Sheila Rambles

Among the Zinzidorians, they tell a tale in a kind of competition.  The gist is thus: Quiglion goes to the Playmaster and asks approval of a play.  The Playmaster asks the synopsis.  The synopses vary wildly, but the fouler the better.  (This is Quiglion we speak of, after all.)  The Playmaster says “I see.”  (Rooms have been reduced to helpless laughter with the right inflection of that line.)  Then he asks “And the title?” and Quiglion replies “The Glorious Victory of the Blood Knights and the Wizard-King!”  (In some variations, the Playmaster nods and scribbles “approved” on the scroll.)

I was the first kiss that True Love ever kissed. I danced before dance, sang before song and opened my eyes through the very first mask.  I laughed at the first joke, just after telling it.  I am called Quiglion when I am foul, Zinzidor when I am fair and You Rascal when people chase me down the street.  I speak lies as soft as feathers and truths as hard as stone.  Dance and I may dance with you.  Sing and my voice will be heard.  Wear a mask and I may possess you, so be careful when you do!

Please excuse Sheila from working on her novel today as she picked up her copy of The Lord of the Rings in a fit of insomnia last night and cannot be sure if she will be able to set it aside long enough to get any significant work done.

I threw a wake at somebody’s birthday party.  I didn’t tell anybody, though.  I had decided it was time to give Soft Places , my first proper manuscript, a Christian burial. I sipped my drink, watched the sunset light up the sky and described the first scene to a rapt audience around a blazing fire.  Some people said they would love to read it.  I told them that perhaps one day they would, but for now, it rests underground. A Christian burial is, after all, not an absolute end.  The rites of Christian burial inevitably speak of the hope of resurrection.

“Tell them that I have spoken with my gods and they are angry.  So angry that they have decided to blot out the sun today as a warning.  Nothing you can do will stop it.  Let me go, and the gods will relent, but only after they have shown you their power.” “He says his gods will cause the sun to go dark today.” “Tell him his gods are weak if the most they can do is things we already know will happen.  Were they to stop the sun from going dark on this day, I’d be far more impressed.”

Please excuse Sheila from working on her novel today as she was informed this morning that the temporary work assignment that had hopes of permanence went back to being temporary.  She will be spending this evening throwing a pity party and restrategizing session.  She intends to resume work tomorrow.  Thank you.

“Oh, very much like a mayfly,” she says as she shifts the child in her arms.  “If you make the comparison with the understanding of the full lifespan of the mayfly.  Mayflies live much longer than one day.  That tiny lifespan we think about, when it mates and dies, is only the adult phase.  Before that, the mayfly swims about in larval form for months, sometimes up to a year.  The process of metamorphosis gives the mayfly the ability to procreate but leaves the digestive system vestigial and nonfunctional and thus it dies because it can no longer nourish itself.”