“That tree” had lush branches of green needles sweeping down. “I don’t want to strike a match,” Jung said, “but we should be able to feel around well enough to sleep under those branches, the ground around a tree is always clear, the branches truly add warmth—actually, you’re smaller than I, you might fit the bench, but it would be colder.”
“I want to try the tree, with you.”
“Let’s go.” They walked to the edge of the spreading branches.
“Fine, but first, take out anything lumpy in your pockets that might keep you awake, and set it in a line. Because it will be pitch dark when we arise, and we don’t want to leave anything behind.”
They both knelt. “Goodby tobacco, goodby pipe.”
“Goodby money!” Said Sue.
“All right, this is where we crawl, hands and knees.” So saying, Jung led the way through the down stretched branches, and sure enough, they found a little clearing, full of soft old needles over soft earth. As they felt around the ground Sue said, “Wow, this is neat.”
“Ya, sometimes I take a stick and scrape out a little hollow for my hip bones, but this place is soft enough… Now we need to huddle like a sheep…” They squirmed. “Being on our sides means less cold from the ground, later….” No, face away from me…” Some comfortable squirming.
… …
For Thanksgiving, sf blogger John Scalzi asked his readers for grateful comments. I (edited to be longer) wrote:
A small thing, perhaps, but a big increase now is the beauty in my life: You know how the second most expensive thing for Americans, after a home, is their car? My third is my bed.
I’m so grateful I found the nerve to splurge.
Last week I dumped my stupid huge maple wall bed for a horizontal wall bed, in “laser bonded” white. Matches my wall color, and helps me feel like a character out of Citizen of the Galaxy. Now I have more wall space for four big paintings, plus a top-of-bed shelf for sculptures.
Oh, and my smallest new canvas is a three quarter profile of a confident Victorian era woman, over her words in charcoal, “Run you clever boy and remember.”
… …
That woman was Clara, of course, companion to Doctor Who. She tells him this so he will leave her, and live. The last time she tells him is by writing on a chalk board, with her back to him. Here is “reader service” from an e-mail I wrote to a fellow-writer:
Here’s a nice clip of Victorian Clara meeting the 11th doctor, Matt Smith. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wPCi5vmrvV4
Here’s an amusing clip of him meeting the modern Clara. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r7ATZSErvxM
Some fans didn’t like her because she was so self confident, but I thought her confidence was inspiring, like with Captain Jack. Everyone I know goes through life a little more gingerly.
I like to joke “I’m an English major,” because my hand eye coordination is low—my sewing looks like basting. But I still manage:
Today I spent well over an hour to put up two picture. Good thing I’m not a handyman, because despite using my tape measure on the frames, and using the tile lines on the floor, I mistakenly thought I only had room for three big paintings along my big wall. Over my new bed. But no, I was able to sneak in a fourth small canvas in between two big ones, down partway between the two. Because my highlanders picture is nicely low now, only a millimetre or two above the ledge of my bed.
The smaller canvas has been wrapped in plastic ever since I brought it home from London—it came that way, with corner wedges on the back to adjust the canvass for humidity—because it has a three quarter profile of a Victorian woman from Doctor Who saying, over footprints in the snow, in charcoal black writing, “Run you clever boy and remember.” It’s a powerful scene.
Besides removing the plastic from my Clara Oswald picture, I removed the bubble wrap from a sculpture I bought this summer. (or was it last summer?) I called long distance and the owner said to be sure and say “hello” when I arrived. I drove all the way to Edmonton to buy an “80 % off” sculpture. The store advertised in The Herald as a “going out of business sale.”
Once in Edmonton I found a big music store with a separate glassed off room for big grey sculptures: huge grey Viking inspired abstract-ish ones, such as folks on a long boat. I could not afford any of them, so, back in the main room, I managed to buy a black Eskimo one.
Anyhow, instead of my sculpture having a broad bottom with maybe some thin green felt, it has three distinct round feet, each with a thick grey pad, so it is very satisfying to turn to have different views. Hey, it is three dimensional, so I will be turning it all the time. It is of an Eskimo propping up a giant woman’s head. So I guess it is a victory over the supernatural.
Here’s my highlander painting from using a search engine https://www.nms.ac.uk/explore-our-collections/stories/scottish-history-and-archaeology/the-thin-red-line/
Wow, I didn’t know it was so famous.
Here’s the music video version from the mid-1980’s. I haven’t seen it for decades. A tiny bit gruesome, I warn you, but it’s important for civilians to be constantly reminded of the horror of war, so that we aren’t tempted to gloriously declare war on somebody. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=prFTCAdx-qc
…
…
Sean Crawford
Amidst a scape of gratitude,
November
2021
Travel Notes: While normally I would avoid London between November and March 2019, such were the dates of the British Museum’s Troy exhibit. (Immigrants from warmer climes say they only came to Britain for the money) As alluded in my previous essay, it was then that I went to the Who Shop and bought the BBC approved picture of Clara. I left in late February, barely avoiding the covid-19 lock down. (The Shop has way fewer T-shirts now, best to try vendors at Camden Locks)
I was able to see the stage play My Uncle Vanya before it shut down in March. I am pleased that the original cast, minus one, will be in a feature film version. Say, a main character was a dream villain on Doctor Who.
On an overcast day, I was delighted to photograph a sign on the tourist cattle chute: “You are 30 minutes from the Tower of London.” I just waltzed right in… Coming from the Canadian prairie, I much preferred having above-freezing rain and staying out indefinitely. In Canada, winter is like swimming in the ocean or a pool: After a while you need to come in.
