I have come to the conclusion that it is very difficult to engage feelings of loneliness when watching a green-cheek conure. They are simply too amusing, and require a good deal of attention to keep out of trouble. Additionally, they want to help with whatever you are doing - typing, playing the piano, brushing your hair, washing the dishes, clearing the table, baking bread, drinking tea, building (or deconstructing) Jenga towers, sweeping, bobbing for walnuts, decorating your homework pages, "fixing" the computer cord -

Also, they think it great fun to crawl around on your ticklish feet.

Then when they decide that they are quite through, they will clamber all over your shirt and pants, shoulders, arms, and head, surf in your hair, burrow through your shirt-sleeves, comb your hair, and preen your eyelashes. After that they will engage in professional dermatology by attempting to remove any moles, freckles, pimples, or mosquito bites that may have appeared on your skin.

All the while, of course, they keep up a constant monologue of parrot-ese, not to be confused with canary, finch, dog, cat, or anything else in the known universe...

I bought 125 books for $25.

It's pretty incredible.

Save a Tree
Read Online Fiction

I spent some time today finding and taking "Song of Ice and Fire" character tests - with mildly disturbing/amusing results. Apparently I seem to exist somewhere between Tywin Lannister and Ned Stark. (Not to mention that one that said Melisandre, too, but I've decided to treat that as a complete fluke. If you've read SoIaF, you'll know what I mean.) Still, the juxtaposition of Stark and Lannister - especially those two! - will probably keep me laughing for a while.

As a note to those who have read, my brother took it and came out as Brienne of Tarth.

The splendor falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story;
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying. dying, dying.

O, hark, O, hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O, sweet and far from cliff and scar
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river;
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow for ever and for ever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

~Alfred Tennyson

"Every gun that is made, every warship launched, every rocket fired signifies, in the final sense, a theft from those who hunger and are not fed, those who are cold and are not clothed." ~Dwight Eisenhower, 1954

Fifty-three years old - it might as well be fifty thousand. It is still hard to hear, but does that make it less true?

I want to have this:

"If the world should stop revolving, spinning slowly down to die,
I'd spend the end with you,
and when the world was through
then one by one the stars would all go out, and you and I
would simply fly
away."

But it doesn't fit. And so, denied that, I would rather be Aubrey than the singer - but I am denied that, too, and I think I am stuck in between.

Where it hurts.

I hate it.

The silver swan, who, living, had no note,
When death approach'd, unlocked her silent throat;
Leaning her breast against the reedy shore,
Thus sang her first and last, and sang no more:

"Farewell all joys, O death, come close mine eyes;
More geese than swans now live, more fools than wise!"

~Orlando Gibbons, "The Silver Swan"

If you choose to believe me, good. Now I will tell how Octavia, the spider-web city, is made. There is a precipice between two steep mountains: the city is over the void, bound to the two crests with ropes and chains and catwalks. You walk on the little wooden ties, careful not to set your foot in the open spaces, or you cling to the hempen strands. Below there is nothing for hundreds and hundreds of feet: a few clouds glide past; farther down you can glimpse the chasm's bed.

This is the foundation of the city: a net which serves as passage and as support. All the rest, instead of rising up, is hung below: rope ladders, hammocks, houses made like sacks, clothes hangers, terraces like gondolas, skins of water, gas jets, spits, baskets on strings, dumb-waiters, showers, trapezes and rings for children's games, cable cars, chandeliers, pots with trailing plants.

Suspended over the abyss, the life of Octavia's inhabitants is less certain than in other cities. They know the net will only last so long.

I totally demolished the class structure in the Creative Writing workshop yesterday: sent several people into hysterical laughter, confused a good half the class, and absolutely terrified the rest. And all it took was one little word.

"Lycanthropy."

It started out with Stephanie's rabbit, who had an unusual fondness for coffee. Then her cat decided that it really liked wine - who knows why! After that it was an Australian shepherd who would eat anything - pills, powders, poison - if it was served with ice cream. And did I mention the German shepherd who would sooner bury a hot dog than eat it?

It turns out that we're not done yet. The newest development? My conure simply cannot keep himself away from Earl Grey tea, brewed extra strong, served with warm cream and sugar.

One of the hedges is out. The opening-up of space and sight is wonderful to behold. I'm going to have to keep that in mind when sketching out architectural and landscaping plans.