fire creates its own weather

Apr. 22nd, 2026 07:35 pm
musesfool: white flower against blue sky (hello sun in my face)
[personal profile] musesfool
Today's poem:

Pyrocumulus
by Arthur Sze

Peony shoots rise out of the earth;

at five a.m., walking up the ridge,

I mark how, in April, Orion's left arm

was an apex in the sky, and, by May,

only Venus flickered above the ridge

against the blue edge of sunrise.

In daylight, a pear tree explodes

with white blossoms—no black-

footed ferret slips across my path,

no boreal owl stirs on a branch.

At three a.m., dogs seethed and howled

when a black bear snagged a shriveled

apple off a branch; and, waking out

of a black pool, I glimpsed how

fire creates its own weather

in rising pyrocumulus. Reaching

the ditch, I drop the gate: it's time

for the downhill pipes to fill,

time for bamboo at the house

to suck up water, time to see sunlight

flare between leaves before

the scorching edge of afternoon.

***

Search maintenance

Apr. 22nd, 2026 09:19 am
mark: A photo of Mark kneeling on top of the Taal Volcano in the Philippines. It was a long hike. (Default)
[staff profile] mark posting in [site community profile] dw_maintenance

Happy Wednesday!

I'm taking search offline sometime today to upgrade the server to a new instance type. It should be down for a day or so -- sorry for the inconvenience. If you're curious, the existing search machine is over 10 years old and was starting to accumulate a decade of cruft...!

Also, apparently these older machines cost more than twice what the newer ones cost, on top of being slower. Trying to save a bit of maintenance and cost, and hopefully a Wednesday is okay!

Edited: The other cool thing is that this also means that the search index will be effectively realtime afterwards... no more waiting a few minutes for the indexer to catch new content.

petra: Text on a blue background: "The only way to go on is to go on." (DWJ - The only way to go on)
[personal profile] petra
Covid: Speaking Out About Rubynye by [archiveofourown.org profile] werpiper.
musesfool: "We'll sleep later! Time for cake!" (time for cake!)
[personal profile] musesfool
I logged off yesterday around 4:30 and started the process of making whipped ganache, and as per usual, the amount of time it takes to get the temperature of the ganache down to 75°F is RIDICULOUS even when I put the bowl on the window sill with the window open (there is a screen) and a cold breeze coming in. I guess the one good part about how long it took was that I was able to make and eat dinner in the middle of it, so I didn't have to do the whole thing hungry. Then I loaded those dishes into the dishwasher and started separating eggs to make vanilla Swiss meringue buttercream. And got some yolk in with the whites so had to start over. And then cracked an egg and it was frozen, so unusable for my purposes.

I did eventually get 4 egg whites in a bowl with a cup of sugar and set it over the pot of simmering water so I could whisk it until it heated to 160°F because aside from my own fear of salmonella, the whole point here was to celebrate my pregnant co-worker so I absolutely needed to make sure everything was safe. It's always amazing to me how they double in size as you whisk and heat them and eventually they hit the temp, so I whipped them into stiff peaks (not by hand), which took about twice the amount of time it normally does (physics! always working against me!), but did eventually happen. All was well as I added in the butter, but then I added the vanilla bean paste (gotta have the specks!) and it curdled. So I had to reheat it to melting, chill it, and whip it while adding another 1/4 cup of butter, but it did eventually whip up beautifully. Both frostings piped like a dream, too, since they were not cold. Pics are here. And they were much appreciated by my co-workers! At the end of the day, when I went into the lunchroom to put the leftovers in the fridge, I found someone packing them up to take home. She was like, did you want them? And I was like, no, I was just going to put them in the fridge for tomorrow. I'm pretty sure she did not know I was the person who made them, but that's okay.

Work itself was fine - we spent most of our team meeting eating cupcakes while everyone else talked about their cats - but I was 3/4 of the way there this morning when I realized I'd left my ID badge in my old bag (I got a new bag for work recently, and used it for the first time today, and I think I like it. It is quite large but the strap is the perfect length for a large crossbody, imo), but thankfully they have guest ID cards so I was able to go about my day without interruption. I did make myself a note to remember my ID card next month when I go in. (well, unless there is a LIRR strike, but there probably won't be.)

***

Today's poem:

The Thing Is

to love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you've held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you down like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again.

—Ellen Bass, from Mules of Love, 2002.

***
musesfool: Sara Lance in the Sixites (my friends all drive porsches)
[personal profile] musesfool
There was some good hockey over the weekend, though given some of the match-ups, I am rooting for teams I have never rooted for before. It's very disconcerting! I mean, some of it is just, I guess I hate this team less than that team (e.g., Pens vs Flyers, and I guess it's cool that Crosby is making what may be his final Cup run but ugh, Pittsburgh; otoh, the only thing the Flyers have going for them is Gritty, and that is not enough, considering everything else about them) or I hate this team so much more than I hate that team (I am rooting for Montreal, my friends. The Habs! I don't even know who I am anymore! But Ryan McDonagh notwithstanding, I do not like the Bolts at all). And as much as I'd like to see Kreider win (a hilarious rebuke to Drury and Dolan), I can't root for Joel Quenneville (and also Anaheim is not making a run).

In some cases, the choice is easy (I still have not forgiven the Kings for 2012 and I have a fondness for the Avs; I root for Dallas because of [tumblr.com profile] angelgazing, and also because while I'd love to see Mats Zuccarello win a Cup, Bill Guerin can go fuck himself, as can VGK and Carter Hart, so Mammoth all the way, there - plus the ZAMMOTH (or the Mammboni, if you're nasty)).

Overall, I would like to see Buffalo win it all, and I enjoyed their game, but if it has to be a Canadian team, at this point, I would pick Montreal over Ottawa (disqualified due to Brady Tkachuk) or Edmonton (ugh, McDavid's vibes are rancid, imo). At least I like Martin St. Louis, and their kids seem fun and their game was also entertaining.

And as I said on bsky last night, Henrik Lundqvist looked like an ANGEL in his silver suit. He just gets more handsome every time I see him. *dreamy sigh*

Anyway!

Today's poem:

White Noise
by Alice Pettway

I ordered silence online,
from the makers

of that robot vacuum,
the one that terrifies cats.

They claim it will ricochet
through my life, siphoning

the mewling of the computer
in its dark cubby, the shiver

of leaves, even the snap of fish beaks
against coral, the air conditioner

accelerating endlessly
around its distant track.

I asked customer support
if there was an attachment

to suck the cacophony
out of my head. For this,

I said, I would pay extra,
whatever they asked, really.

No response came.
I lay on the rug. The machine

ran along my legs, the side
of my face. I imagined

as loudly as possible, waiting
for the indicator to switch on,

for the whir and pinch of suction.
The room is quiet now.

Even the stuffing in the couch
does not exhale beneath my weight.

*

The Four Emperors (Book Series)

Apr. 20th, 2026 10:58 am
selenak: (Claudius by Pixelbee)
[personal profile] selenak
Consisting of four different novels covering the "Year of the Four Emperors"; I had heard good things about these books, and reading Flavius Josephus with [personal profile] cahn finally made me check them out. These four novels cover the "Year of the Four Emperors", aka the time between the uprising against Nero and his suicide and the emergence of Vespasian as the final victor of a year long struggle for the rule of the Roman Empire during which three different candidates before Vespasian all rose and fell. These novels' most inspired narrative decision was to tell these events from the pov of the palace staff, slaves and freedmen (and -women) alike, so we have an ongoing set of characters, partly historical in origin, partly fictional, through whose eyes we see wannabe Emperors come and go.

The individual novels are: "Palatine" (Nero dies mid book already, because the rise and fall providing the red thread of the novel isn't his but of one of the two Praetorian Prefects, Nymphidius Sabinus, who is instrumental in Nero's downfall but then gets ideas before the agreed upon successor, Galba, even has arrived in Rome), "Galba's Men" (Galba finally shows up in Rome; it doesn't end well for him), "Otoh's Regret" (Otho finds out what being Emperor really means) and "Vitellius' Feast" (Vitellius manages to make Nero look good postumously). And while the Emperors on question do get narrative space - I think Otho gets the most, because he's already an important character in "Galba's Men" - , none of them is ever the main character - their rise and fall just provides the outward plot, while what the novels are really about is how this effects our main cast who occupies all variations between "just tries to survive this insanity"' and "is very ambitious themselves" , with "can't stand seeing things done incompetently" and "actually starts to believe it's important who is Emperor'" are featuring as motivations.

This bunch of main characters we follow through all the novels are: Epaphroditos (Nero's wily private secretary, freedman, started out as a boy slave in the Julian-Claudian household in the reign of Tiberius), Philo (Epaphroditos' assistant - "the private secretary's secretary" - , very competent and sweet natured, too sweet natured, in fact, for his own good), Artemina ("Mina", quick-tempered, starting out as a towel holder for Nero's Empress but determined to do very much more), Sporus (eunuch, Nero's favourite), Lysander (announcer) and Felix (head of slave placements and overseers), Teretia (daughter of Philo's landlady, in love with ihm) . There are others, female and male alike, who don't make it through all four novels or are introduced not in the first one but later, like Caenis, a freedwoman of the Imperial Household (and thus everyone's old acquaintance) showing up in "Otho's Regret" with very much an agenda of her own (and I have to say this is my favourite fictional depiction of Caenis yet, including Lindsay Davis' novel about her, which alas I felt was a bit of a let down mid novel onwards), or the moody teenager who is the younger son of Caenis' lover, one Domitian. ([personal profile] gelliaclodiana, you were looking for a depiction of Domitian where he's not a (present or future) psycho; this is it. He has teenage angst, but is clearly bright, and the sympathetic characters of the novel like him.) There are also those who for entirely non lethal reasons are just in one novel but noth another (not least because they wisely high tail it out of Rome when their survival demands it, like Nero's mistress of the wardrobe - and orgy choreographer - Calvia Crispinilla). As I said, some of these are actual historical figures (like Epaphroditos, Sporus or Caenis), others are fictional, but all of them have had the experience of powerlessness in the past even if they don't in the present, and that means the emotional stakes are there in a way they probably wouldn't be if we were just following the Emperors. For example: there are plenty of good reasons to depose Nero, of course. You don't fret for Nero himself. But then you realise the Praetorians taking the palace also means they're going to feel themselves entitled to have a go (i.e. rape) at Nero's slaves, and suddenly you care very much. Or: there is a famous incident involving the crowd when Galba arrives at the Milvian bridge. But Teretia and her father are within the crowd who has shown up to greet their new Emperor, which means said incident now feels incredibly personal. and so forth.

There is a lot of black humour in these books, and yet - or perhaps even because of that - the actual tragedies hit very hard. (I was reminded of the tv adaption of I, Claudius in this regard.) And for 99% of the characters three dimensional characterisations. (Including the Emperors. The only one who is just 100% awful is Vitellius.) The narrative premise that the palace staff is the one who actually keeps the Empire going irrespective of who happens to be Emperor also reminds me of British tv, though in this case Yes, Minister, but of course there is no slavery in 20th century Britain. And since most of the main cast are either former slaves or currently slaves, I was curious ahead of reading the books of how the author would treat the subject. For starters: not via the Spartacus approach (i.e. focusing on slaves fighting for their freedom). None of the characters think slavery per se is wrong; the freedmen (and -women) have slaves themselves. (This is historically accurate but quite often doesn't make it into fictional depictions.) There is also, early on, a lot of emotional identification with their masters' causes. At the same time, the narrative, I think, succeeds in making it clear that being a slave, even if your owner is the "considerate" type actually bothering to use your name instead of "boy" or "girl" , is to be in constant non stop danger of life and limb, simply because there is no legal protection whatsoever, and even if your current owner doesn't see themselves as entitled to have sex with you or beat you, the next one might, and/or any misfortune they suffer could lead to your own (painful) death. For all the banter and black humor, this undercurrent is there.

(I also thought the relationships between classes and free/unfree worked for me. For example, Epaphroditos and Nero. )

Nitpicks: the first two novels feature one of my pet peeves, to wit, characters using the expression "okay", even in initialized form (i.e. "ok"). I'm not a linguistic purist when it comes to historical novels, but that's one of the exceptions. So I was really glad novels 3 and 4 no longer had this.

Trigger warnings: did I mention the main characters are either former or present slaves in a society where the idea of consent for anyone not a freeborn Roman man is non existent? I will say that explicit scenes in the sense that we get detailed descriptions are rare, not because they don't happen but because the author usually works via implication and/or showing the aftermath.

State of the history: While Suetonius and Tacitus are clearly the main sources here, I would say the novels take the current state of historical research into account. I.e. Nero may be loathed by the Senate and increasingly by the higher ranking military, but he's wildly popular with the masses (and not responsible for the Great Fire of Rome), Domitian does not spend his spare time as a moody teen killing flies to signal the future. The big twist of Otho's life - which is spoilery ) is build up to through two novels. I wll say that in addition to the above mentioned "OK" in the first two novels, I am thrown by some of the very Anglophone shortening of names (hence Mina, or Alex for Alexander), but the slave names themselves, where invented, strike me as plausible (mostly Greek, which is what the Romans liked to do), and the various celebrations of Roman festivals, not just the well known ones like the Saturnalia, to mark the year are a good way to get some exposition about Roman every day life across. Notably NOT catering for what's popular is the fact that is no gladiator among either the main or the supporting cast. I found that ever so refreshing.

In conclusion: an enjoyable series of novels set during a truly outrageously bizarre year of Roman history.
musesfool: "We'll sleep later! Time for cake!" (time for cake!)
[personal profile] musesfool
I realize I never followed up on the vanilla cupcakes and they did stay moist for 4 days in an airtight container and didn't get that weird texture where you can tell they're going bad, nor did they dry out, so. A++ on the hot milk method. So I am making them today, as well as my favorite chocolate cupcake recipe (it is actually a cake recipe but it makes 40 mini cupcakes as written) and then tomorrow I will make whipped ganache for the vanilla and vanilla Swiss meringue buttercream for the chocolate, and bring them to work on Tuesday, since one of my attorneys is pregnant, and this is likely the last time she'll be in the office with us until the fall. She was all, "no need to make a fuss!" but my boss was like, "Cupakes? :D :D :D" so of course, I was also like, "Cupcakes! :D :D :D"

*

Today's poem:

Mother, Kitchen
By Ouyang Jianghe
(Translated from the Chinese by Austin Woerner )

Where the immemorial and the instant meet, opening and distance appear.
Through the opening: a door, crack of light.
Behind the door, a kitchen.

Where the knife rises and falls, clouds gather, disperse.
A lightspeed joining of life and death, cut
in two: halves of a sun, of slowness.

Halves of a turnip.
A mother in the kitchen, a lifetime of cuts.
A cabbage cut into mountains and rivers,
a fish, cut along its leaping curves,
laid on the table
still yearning for the pond.

Summer's tofu
cut into premonitions of snow.
A potato listens to the onion-counterpoint
of the knife, dropping petals at its strokes:
self and thing, halves of nothing
at the center of time.
Where gone and here meet, the knife rises, falls.

But this mother is not holding a knife.

What she has been given is not a knife
but a few fallen leaves.
The fish leaps over the blade from the sea
to the stars. The table is in the sky now,
the market has been crammed into the refrigerator,
and she cannot open cold time.

***
selenak: (Claudia and Elizabeth by Tinny)
[personal profile] selenak
The Testaments 1.04: again, my only nitpick with this wasn't about the episode itself but solely source material related, as in, my favourite element of the source material is still not in it. As an episode buildng on the first three, it's tops, acting and script wise, continues to flesh out the two woman characters, heightens the stakes, and does, in fact, a better job with one of them than the book did. (I thought this in the first three eps as well.) I'm also intrigued by some of the chances due to what they could mean long term. Spoilers beneath the cut. )


For All Mankind 5.04: In which we get introduced to a new cast member and learn an old acquaintance is on their way. Also: (some) answers about the latest dastardly scheme.

Spoilers wait with their reveals until after mission launch )
musesfool: eucalyptus by stephen meyers (how the light gets in)
[personal profile] musesfool
Today's poem:

A Certain Kind of Eden
by Kay Ryan

It seems like you could, but you can't go back and pull
the roots and runners and replant.
It's all too deep for that.
You've overprized intention,
have mistaken any bent you're given
for control. You thought you chose
the bean and chose the soil.
You even thought you abandoned
one or two gardens. But those things
keep growing where we put them—
if we put them at all.
A certain kind of Eden holds us thrall.
Even the one vine that tendrils out alone
in time turns on its own impulse,
twisting back down its upward course
a strong and then a stronger rope,
the greenest saddest strongest
kind of hope.

*
musesfool: kara, pretty (nothing but the rain)
[personal profile] musesfool
Just woke up from an unexpected 2 hour nap, so thoughts on The Pitt finale will have to wait. Here's today's poem:

Materials for a Gravestone Rubbing

I have long wanted to be starlight in spring
and the late snow that lingers there, coming down
at Harpers Ferry over the river or gathered
on a windowsill on third street in Brooklyn
when I was twenty-two — the potpourri
of sky the wind carries after a storm.
The gray darkening on a far ridge. If you are reading this
there is still a way. I can take your smooth palm in mine
and lead you toward a distant city and a night
when you were on the mountain and dreaming of the other world
and we can walk together past the pre-war homes
converted now to low-rent apartments for college students
or workers come in from long days on a road crew,
coveralls draped over the backs of kitchen chairs
and the light swaying just so. We can go on —
along the cracked sidewalks above the train tracks
that can't exist again even as the grasses come up between them
and look through a fog and a single pair of headlights
making definite beams in the material cold.
No moonlight to get netted up in on the surface of the water
no traffic at this hour just the scraps of paper blown
into gutters and the electric hum of streetlights,
a few voices, which almost walk like footfall down alleys
overgrown with briars and creeping vines, their crude
latticework against the brick and the exhale
of a bartender on a smoke break and the smoke
which still drifts. Now it must be all worn through
but then it was barely remarkable though I stop
to look back at the homes and at snow melt on roads
the flat glitter on the black road, the moiré pattern
yet to be captured by language — and for a minute believe
in something as my stepfather believed in the smell of fire
whenever he left in the middle of the night
and returned before dawn and spoke to no one, didn’t
wake anyone up. Sometimes I feel that alone,
that pure, as if looking back at myself
through the scrim of time and you are there
standing in our kitchen at this hour and I can almost
hear you and the first singing caught-up there in the back
of your throat. Lately I've stopped worrying about the end.
Each day my hand is smaller on your shoulders. New birds
still return and the hillsides green all around, the stars
have traveled over the horizon and in the blink
of an eye you are here — grape-vine charcoal in your hand;
little hyphen I have become.

--Matthew Wimberley

*

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December 2020

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