Greer Gilman's Blog

Wiry and white-fiery and whirlwind-swivellèd snow

My atavism for wild weather has faded somewhat: I didn't venture into the white-out, but waited for the grey, the gusts and swirling. It was still pretty fierce out there. My gloves weren't warm enough, my glasses frosted over, and for once, I was glad of the mask. I think I may be the last person on earth to wear a low-tech Luddite overcoat. At least, a young woman I encountered last month gazed at me in wonderment: "It looks like something from a movie." I felt myself receding in her eyes to black and white.

The figures in the snow looked Breugelish. I would have taken more pictures, but the camera on my phone froze.






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Lift up your hearts

 Oh, thanks heavens!

Eliza Carthy just posted that "Mam  ... will be out in three days.  Dad & I testing positive so we all have to keep isolating."

All hail vaccination!  And fingers crossed that all goes as promised.

As of now, the fund has clocked over 12,000 donors and a stream of loving messages.

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We know by the ground

My beloved Waterson-Carthys—Martin, Norma, and Eliza—have been struggling to survive the pandemic. Martin and Eliza, like so many other traveling musicians in these plague years, cannot tour. Norma, may the earth and heavens preserve her, has been too frail to work for some years, and is now in hospital. Please keep her in the light.

They've been persuaded by friends to set up a fund-raiser.  The Grauniad has taken up their cause, and within 36 hours, over 8209 folkies have given.


There's our wassail boys growing weary and cold.
Drop a bit of small silver into our old bowl

I've known and loved them for over 40 years now.  They are my muses, the wellspring and the living waters of the folk revival.  If you've ever loved a folk song or a ballad, or the stories that they tell, please give.


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At the crossroads

Such a friendly sphinx!

Loving the snow.

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Open the West gate and let the Old Year go

Residue sing Residue, the water and the wine,
Seven bright gold wires and the trumpets that shine.

Here comes the maiden with gold on her toe;
Open the West gate and let the Old Year go.

Here comes the maiden with gold on her shoe;
Open the South gate and let the New Year through.

Here comes the maiden with gold on her chin;
Open the East gate and let the New Year in.

Here comes the maiden with gold in her eye;
Open the North gate and let the Old Year by.

 

Gladly.  Avaunt 2021!

Here's to a happier, healthier, saner 2022 for all of us.

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"His wings as drifted snow, his eyes as flame..."

 A very pleasant Christmas Day with Fox and family.  In all my long years, I'd never hosted such a gathering, but I improvised a tree (or rather a bough) decked with trinkets; built a glorious fire; set out cakes; overstuffed a stocking (cute socks, a Slinky, an orange at the toe).  We made new ornaments with origami paper; played with Fox's new board game, did his new puzzle; looked through my kaleidoscopes; spun my hologram disc; sang along to carols.

This winter, I've been conducting quests in my basement, seeding storerooms with costume jewelry, keys to other rooms, an old metronome (the Time Traveller).  They are peopled with Snow Plow and Pipe (oracles); the Rock that must be propitiated, and the Bear Chair, who must be quelled, caged with an old clothes horse.  I hadn't set up a story for today, but Fox led me.  Pouncing on a curled-up paper, he cried, "An ancient scroll!  The words of power have been washed away."  A broken bike reflector was a Button of great power.  Rolls of wrapping paper were (of course) treasure maps, and their tubes became swords and quarterstaffs.  We all fought a great battle, up to the roof and down to the basement, until the grownups' swords were mere drooping curls of cardboard.

Then we went back to the tree, and Fox asked me to make a new ornament that said "Adventure Awaits in the Dungeon Dimension."

Hope all of you spent pleasant days, quiet or convivial or both, with those you love.

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This means War!

 My home has been invaded by a plague of mice, who are eating my books.  This means War!  I've had the exterminator in, and every corner is abristle with alluring poisons, springed peanut butter, and peppermint oil.  I am sorry, gentler folk.  Wee, sleekit, tim'rous, cow'ring beasties who saw-edge my first editions and chew the fringes of my heirloom carpet get no mercy from me.

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Lightfast

 Wishing you joy at the sun returning!

Or else, O you antipodeans, at the tempering of his fury.

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Cloud-capped

The Matter of Cloud is now up at Uncanny Magazine.  Greer Gilman talks with Sofia Samatar about her words, her world and its creation.
We loved doing this.  I hope you enjoy reading it!
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ambigrammatical

Weird decade, the 70s. Backward is forward now. I had a strange dream last night that I was undergoing an ineluctable, unwanted upgrade to my operating system, with all the aches and pains of old age being installed.  They say you never actually taste or feel things in dreams, but my (as yet undamaged) knee hurt.
Ah well.  Better over the hill than under it.

I’m doing this birthday as a patchwork of events.  I share the day (though not the year) with my dear friend B., and I went to a small party for her 80th, with all the windows wide open, a Renaissance/Baroque brass ensemble, cake and champagne.  That was glorious. Tomorrow, I'm having dinner with another dear friend, and on Saturday (d.v.), B. and I are exchanging presents.  She is the best opener of new books that I know, and I’ve hoarded some beauties for her, on Egyptology, Arabic script, bibliophilia.

I love that 12/2/21 is palindromic and ambigrammatical.

Fox and I have been playing at quests in the park, past the albino crocodiles of the crossing, and down into my basement.  One of my bluegreen shirts has become the Cloak of Invisibility; someone's discarded furniture, the Bear Chair; and the snow blower, an oracle.  So far, we’ve achieved the Amethyst Crown, a Time-Traveller (old-fashioned pyramidal metronome). and the Wicked Witch’s broom.  This week, I’m thinking of hiding some flashy costume jewelry.

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