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April 13, 2012

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Seven lines starting with the 7th on page 7 of the ms I wrote during Nanowrimo in 2011

“Don’t talk about dreams, dreams are boring,” the mother said. The same mother who spanked her after she took the sewing scissors and cut Peter’s shirt. Pulled the front part of it towards her and cut across, making a star-shaped hole in the stripey material. Maroon and grey and green and black stripes. Peter cried and grandmother came to pick him up. When mother came home she was spanked. “You are being spanked because you disobeyed. You were told never to touch those scissors.” the mother said. Not spanked because of anything with the brother. Not

I don't think anyone I tagged did it! But your fragments are intriguing.

Beth, I love yours. Here's mine from my poetry manuscript. Don't know if that counts. I tried to post this earlier, but it didn't seem to work. It's an excerptfrom my poem "Chicago Union Stockyards Circa 1957" and the indents are lost in the blogosphere:

Divided in their work as in their lives--the Irish

ran the boardwalks, swatting flies,
herding livestock in and out of pens.

Mexicans dried and salted lamb skins
in the rank cool of hide cellars.

The Poles and coloreds sideslipped on the killing floor.

On my block, stump-fingered, steel-toed welders

These are wonderful! More, readers, please!

Vivian- I love how yours includes a cut-out! Nests inside nests. And Susan, this is such strong imagery; I feel the slippery, deadly floor and the stumps of those fingers.

Thingvellir! Time to share a tiny bit, I thought!

"There are no trees like this..." In the Canadian arctic, no trees at all. My friends Stan and Roberta recently were visited on Saturday by an Inuit couple and their 15 year old son. The son had never seen a tree before this, his first trip south. When he did see one, he ran up to it and put his arms around it, hugging it. That thought came back to me when I saw this meme again today (I do not subscribe to your blog but have permanently stuck it as one of the six on my browser's home screen, and it generally but not always refreshes itself when you add a new post).

I hope your relative silence means more Thingvellir. And I wonder what that word means...

Vivian, thanks for the story about the Inuit couple and trees. Being a tree-hugger from way back, it all makes sense to me. One of the weirdest things about being in Iceland was the tundra, completely devoid of trees.

"Thing" (written with a letter that looks like "P" rather than "Th" in Icelandic) means "assembly" and "veillir" is valley. Thingveillir http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/%C3%9Eingvellir is the major rift valley where the mid-Atlantic ridge emerges; the rift marks the intersection of the North American and Eurasian tectonic plates and the valley is where they are drifting apart. It's the place where the early tribes came together each summer, and the site of the first true assembly or parliament in Europe - established around 1000.

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Who was Cassandra?


  • In the Iliad, she is described as the loveliest of the daughters of Priam (King of Troy), and gifted with prophecy. The god Apollo loved her, but she spurned him. As a punishment, he decreed that no one would ever believe her. So when she told her fellow Trojans that the Greeks were hiding inside the wooden horse...well, you know what happened.

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