RIII readers: It's time to post your character descriptions in the comments. In the meantime, I will chatter a bit.
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The end is in sight with my editorial project. It's been hard work and, like writing, has required much solitude. I realized yesterday that I can go for days without speaking to anyone other than Tom. Because this is a town, I do at least lay eyes on other people--during walks, even just staring out the window--which is more than I can say for Harmony . . . though of course my household was larger then.
It's looking now as if my teaching schedule will mostly be winter- and spring-based. Autumn is the lone time. But I did have house guests this past weekend. And I do have a reading next week, part of an event called "Making Migration Visible: Traces, Tracks & Pathways." And I will see family this coming weekend. And I am getting my hair cut today. So at least I have the memory and prospect of speaking.
Do not think I am complaining. Home is one of my favorite places to be, especially now that I have one again.
8 comments:
Richard III, Act 2, scene 3 (added to end): Description of First Citizen
Second Citizen: What a credulous, doughy, muffin of a man is this. He stinks of sour yeast and cold ashes.
Third Citizen: ‘Tis true; there is a sort of loafishness about him. He thinks no deep thoughts, and cannot see dangers right in front of him. He has raisins for eyes.
Second Citizen: Agreed! A poor sort, really, rolling along, seeing only what he will. He won’t rise before the sun, regardless of how much he’s kneaded.
Third Citizen: At least he’s not puffed up, except about the middle, but that’s no matter. “All shall be well” indeed—I would it were so easy. We shall be divided and divided again, it’s plain to see.
Second Citizen: Come away with me; I suspect we will need to store up bread ere long. These scantling royal fools serve for scarecrows, and the wind grows chill. Let’s find biscuits and butter while we can.
Young York, clad in velvet, privilege and comfort, with hair that glows in ringlets to thy shoulders, thy soul is but newly formed, a sunny gold. Aye, young Duke, thy swiftness of wit and thy quickness of tongue belie thy youthful age. By far too shrewd and knowing and walls have ears for telling. Careful lest they betray thee. Thee senses, but cannot see the miasma of swirling grays, blues, violets, and blood that surrounds thee and chills what is right and good.
God’s truth, he is a popinjay. A royal messenger, puffed as a peacock, purple breeches and hose pulled up tight his stubby legs. The feathered cap feathered with more than one, oh how he does imagine. Perfumed like a maiden; sometimes I wonder, is the pomade to bury the foul smell of the sycophant? And, oh, that sickly pale face, wan as the whitest moon. I prithee, did ever eyes see such a one? But for the promise of a future at court I’d ne’er have married this creetur. He goes now with a message for the royals, and well I know the scene he’ll play. Ushered in, mouth full of the pie of piety (his feast of self-importance), he’ll doff cap with a bow would blush the king himself (were the king still with us). Then “Such news, good lords, as grieves me to report” or some such pious mouthful he’ll spit out. As if ever he grieved anything save his own snail’s progress at court. But he’s young and smooth-skinned and bathes—oh how he bathes!—a goodly amount. And knows, or claims so, the ways of things at court. Time will tell. Good things can come at court to those who serve, no matter that they be all undeserved.
Undressing the Archbishop of York
With a body like that, a gnawed crust wrapped up like a dinner roll in powdered robes of white and red, I would be surprised if you DIDN’T have a diocese over the Isle of Man. You smell absolutely ravenous, slightly coppery, like a privy seal brushed with caramel. Don’t tell me; you hold equal palmfuls of lilies in each hand each morning to see which arm will be most dependable that day? I thought I noticed a hint of that. You’re warm to the touch, like most divine men-- either you’re feverish or he made you in the image of the forge itself. Honey, they may call you plenty of names, but all I see are peppered lamb shanks that woke up on the wrong side of the bed in all the best ways. That thing you do with your eyes. There. They’re the stormiest. Now go on. Let me hear you tell me all the places I'm going to burn in that magnificent gargle of a voice that sounds like flesh simmered.
David, I am so happy with "the pie of piety"--!! Ruth..."clad in...comfort" is so nicely done!! Nate--this character is so oily...explain the lilies thing ( I sense it's something I should know, but don't...)?
Wow, what fun!
(and that's too many exclamation points for one day...)
I'm sorry to be late with this--
Queen of England, my dear Elizabeth:
You know how to play this game. Your features are still smooth, the faint feathers in the corners of those glacier blue eyes are hardly visible. You are lucky; that forehead is wide, you have not plucked your eyebrows too thin, you need no rice flour mask to lighten your ivory silk skin or beet juice to dye your lips (although you might admit to biting them a bit for color, when the time is right). Could you see a white hair to pluck it out, or would it glint like yet another metal in the glittering vermeil veil of your hair? You move like a cat, muscles ripple beneath your rich dress, nostrils flare, searching for direction. The scent of orange and cloves swirl in eddies as you approach; the undernote of musk lingers long after you pass. Walk to sanctuary in your velvet, languid way.
OMG, Granddam! You're so embarrassing! "Small herbs have grace, great weeds do grow apace." Like anyone believes "Oh, it's so great to be short!" Jesus Christ, sometimes at these family dinners I just want to crawl behind the arras and puke. I can't wait to get out of this hick burg. And meanwhile, the queen is, like, "Pitchers have ears," as if I'm five years old, and, Granddam, you sit there at the table in your stupid stiff brocade and that dumb old-lady cap, smelling like orris root and bad meat, with not one damn tooth in your head, acting as if you're an expert on "kingcraft" and "diplomacy" . . . God, I can't even. Jeezum. Whatever.
My computer just went into the shop so I'm hogtied here by my phone. I hope to respond in detail soon, when I can use all ten fingers, but for now: I love your entries!
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