The small things that delay us

Heh. I am sitting here - in Borderlands cafe in SF, yay! I love this place - virtuously at work, typing, describing, discovering: and suddenly stalling, because words. Words are difficult, people.

Consider the dragonfly. Consider the dragonfly trying to fit into a tube too narrow. It can't do that; its wingspan is too wide. Type "its wingspan was too wide."

But wait! Its wingspan makes the creature too wide, yes. But is width a measurement of wingspan? Is wingspan a measurement of width? The width of a wing is the shorter measurement, front to back; from tip to root is its length. Is that the span? "Its wingspan was too long" - oh lawks, that just sounds wrong. And now everything sounds wrong.

*flees to the internet for succour*

Well, golly

Note that for each cubic centimeter (cc) of water added to the mold 16,000 cc of steam is produced.

That's a lot of steam, I am just sayin'.

[Yes, yes, O internets; I have totally moved on from the span of a dragonfly's wings. It was never a dragonfly anyway, and anyway: we are now into methods and finishes of cast iron, because machines. Not steam engines! And not actually cast iron either, but a man draws what similes he may, to tie the incomprehensible back to what he has.]

[Also, other reasons I like being here in Borderlands: already today I have chatted to Rina Weisman about SF in SF (where I am reading! this month! with Laura Anne Gilman! and if you keep an eye on this spot, I will announce the date no doubt when I know it, or when m'wife nudges me with the necessary data) and to Seanan McGuire about blurbs and cupcakes and cons and whatever else may have come to mind. And I can still be here another hour, before I must leave to seek the pale enchanted gold m'wife at a bus stop; who knows what other cool people may yet blow by my table, all unannounced?]