The wild parrots have returned
Jul. 17th, 2005 02:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pjthompsonThey show up here every year, up from Mexico as I understand it. Little green buggers, cute as hell.
I haven't seen them yet, but I heard their sonic combustification outside the window a little while ago. They always announce their presence with a sweeping, soaring cacophony of squeaks and squawks as they come in for a landing. "We're HEEEEeeeeere!"
It always puts me right back into childhood. My mother kept an aviary of parakeets, and whereas their squeaks and squawks were individually more discreet, a giant cage full of hundreds of parakeets will kick up some noise, boy howdy. It's a pleasant sound for me, though—a perpetually chattery, happy sound.
Parrots and 'keets are by their natures communicative and social, always on the gossip, bobbing their little heads in close quarters. And then I said to him, what do you mean I don't look good in chartreuse? And he says, it's not a color I've ever cared for. And I says, well that bald-headed blue you're always sporting makes me think of dead fish. And he says...
Subject change of the day: I've been thinking about my next novel quite a bit the last week. Working on my novelette has made me want to return to some of the characters in it, as I'd originally planned, and write a larger story which includes them. I'm afraid it will probably be another one of my split timeline thingumies—maybe contemporary and 18th century. All four novels I've written have had complex timelines. Why should this be any different? I guess I can't tell a story straight.
There's still a lot of story left in The Current Novel, and by the time I get there I may have changed my mind, but this is where I'm at right now, playing with that idea, fleshing it out. And I've got a craving to leave the world of the current novel behind for the time being. Once this one is finished.
One of the reasons I haven't written the 18th century novel before is the daunting amount of historical research involved. And I've been thinking about that a lot lately, too. My stack of 18th century books is now just about a foot high (I know, I just went in and measured them)—and there's more besides in the bookshelf. I've read a fair number of them, enough to give a flavor, but I'll have to read more, more, more for a novel. And as Mr. Yeats said: A line will take us hours maybe;/Yet if it does not seem a moment's thought,/Our stitching and unstitching has been naught.
Doing the heavy lifting, yet making it seem like nothing—aye, there's the rub.
And my research for the 6th century is still ongoing. I'm feeling a bit like a history trollop at the moment.
Note to self: try staying in the 21st century next time.
Other news of the day: I think I finally caught up on sleep. I've certainly done a great deal of it this weekend, so much so that I haven't accomplished much except a few blog commentaries and some reading. S'okay. Sometimes a body just needs to rest. Mine did.
I haven't seen them yet, but I heard their sonic combustification outside the window a little while ago. They always announce their presence with a sweeping, soaring cacophony of squeaks and squawks as they come in for a landing. "We're HEEEEeeeeere!"
It always puts me right back into childhood. My mother kept an aviary of parakeets, and whereas their squeaks and squawks were individually more discreet, a giant cage full of hundreds of parakeets will kick up some noise, boy howdy. It's a pleasant sound for me, though—a perpetually chattery, happy sound.
Parrots and 'keets are by their natures communicative and social, always on the gossip, bobbing their little heads in close quarters. And then I said to him, what do you mean I don't look good in chartreuse? And he says, it's not a color I've ever cared for. And I says, well that bald-headed blue you're always sporting makes me think of dead fish. And he says...
Subject change of the day: I've been thinking about my next novel quite a bit the last week. Working on my novelette has made me want to return to some of the characters in it, as I'd originally planned, and write a larger story which includes them. I'm afraid it will probably be another one of my split timeline thingumies—maybe contemporary and 18th century. All four novels I've written have had complex timelines. Why should this be any different? I guess I can't tell a story straight.
There's still a lot of story left in The Current Novel, and by the time I get there I may have changed my mind, but this is where I'm at right now, playing with that idea, fleshing it out. And I've got a craving to leave the world of the current novel behind for the time being. Once this one is finished.
One of the reasons I haven't written the 18th century novel before is the daunting amount of historical research involved. And I've been thinking about that a lot lately, too. My stack of 18th century books is now just about a foot high (I know, I just went in and measured them)—and there's more besides in the bookshelf. I've read a fair number of them, enough to give a flavor, but I'll have to read more, more, more for a novel. And as Mr. Yeats said: A line will take us hours maybe;/Yet if it does not seem a moment's thought,/Our stitching and unstitching has been naught.
Doing the heavy lifting, yet making it seem like nothing—aye, there's the rub.
And my research for the 6th century is still ongoing. I'm feeling a bit like a history trollop at the moment.
Note to self: try staying in the 21st century next time.
Other news of the day: I think I finally caught up on sleep. I've certainly done a great deal of it this weekend, so much so that I haven't accomplished much except a few blog commentaries and some reading. S'okay. Sometimes a body just needs to rest. Mine did.