falling in love with other people's wives so that they don't bother to get married themselves until they're creepy old men whose wives are much more interested in younger people... (ok, there are some financial aspects to this and whatnot, but still. Fairytales are supposed to provide some sort of useful example for life, not romanticised really bad advice. That could just be me, though...)
Anyway, despite lack of writing zen, I have more-or-less finished Rahmah's romance novel, although with several notes on the list of "must go back and fix this" and going all Jane Austen about the ending. But I mean, it is a romance novel (well, contained within one chapter...) and actually Jane Austen isn't such a bad role model stylistically. Perhaps I'll have to think about that when I go to clean it up. But now there is Argent in Valhalla, and stuff about the norns and the world tree. So, more writing must occur. We'll see how far I get tonight, and if I manage to do anything decent before running off to Holiday Faire tomorrow. And I wish more SCA event fliers would include things like an actual schedule... I mean, I can assume the tournament starts somewhere between eleven and noon-ish. And they'll be doing auths around 10, so one can start signing in by then. But I'd really rather like to know these things. I ask so much, apparently.
And yet, for some reason it makes me very happy that I'm sitting at home writing things (well, with a brief interlude to talk, sort of, to my little brother when he called re: thanksgiving travel plans-- unless of course he gets horribly lost and/or dies on the way here, I shall be dragging him to rock climbing on Wed evening. Since he's the mountain goat in the family, and yet has never done these things before) and not out doing anything exciting like line dancing at Glen Echo, or whatever other exciting things might be going on that I don't even know about. I must be a very boring person after all. :)
---oh, and due to Someone's insidious influence, there's a poem trying to form in the back of my brain. Which is demanding a great deal of time and attention, not to mention blank notebook paper and a pencil. I have not given it any of these things, but there are still a few lines scrawled on the back of one of my extra scraps of outline paper wanting to be though about some more. sigh.---
It's in the Lais of Marie de France. I swear I don't make these things up. But I mean... what an incredibly dumb token of love, anyway. Not to mention the whole idealizing breaking one's heart and never moving on from it, or young men falling in love with other people's wives so that they don't bother to get married themselves until they're creepy old men whose wives are much more interested in younger people... (ok, there are some financial aspects to this and whatnot, but still. Fairytales are supposed to provide some sort of useful example for life, not romanticised really bad advice. That could just be me, though...)
Anyway, despite lack of writing zen, I have more-or-less finished Rahmah's romance novel, although with several notes on the list of "must go back and fix this" and going all Jane Austen about the ending. But I mean, it is a romance novel (well, contained within one chapter...) and actually Jane Austen isn't such a bad role model stylistically. Perhaps I'll have to think about that when I go to clean it up. But now there is Argent in Valhalla, and stuff about the norns and the world tree. So, more writing must occur. We'll see how far I get tonight, and if I manage to do anything decent before running off to Holiday Faire tomorrow. And I wish more SCA event fliers would include things like an actual schedule... I mean, I can assume the tournament starts somewhere between eleven and noon-ish. And they'll be doing auths around 10, so one can start signing in by then. But I'd really rather like to know these things. I ask so much, apparently.
And yet, for some reason it makes me very happy that I'm sitting at home writing things (well, with a brief interlude to talk, sort of, to my little brother when he called re: thanksgiving travel plans-- unless of course he gets horribly lost and/or dies on the way here, I shall be dragging him to rock climbing on Wed evening. Since he's the mountain goat in the family, and yet has never done these things before) and not out doing anything exciting like line dancing at Glen Echo, or whatever other exciting things might be going on that I don't even know about. I must be a very boring person after all. :)
---oh, and due to Someone's insidious influence, there's a poem trying to form in the back of my brain. Which is demanding a great deal of time and attention, not to mention blank notebook paper and a pencil. I have not given it any of these things, but there are still a few lines scrawled on the back of one of my extra scraps of outline paper wanting to be though about some more. sigh.---