A Letter to a Friend
My dear Horsefeathers, I must fill you in on my recent travails and tailwinds. It has been too long! I always want to keep you abreast of my labors, especially in regard to the development of certain technologies that may assist you in some of your own researches (of which, I confess, I know nothing). If it does happen that you decide to cast your shadow in my direction, I do not want you to be disappointed by clouds and buildings. Forgive me, there is so much light, but I am mottled.
As you may have heard from Cruskin, I moved to Toronto the first of September. The move was precipitated by the cowboy Tramwell, who filled my leathery ears one moonless night with a story passing strange. He described a certain tuber that grows under the basalt -- the city itself is built on a network of miniature volcanoes, though few know it -- with certain properties of incandescence I'd only read about in the Mendicus. I thought it feasible, given centuries of hair deposits, but it turns out to have been a hoax. I spent three weeks scouring the underground, and I found nothing but hermit root.
In the meantime, I made contact with Dirk from the Chopper's Guild. They've lost their funding and have resorted to making incisors for the local Scissorian chapter. With his help I was able to find some employment doing simple scuffwork in the needle and thread department, which is really just a few urns and lockers hammered together, in exchange for a berth in Jergman's coop. I am content, though somewhat disheveled. I open the curtains at night and think of you.
There is a badge emblemator here who preoccupies me endlessly with fussy experiments in cluster divergence and core primaries among squirrels. I know you won't approve, but it is a happy distraction, and anyway, you are too churlish. Even so, the 'badger' is well suited for Near-Far work, because she doesn't have a name. I have suggested Chloe, or perhaps Chora, but she is waiting for confirmation from the elements. You may be flattered to know that your theories on the discernment of fog voices have proven to be beneficial in this process. Too many horns, you always said, and not enough bells and whistles!
For all that, I am still composing verses for the goldfinch sonorities. I must be two feet taller, I'm stretched so thin. It will save me from drowning some day... possibly the only vindication awarded to me in the end. (Perhaps by then I will have wished for an end!) I have dreamed too much of earthworks and warrens, now my chirping turns to mud. If you would only come, you could dry me out and sing some life into my dust. Or we could spend a quiet afternoon counting walnuts. But I will not beg, only plead a little. Come. Please come.
I must return to the sky and the wind. I made some bone beetles yesterday and they are starting to ululate. I am feeding them with my own frost for now, I do hope the weather changes. So goodbye old friend.
Fondly,
Socks
As you may have heard from Cruskin, I moved to Toronto the first of September. The move was precipitated by the cowboy Tramwell, who filled my leathery ears one moonless night with a story passing strange. He described a certain tuber that grows under the basalt -- the city itself is built on a network of miniature volcanoes, though few know it -- with certain properties of incandescence I'd only read about in the Mendicus. I thought it feasible, given centuries of hair deposits, but it turns out to have been a hoax. I spent three weeks scouring the underground, and I found nothing but hermit root.
In the meantime, I made contact with Dirk from the Chopper's Guild. They've lost their funding and have resorted to making incisors for the local Scissorian chapter. With his help I was able to find some employment doing simple scuffwork in the needle and thread department, which is really just a few urns and lockers hammered together, in exchange for a berth in Jergman's coop. I am content, though somewhat disheveled. I open the curtains at night and think of you.
There is a badge emblemator here who preoccupies me endlessly with fussy experiments in cluster divergence and core primaries among squirrels. I know you won't approve, but it is a happy distraction, and anyway, you are too churlish. Even so, the 'badger' is well suited for Near-Far work, because she doesn't have a name. I have suggested Chloe, or perhaps Chora, but she is waiting for confirmation from the elements. You may be flattered to know that your theories on the discernment of fog voices have proven to be beneficial in this process. Too many horns, you always said, and not enough bells and whistles!
For all that, I am still composing verses for the goldfinch sonorities. I must be two feet taller, I'm stretched so thin. It will save me from drowning some day... possibly the only vindication awarded to me in the end. (Perhaps by then I will have wished for an end!) I have dreamed too much of earthworks and warrens, now my chirping turns to mud. If you would only come, you could dry me out and sing some life into my dust. Or we could spend a quiet afternoon counting walnuts. But I will not beg, only plead a little. Come. Please come.
I must return to the sky and the wind. I made some bone beetles yesterday and they are starting to ululate. I am feeding them with my own frost for now, I do hope the weather changes. So goodbye old friend.
Fondly,
Socks
posted by Mark Mann at
9:06 AM
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