{cancer horoscope for week of february 18, 2010}

Once again, Rob Brezsny makes me feel better about my life:

“Jane Austen was the spinster daughter of a clergyman who led an uneventful life,” wrote Geoffrey Wheatcroft in The Guardian. “She just happened to write half a dozen flawless masterpieces, which came perfectly formed, not from experience but from imagination.” Most of us don’t have anything close to the inconceivably potent imagination that Austen possessed. But I believe 2010 will be a year when you can access at least a portion of that wondrous capacity. You’ll be able to fantasize about vast possibilities in exquisite detail. You will have great skill at smashing your way free of limiting expectations through the power of your expansive vision. And the coming weeks will be a time when it should all kick into high gear.

flax-golden tales: heart-shaped cage

heart-shaped cage

heart-shaped cage

Sting told me if I love somebody I should set them free.

I doubt Sting ever loved anyone with wings. If he did he might rethink such a stupid sentiment.

I suppose the point is to wait for your love to come back to you voluntarily.

I wonder if there’s a difference between setting something free and letting it go?

I probably did it wrong.

I should stop taking advice from my radio.

I worry that you’re lost.

I keep a heart-shaped cage unlocked for you, out on the street where it can easily be seen.

So if one day you return at least you’ll have a place to stay.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

and another thing…

Hey, do you like books? Of course you do. Do you like free books? Me too! So you should swing by the wonderful & talented Cindy Pon‘s blog and maybe win fabulous UK editions of R.J. Anderson‘s books.

(Though truthfully I hope I win, because I’ve been wanting to read these and hey, free books!)

several topics in one post

We went to closing night of Sleep No More on Sunday. I stayed away from the main plot this time, I think I only saw the Macbeths proper once or twice. I wandered through bits of Rebecca made more enchanting by having recently watched the Hitchcock film. Hecate was once again quite fond of my jewelry and this time she pulled me away for private storytime. I saw scenes I’d somehow managed to miss the first three times. It must have been virtually impossible to see everything, and I think that’s part of what made it so magical. I will miss it terribly. Thank You to Punchdrunk & the A.R.T. for such an incomparable experience that I was lucky enough to have four times over, though thank you only begins to encompass what I mean.

Remember how I said I was going to try to have a revised draft of the novel done by my return to Manderley? That was lies. I have a lot done, but it’s nowhere near finished draft proportions. I’ve given up on deadlines, as much as they make that lovely wooshing sound when they go by. Still typing away. Putting word after word and adjusting page after page and hopefully eventually I’ll reach the end.

I tried to come up with things to say about last week’s LOST premiere that weren’t spoilery or convoluted, but really it just boils down to three things:

  • They need to stop killing off the female characters.
  • The “I don’t understand” speech was the best delivery of any line on this show ever.
  • I really hope they can pull this entire conceit off.

Looking forward to seeing where they go from here. Still trying to get used to Tuesday being LOST day, too.

Still mostly all Revisionland, all the time around here. We escaped the snow this weekend but apparently it’s getting back at us tomorrow. Will be hibernating.

flax-golden tales: prelude to the hunt

prelude to the hunt

prelude to the hunt

The jewellery is a distraction. Distraction is a key element of the prelude to the hunt.

They never realize that. Shiny objects are highly effective.

Perhaps some buried instinct tells them to run. To hide. But instinct and wisdom are always lost under infatuation and sparkle.

They don’t even notice the arrow until after it leaves its bow. Flying swift and true and impossibly fast.

By then it is far too late.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.