Feb. 17th, 2016

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And the house shall be filled with the scent of the orange, as the waters cover the sea.

[Q: if waters don't cover the sea, in what sense is it actually, y'know, sea? My own feeling is that waters are integral, at least on this planet.]

In other news, thank you, I am feeling better than yesterday. I have been mooching about the house and garden, doing stuff that should have been done before: making marmalade #1, yes, and planning marmalade #2. And mixing dough for refrigerator bread (yes, yes, all right, the recipe is coming, I swear it) and laying out a border at one edge of the lawn (where actually I had far rather the flowers just tumbled into the grass with no hint of demarcation, but we have yard guys with machines, and we learned last year that they will ruthlessly mow anything not actually fenced off from the grass, O my California poppies, O my heart's delight...).

And, intermediately, getting back to A E Housman on Mars. This one's hard. Hell, they're all hard, but this one's harder. Though it does throw up lines I love:

And now here he was, this boy, leggy as an apple-ladder, tender as apple-blossom

And now there it is, that line, bobbing about like an apple in a barrel of water, only waiting for me to sink narrative teeth in to anchor it somewhere.

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