Some very (very) casual/crappy development sketches for a potential project set during WWII. The girl is way too timid-looking! But it was a lot of fun to draw some Rosie the Riveter-type ladies.
I feel like I have about six different irons in the fire right now, and I have no idea which ones are the most important to attend to (after getting books mailed out, that is). I’m not used to this stuff being My Actual Work – no matter what I pick to settle down and fiddle with, my brain keeps telling me “YOU SHOULD BE DOING REAL WORK RIGHT NOW!”
I figure I’ll get over it soon enough, but boy, is it ever disorienting.
No wild tip-offs in this page: but some useful insight into who the Rector is. Also: lots of dead stuff! Yay dead stuff!
Next week: what the Rector was doing in between Universities. (Wild tip-offs: possible.)
Notes for pages 131-140 will go up this weekend, per tradition. Rather than spending my evening seeing Star Trek a second time with my friends, I spent it researching the history of wig-powdering and Reform theology. I can’t tell if this makes me more, or less, of a total dweeb.
Other news: I am finally well(ish), so shipments of Bite Me! are now going out at a regular clip. I hope to work my way up to present-day on domestic orders very soon, and then send out stuff to all you international types in one big orgy of customs forms.
Thank you to everybody who’s ordered the book! It’s been a lot of fun sending it out into the world.
A Refusal To Mourn The Death, By Fire, Of A Child In London
Never until the mankind making
Bird beast and flower
Fathering and all humbling darkness
Tells with silence the last light breaking
And the still hour
Is come of the sea tumbling in harness
And I must enter again the round
Zion of the water bead
And the synagogue of the ear of corn
Shall I let pray the shadow of a sound
Or sow my salt seed
In the least valley of sackcloth to mourn
The majesty and burning of the child’s death.
I shall not murder
The mankind of her going with a grave truth
Nor blaspheme down the stations of the breath
With any further
Elegy of innocence and youth.
Deep with the first dead lies London’s daughter,
Robed in the long friends,
The grains beyond age, the dark veins of her mother,
Secret by the unmourning water
Of the riding Thames.
After the first death, there is no other.
Dylan Thomas
The gents continue their conversation. Welcome to the junk room of the Rector’s Mansion! The Enlightenment, she produced a lot of bric-a-brac. I suspect this room contains a lot of dubious gifts from various University patrons looking to unload their weird collections.
In the daylight it just looks like a room full of crap. At night: atmosphere!
Next week: it’s time for a new round of notes! At last, you will know why Luther’s joke was funny. (To him, at least.)
