"If you're going to call yourself a Gryffindor," I told myself this week, "you should be brave enough to drive around Seattle by yourself. You have a license, a car, fourteen-plus-years of experience, and no excuse."
It's not the first thing I've convinced myself to do by appealing to House loyalty. And since I survived it, it probably won't be the last.
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Favorite part of the Harry Potter museum exhibit, which has two days remaining in Seattle: throwing a Quaffle, without hitting anyone in the head. Better yet, I actually got it through the near hoop, which was approximately three feet from my face. I considered trying again for the far one, which might have been six feet away, but there were young boys behind me and I thought they should get their chance at the fun. They did have fun. The Quaffles went all around the room.
I'll save comments on other details from the exhibit, since such things really belong at The Hog's Head (unfortunately, it'll probably take a few days before I can get them up there. Busy weekends...) But I'm glad I made the trip.
Of course, the very concept of an exhibit of artifacts from the Potter tales is a two-sided coin for me. Sort of like the idea of touring England. Sure, I'd love to someday visit the country from whence came so many of my favorite stories. But those stories have made England a land of magic and myth to me, a liminal place where one can cross thresholds to Narnia and Middle-Earth and Austen's parlors and the Wizarding World. If I went, I'd only see the England part—with half a cart soldered into a barrier at King's Cross Station, and wardrobes with hard wood for backs. And it seems likely that not many of the ladies will dress like the Miss Bennets, and that quite a few of the gentlemen will have laid down their swords and chivalry for computer cases and coarse language.
Not that it wouldn't be fun, simply as England. It's just hard to top Hogwarts and Cair Paravel.
But there in the museum, I caught a glimpse of the other world when I stared into Buckbeak's face and blinked without thinking. He didn't move. Oh yeah, I thought, maybe I'd better back away now...
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Taking Thursdays off my blog might just prove itself a wise decision. I actually put some structured, undistracted time into working on my book yesterday, even with a busy afternoon and evening.
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Writers' link of the week: Joseph Finder on the writing desks of champions. Maybe I should write standing, like Nabokov, instead of curled up on the couch with both cat and computer on my lap.
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Quote of the week: "That anyone at all in the world would set their sad heart and tired hands to working beauty out of chaos is a monument to Grace."—Andrew Peterson, Adorning the Dark: An Artist's Benediction
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Music of the week: At writers' group, we worked from a prompt that asked us to take the first line from our favorite song and write a story using that as the first line. I wasn't sure what my favorite song was. But this one came to mind.
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This, to be exact, is more fantastic than funny, but I'll give it the funny's place this week. Here is my friend Jana's brief poem on punctuation.
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And now I have dinner to make, and an evening of quieter activities. Happy weekend.
Actually, platforms 9, 10, & (I think) 11 at King's Cross Station are all under construction. So you can't even see the soldered half-cart. Just lots of chain-link fencing, blue tarps, and dust.ReplyDelete
Yes, it was depressing.
Nabokov is sort of like Elvis--he was really good at it, but the problem is when everyone starts imitating...
I'd say, keep to the couch and the cat.
Under construction? Ah... that would definitely be a shock to one's liminal sensibilities.ReplyDelete
I'm pretty sure I couldn't--er, stand writing on my feet. Not for extended periods of time. Besides, I couldn't disappoint Maia like that. :)