second coming

I had lunch with Spence today - he's one of the friends I saw for the first time in a while at Red's funeral. The one who told L every story about me he could remember in the five minutes I left them alone together. To be fair, it was probably a joint effort, but I'm sure he was the instigator. 

We talked, about a lot of things. People and things we remember. Strange times. He said he didn't really talk to anyone when he got back either, including his wife. I gather they're doing a little better now. 

He came along with me to pick up Sherlock, but ditched me when he saw the tidal wave of children coming toward us...heh. Something about having to do the shopping. Excuses, excuses. I took Sherlock to kung fu. He's learning to do this jump kick where you turn all the way around in mid-air and then inflict grievous bodily harm on the foam pad someone's holding for you. They're encouraged to yell while doing it. Quite an impressive sight.

On the way home, he asked me why I was sad. I told him I'd been thinking about people I miss. "Like I miss Grand-mère?" he said. Yes, like that. "People shouldn't die," he said. "It's not right." Leaving aside the difficulties of overpopulation, sometimes I agree. Sometimes not.

And then, perhaps inevitably, we talked about zombies.

-

The Second Coming

William Butler Yeats

the lady of shalott

I'm tired, and extremely full of pie - still - so this will be short, apart from the poem, which is long. 

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, we had to pick something to memorise and recite in class, and I did Resume, by Dorothy Parker, which you can look up  or find in the comments of the previous post. It was...not well received. It deals with methods of suicide in a more lighthearted manner than my teacher felt was appropriate. My parents were called, I had to see the headmaster, etc etc... Despite the fact that Parker was, as I insisted repeatedly, a 'real, famous poet'. 

I'd got it out of one of my mother's books, and my parents were, for once, on my side, and the only punishment I got in the end was to pick a different poem. I picked this one, primarily because it was the longest one in our book. I recited it as slowly as humanly possible. It took up nearly half the class. I also completely alienated that teacher completely, which made the rest of the year rather unpleasant. Still, no regrets. And I do like the poem. It's very peaceful. 

-

The Lady of Shalott 
Tennyson

bee-scuits

Sherlock and Lestrade's creation of the day, bee biscuits. Or, as Lestrade insists, bee-scuits:

With chocolate wings, legs, and stinger, of course. Unlike actual bees, they are delicious. 

The off road place was good. I definitely still have mud in unexpected places, but if that and a few bruises are the worst price we pay for getting to act like complete lunatics for a few hours, I'd say it's more than worth it. 

Sherlock had a ride on the back of L's bike again...he's almost there. Just a touch unstable still. Not quite enough length in his legs, but since he's growing like kudzu, I don't think it'll be too much longer. 

I watched Mycroft go around the track by himself and thought about my father's reaction when I asked him to teach me how to drive: an aghast look, accompanied by a demand to know how old I thought I was. He knew, of course, so I can only assume it was the shock talking. I can sort of understand it now, when I realise that Mycroft will be old enough to have his own bike in a very few years. 

I'm getting into an odd place with the poetry, where the only ones that leap to mind are ones that I suspect will seem vaguely depressing to everyone else and inappropriate for happy posts involving bee-scuits, but that I personally find amusing or hopeful. I'm also trying hard not to make this Millay Month, but nevertheless... 

Spring

Edna St Vincent Millay

departure

Today Sherlock and I worked on his bee innards and looked at a lot of pictures of bee wings, close up. I also answered the question 'When is Mycroft coming home?' roughly 5000 times. He is home, at last. He and Sherlock spent a little time on the bees before Sherlock decided to make off with L's Murder Investigation Manual, and he also showed us all this:

More about it here: http://calebcharland.com/energy-from-a-single-orange/

Which is pretty amazing, I think you'll agree. The orange is powering the LED that's lighting it up from inside. Sherlock wants to make one. 

-

Departure

Edna St Vincent Millay

hope is the thing with feathers

I went to see Lestrade play his guitar at a very small pub tonight. Last night, technically. I was under strict instructions to not do anything whatsoever - applaud wildly? Fling various items of clothing at the stage? Not sure what he had in mind. I behaved with perfect decorum but was still accused of looking 'soppy'... Well, he might've had a point. Couldn't help it. I really do think he's amazing and was so pleased and proud to be there with him. 

Sometimes I wonder how things would've gone if we'd met years and years ago, when I was in med school and he was still in his band. Really poorly, probably, when I think back on most of my relationships. And that's assuming I got up the nerve to talk to him at all; also unlikely back then. 

On nights like this, it's possible to believe that sometimes things really do turn out for the best. 

-

Hope is the thing with feathers

Emily Dickinson

purple bougainvillea vine

Our day was, as L said, lovely. We were awakened at a semi-godly hour, and I got to stay in bed a bit longer while L and Sherlock did ill advised things with cheese on toast and calculated the speed of light, all before breakfast. Took Sherlock to school. He likes L going with us because he'll let Sherlock ride on his shoulders. It gives Sherlock a chance to see over garden walls and mimic L's hand gestures while L can't see. It's a good show. 

Got home, had a semi-healthy breakfast, by which I mean that although it contained bacon, it didn't contain pancakes, and lay about on the couch for about an hour saying we should do something. Nice to have the time for that, for once. 

Then a slightly chilly bike ride with random pub lunch - just pulled over and took a chance, as people did before the days of the internet. The food was good, but there were some people talking about Arsenal...in ways that L did not approve of. Thought we might have to leave early for a few minutes there... 

-

Purple Bougainvillea Vine

Don Blanding

the listeners

Despite Federer losing last night, I had an absolutely amazing time at the tennis with L. Being there makes all the difference. The seats were closer than I've ever been to the court at a tennis match; I was afraid to ask what he spent on them. It was incredibly kind and thoughtful of him, not just to arrange it, but to go and sit through two and a half hours of a sport I know he doesn't really care for! Must be love. 

And whatever he tells you, I did not get Federer to sign any part of my body. 

The poem today doesn't fit with the post at all, I realise, but I was thinking about it on the way home last night with us out later than usual and the streets relatively quiet (for London). 

-

The Listeners

Water de la Mare

driftwood

Tonight is the World Tour Final...final. It's Federer and Djokovic, here in London, which means I've gone another year without managing to see him at this one or Wimbledon. With Wimbledon, I have some excuse, but it's fairly easy to get tickets to the WTF, at least for the earlier rounds. I suppose I don't need to worry since he's now saying he might play at the next Olympics as well... I assume he's not serious, but with Federer, who knows? He is, as Nadal once said, from another planet.

And apparently I wasn't the only one thinking of Red yesterday. I got a call from Spence this morning...as well as a series of drunken texts from Murray around 3am his time, asking me if I remembered the time Red decided he was going to save the bottle cap off of every water bottle he drank while he was over there, and did I know what had happened to them. (I do know - he was ordered to get rid of them, because within a week there were so many he was having to hide them in other people's packs without their knowledge, so that when they stopped to get something out, a waterfall of white plastic caps would flow out...)

Today's poem...Don Blanding isn't someone you'll find taught in any school, I'm pretty sure, but I like him. He lived in Hawaii, wrote mostly in the 1920s and 30s, and a lot of his poems are about that, or about his travels.


Driftwood
Don Blanding

into my heart an air that kills

I don't have a post for this day two years ago, but I remember how I spent it. Indoors, staring at the wall, feeling sorry for myself. At the time it seemed like the only choice I had. And yet I knew Red was in London. I could've called him easily enough. I remember thinking it was his leave and he should see his family and I didn't want to bring him down.

So I didn't call him, and a few days later I was in Devon, and soon enough he was back in Afghanistan.  I never saw him again.

When I started this post I meant to write about how I met him. It's a good story and more cheerful than this, but I can't seem to do it. Maybe another day.

Into my heart an air that kills

A. E. Housman

miniver cheevy

I almost did Richard Cory instead of this one. It's better known and I suspect better thought of. But I like Miniver Cheevy. It makes me think of Harry. She wanted to be a knight when we were kids. I always had to be the dragon. 

And I feel like this should be longer, but it's been a long day and I've got a headache, so...the end.

Miniver Cheevy
E.A. Robinson

the guest house

On Tuesday, I went to see Dr E. It was mainly getting reacquainted, or perhaps I should acquainted for the first time, given how resistant I was to actually telling her anything before. I'm not terribly keen on it now, but I've realised that there are worse things. 

She asked what I wanted to get out of it. I said a lot of things, but what I came to in the end was that it would be good to be able to initiate difficult talks with L without making him feel like it's solely for his benefit, which I think I do. Maybe not intentionally, or at least not with conscious intention, but it's still not good. So. There's that to start with. 

From here: "This tractography image was made to help the neurosurgeon to choose the right approach for his neurosurgical planning. The surgery was at risk of damaging the visual field, as well as damaging complex sensory and visuospatial functions such as orientation in space, perception and motor functions."

The Guest House 

Rumi

translated by Coleman Barks

tu fu to li po

After school:

"John, can we go see the dinosaurs?"

"Do you have homework to do?"

"Maybe." 

"Maybe?"

"If I say I do, are you going to say no to dinosaurs?"

He's getting sneakier...but not a lot sneakier. You can guess how that one turned out. There was also no to swimming, jumping in ponds, getting ice cream (isn't it past ice cream season?), buying bats to keep as pets, going immediately to the zoo to satisfy a sudden bat craving, going to the library to look up everything on bats instead of doing homework, no, not even if he did a report on bats because I don't think Mrs N would consider it an adequate replacement for fractions. Polar bears and making a video of him baking cake: also not a replacement for fractions. 

When I said we could probably go to the library after he did his homework, he said: "Instead of is way more fun than after." So often true. 

-

I'm not entirely sure that Carolyn Kizer actually wrote this; I've seen different attributions, and I've never seen the poem anywhere but online, despite my best attempts to find out what books it's in. I think it's her though. 

Tu Fu (or Du Fu (I don't know which version of their names is more correct)) and Li Po (or Li Bai) were 8th century Chinese poets. 

Tu Fu to Li Po

Carolyn Kizer

upon a peak in darien

This one I would probably never have read if it hadn't been quoted at the beginning of Swallows and Amazons, which caused me to look it up. I remember being slightly disappointed when I found out he was only talking about reading a translation of Homer, and then still more disappointed when I tried to read the Iliad. (Hint: it's better when you're not seven.) 

And that's all I have today... I was going to post about going to see Dr E, but I find I need to think about it for another day. 

On First Looking into Chapman's Homer
John Keats

at noontime

Sherlock's class did their reports and floated their boats on the pond today. He was happy enough with his boat last night, but when I picked him up, he'd hidden it somewhere in the classroom and wouldn't tell Mrs N where, so we had a chat about that. He produced it, finally, from behind a bookcase and shoved it in the bottom of his bag. A couple of the other kids came up with things he wished he'd thought of, apparently.

I tried to explain that that didn't make his bad - I thought it was very nice, especially for someone who'd never tried carving anything before - and L tried to introduce the concept of telling the other kids he thought their boats were good... Not sure how well either of us did. I suppose we'll see. Makes a change from him being impatient with everyone who's not picking things up as quickly as him, at least.



At Noontime
Sappho
translated by Mary Barnard

siege

I'm stealing L's question again, which was: 

what I wish someone had told me when I was 7 and 14, that I'm making sure the boys know now...

Fourteen...that the world was bigger than I thought it was, bigger than I could even understand, then. That things always change, not always for the better, but they always change. That my whole life would not be decided based on my marks at school. 

Seven...that my sister wasn't as horrible as I thought she was and that she had her own problems, and so did my parents. That very little of what happened between them was my fault. 

I don't know if those are really things Sherlock and Mycroft need to know, or, if they are, if I'm getting them across. I think they're both more grown up and aware of the world than I was at those ages. 

Siege

Edna St Vincent Millay

modern declaration

I found this while I was looking up another poem of hers to make sure I had it right. I'd never seen this one before. She wrote it during World War II. Good time to find it, I think. 

Modern Declaration

Edna St Vincent Millay

spring and fall

More poetry...I feel I'm getting off lightly here while Lestrade comes up with actual posts, but I am enjoying it. I'll answer the question he did today as well, which was what he'd like to learn that he hasn't yet. 

I'd like to learn to cook, like he does, by just looking at food and knowing how it goes together and what cooking method suits it. I can just about get by these days if I follow a recipe, but it's not the same. 

I remember making something that called for six sage leaves and having ten or so left in the package. Lestrade said to just put them all in and use them up, and I said, 'But it only calls for six! Six is not ten!' I still get slightly irrational when I try to cook. 

I think I'd like to be able to write fiction some day too. 

Spring and Fall: to a Young Child
Gerard Manley Hopkins

the bearer of evil tidings

Kestrel suggested poetry, which I could probably do all month, though I'll try not to. I know it's not everyone's thing. This is the first one I memorised, partly because I thought it was funny, but mostly because Harry said it was too long and I'd never be able to remember it. I was eight, I think. 

New words I learned from it: bower, discreet, mandates, divine.

Other things I've done primarily because Harry said I couldn't, or wouldn't dare: jumped in Lake Windermere with all my clothes on, stole a teacher's hairpiece, spent the night in a supposedly haunted house... On the whole, this one probably turned out the best. Or at least got me in the least trouble. 

The Bearer of Evil Tidings

Robert Frost 

every day??

L is doing the posting every day thing that we did last November. I suppose I'll make the attempt as well (no promises). I feel singularly uninspired recently though, so I'll need your help. Questions? Post topics? Anything?

Do you think they let people get married in that bombed out church L likes?

Also, I have an appointment with Dr E next week, which L may or may not attend, as he likes. We'll see how that goes. When I rang her she seemed to think I must've fallen into some sort of deep and desperate depression and was rather surprised when I explained. I told her it served her right for not keeping up with my blog... 

science!

More here. I thought Sherlock would like these and probably some of you will too. 

I had a dream last night that I'd asked L to marry me and he said yes, and then I woke up and I had to wake him up to make sure it wasn't just a dream...very peculiar. 

Mrs Holmes rang me today to congratulate us and offer to send us to Antartica for our honeymoon. It's sometimes quite difficult to tell when she's joking. 

Did you know they make wood wedding bands? I didn't know that until today. 

Nicky - I don't think I ever answered your comment on L's blog, and I'm sorry. I thought my answer very hard at you, which I realise I've been doing more and more lately. (Note to self: telepathy still doesn't work.) Thank you. You and your family have been so kind and welcoming to me and Mycroft and Sherlock right from the beginning, and it means a lot to all of us. I hope we'll see all of you at Christmas. 

Right, I am off to do the shopping and to pick Sherlock up from school. L, let me know if you have anything to add to the following list contributed to by Mrs Hudson, various elderly neighbours, and security:

odd things you think about

Lestrade posted in the comments of his blog about thinking when he was a kid that the sensation of his heart beating was caused by it swinging back and forth on a pendulum. It made me think about some of the strange notions we get when we're young.

L posted a picture of me long ago, in a post far, far away (that I cannot find). I was four or five, I think, and wearing a suit for my great uncle's funeral. I barely knew him and wasn't too upset about it, but I absolutely refused to go up and see him in the coffin with my parents and Harry. They all thought it was because he was dead, but that part didn't bother me. I wouldn't go because I was convinced he would be naked.

No idea where I came up with that. I suppose it makes sense in an odd way that you'd be buried in the same state in which you were born, and I wasn't old enough to realise that his friends and family would not want to see that. I would tell my parents why either, because I thought they'd say something along the lines of, 'Well of course he's naked! That's just the way it is, come along.' And then I'd have to go. So I wouldn't explain and instead, I seem to remember, hid under a table.

amazeballs

The post's title is Carla's reaction when we told Nicky and her family the news. I think that sums up my reaction pretty well, too. If you haven't heard, go and check L's blog.

No, I mean it, go. He tells it better than I do.

on the way

Lestrade's driving. Mycroft and Sherlock are glaring at each other in the back seat. Sherlock spent ten minutes poking Mycroft, and I didn't notice until Mycroft finally lost his calm and stuck a wad of gum to Sherlock's forehead.

Gum has been removed and Sherlock has been told to keep his hands to himself. I'm having flashbacks to car trips with my parents and Harry. Except Harry stuck the gum to the top of my head, and I ended up with almost no hair after mum was done cutting it.

I think we'd better stop and eat soon. Food always helps in these situations, and those two are meant to be sharing a tent tonight. A tent room. I'm still not used to tents having rooms. When did that start happening anyway? At what point did some tent designer say to themselves, you know, I think this tent needs to be more like a house? Let's add a kitchen and some statuary. Impractical? Oh, maybe just another room then. 

fully equipped

We now have enough cold weather gear to launch an expedition to the North Pole, although Sherlock has pointed out that we should wait until we've baked biscuits because when we get to the North Pole, we'll want them to celebrate with. I told him I didn't think they'd last that long. He said he'd make extra. I also got a hoodie, so I can test it vs jumpers and prove L wrong.

I know it hasn't been that long, but I feel sure Mycroft has grown since the last time we saw him. Lestrade was joking about him being taller than I am, but honestly it's not going to be that much longer.  He's far more grown up and dignified than I was at fourteen. We got sushi today, and he uses chopsticks like he's been doing it his whole life. That sounds silly when I write it out, but at the time all I could think was that he's growing up so fast.

 He's brought home a computer game called Minecraft where you build things out of blocks, which makes it sound like a game for small children, but you can build literally anything you can think of and there's some sort of wiring system and...I'm really not sure. He thinks he can make a computer in it. And he's helping Sherlock build his boat virtually before building it in reality.

We're now awaiting L's presence for biscuit creation, and I'm simmering the beef and broccoli thing, which ought to be done by the time the biscuits are. 

enormous jacket

Since L has said he doesn't mind... 

I like it because he looks so happy. Thanks, Nicky. 

Sherlock's class are building boats to sail on the pond - one or two at a time, I presume, or there are going to be shipwrecks. They're meant to choose a historical or fictional boat/ship and do a report on it in addition to the actual building. Sherlock already has a list of about ten. 

Got the following text from Anthea today: will be taking time off whenever you madmen are going camping in the freezing cold, so let me know. It's going to be fun though, honestly! 

leaves

I think someone asked if Sherlock's half term dates are the same as Mycroft's and I never answered, but they are. Sherlock's plans are becoming ever wilder. If it were left entirely up to him, I think we'd be climbing Everest over the weekend, followed by a short jaunt to the Amazon basin in the week. I'm not sure we'll be going anywhere at all, but I'm sure we'll have fun. It'll be great having him home.

Lestrade brought me home flowers last night because he's the sweetest man alive. White roses and green chrysanthemums, the kind with the extra long petals. There's probably a name for them, but you'd have to ask Greg the florist. They're lovely, and sitting in a slightly wonky vase on the table. It's white and chipped, and I don't actually know where it came from. Maybe it's Mrs Hudson's. The only vase we had whose origin I was certain of is the one I got cracked over the head with.

It's funny how things just appear like that. Not something I'm used to, like having a fixed address and more than two pairs of shoes.

Lestrade, let me know if you want to get lunch or something? And then I've been advised that I'm not too old to jump in piles of leaves in the park with Sherlock, so I expect we'll be doing that after school. 

normality, or something similar

Lestrade's at work. There wasn't enough time to cook dinner before he had to go so we sent him off with sandwiches and spider biscuits, and now Sherlock and I are making breakfast-dinner, with eggs and pancakes and bacon. It'll be good if I don't burn anything. Sherlock says he'll keep an eye on me. The spider biscuits will keep eight eyes on me.

L and I had a long walk around the park and a talk, during which neither of us cried in public, though it was a close thing once or twice. I'll leave him to tell what he said if he wants to, later. I don't think anyone here will be particularly surprised to learn that I feel responsible for not stopping what happened to him, for not getting him back sooner. I know that makes no sense. Knowing it doesn't help.

More than that though, I could feel this distance between us when he got back, and that was... I didn't know how to fix it, or change it at all, didn't understand why it was there, and all I could think was what if it got worse and I somehow lost him over this even after we got him back. So that was terrifying.

I think we're moving past that now though. At least I hope so. Still trying to work out how it happened, and I think it's at least partly the assumptions we make about each other. I think a lot of the time L expects I won't want to talk and tries to respect that and I assume he'll do the talking when he's ready and...yeah. Turns into a bit of a mess.

He said in one of the comments on my last post that he didn't mean to make me feel like his way of coping is better than mine, but I think pretty much the entire world and certainly all mental health professionals prefer talking to silence. I need to do better there.

And now if you'll excuse me, I think my bacon may be smoking. 

sleep's dull knife

Dire sounding subject line is actually from the most cheerful-insomnia related poem I know:

Cut if you will with sleep's dull knife
each day to half its length, my friend. 
The years that time takes off my life
he'll take from the other end! 

It's either Edna St Vincent Millay or Dorothy Parker. I can't remember. Also, accuracy not guaranteed, it's very late.

I was already up and getting some water when Sherlock came and found me in the kitchen. He'd had a nightmare about giant skeletons clattering up the stairs, and he said the worst part was that they never got there, they just kept coming up forever and he had to wait for them. I can sympathise.

I made him some warm milk, which he declared acceptable but not as good as Lestrade's, and stayed with him until he fell asleep again. He didn't ask to come back to bed with us, which I hope is a good sign. Might let him stay home again tomorrow if he wants to, we'll see. I think he's ready for school again though.

Work, thankfully, is not yet ready for Lestrade. I hope not for at least a few more days. He might be all right to go back, but I'm not sure I am. 

bad news

We got another envelope. It had the same bug stickers as the one from Sherlock's 'birthday card' did. This one was hand delivered. Not, I think, by the person who took the photos. Just a kid, maybe sixteen or seventeen. I asked him to wait because we'd had trouble with a stalker, and he said he thought the man who gave him the envelope was 'kinda creeptastic' but that he'd given him twenty quid.

I thought it would just be more photos, and there were photos - the three of us at the zoo. There was also a note. It said to enjoy the pictures since it was the last we'd see of Lestrade. I can't get him on the phone or by email or text. I've called Sally, and Anthea's bringing Mycroft home.

I...don't know what else to say. 

latibulize

From the list of words that wolf-were provided:

Latibulize v.

To hibernate. Function of a teenager during that part of the morning when papers are being brought in, cats being fed, garbage cans put out, digital clocks being reset after overnight power failures, etc., etc.

Also what Lestrade and I did briefly today after dropping Sherlock off at school, going for a run, etc. That's et cetera as in 'and so on' not as in anything else. We went back to bed, and I went back to sleep, which must've been fairly boring for Lestrade, but he took it well. No reflection on you, L. The past few nights haven't gone well, that's all. Maybe I should switch to decaf too.

I wonder if the last part of the above definition will ever apply to Sherlock. It seems incredibly unlikely, but surely it must happen to everyone? I've never known a teenager who springs out of bed at five in the morning unless the alternative is being discovered by their girlfriend/boyfriend's parents.

I wonder how large a part that played in the creation of boarding schools. 'Let's put them all together where they can't get into so much trouble!' Except, having known boys who went to boarding schools, I'm well aware that they can and do.

Speaking of which - the schools, not the trouble - Mycroft texted to say we could come and visit on Saturday if we wanted to, which of course we do, so that'll be nice. We can bring him the leftover biscuits and scones from tea, of which I imagine there will be several thousand. 

after school special

Mrs N asked to speak to me when I picked Sherlock up today. She's coming to tea on Friday. Sherlock has apparently promised her baked Alaska, which I don't think is going to happen, but I imagine we can at least provide brownies or chocolate swirl biscuits or something.

He was a chimpanzee on the way home. On the whole I prefer elephants, since they very rarely try to climb up you while you're waiting for the light to change.

Sherlock: Chimpanzees fling poo.

Me: No.

Sherlock: They do, I saw them!

Me: I mean, no, your chimpanzee impression does not need that level of verisimilitude.

There is no more reliable way to distract him than with new words, but I'm going to run out eventually.