Scandinavian archaeology, history, skepticism, books and music
August Pieces Of My Mind #1
I just meta-mimed singing into my electric shaver. I wasn’t miming singing. I was miming someone in a movie who mimes singing.
Family spooked at one in the morning because a burst of engine noise has been heard. Have burglars arrived at the island? Nope, no strange boat at the dock. Investigation reveals that Jrette has just pulled down the wobbly 80s roller blind in her bedroom: duggah duggah duggah. Oh well, we got to see the Milky Way and several meteors.
Bon Iver’s song “Re: Stacks” name-checks the Dead Sea Scrolls. Folkies in the library basement!
Scored some chocolate from Jrette’s buddy by threatening to stick around their cabin and tell jokes.
Sidney Sime is an amazing artist, similar to Aubrey Beardsley and John Bauer.
Have you noticed that in addition to the front door, you can also reach Earth’s Dreamlands by following a tribe of ghouls into a tomb and beyond?
Les ans d’un golem en Angoulême.
Maurice Lévy consistently calls the fish-folk of Innsmouth shoggoths and has no word for the shapeless horrors of the Antarctic.
I’ve realised that there’s a type of ploughed site where I do not, unusually for me, think amateur detectorists should operate unsupervised: battlefields.
Movie: Source Code. Groundhog Day with a terrorist bomb plot. Grade: Pass With Distinction.
Don’t know if my unwillingness to watch video clips of talking heads is a generational thing / personal quirk. Gimme text. No time to watch.
When you’ve got a many-worlds scenario it’s a pretty useless happy ending to show us one where things went well. By the terms of your own story, there are billions of worlds where the ending was awful for the main characters.
A detectorist told me something beautiful and annoying. When he hands in finds to his county museum, the staff there asks for the identification of the object offered by pros and amateurs on Facebook. Because few county museums have anybody on staff who knows small finds. “They’re very good at sectioning pits and postholes though”, reports my contact.
Maurice Lévy translates both ghoul and vampire into Fr. vampire.
Suddenly dark again in the evenings.
One of the trickier things about French is that the language doesn’t differentiate between “he/him” and “it”. Martin bought a book. He/it was from Denmark.
I’ve agreed to something that’s extremely rare in the more populous parts of modern Sweden, but which was common here a thousand years ago, and which is a matter of course in my wife’s native China. Her nephew from Hangzhou is starting Swedish high school, and we are going to foster him for a year or two. I am effectively gaining a third teenage child who will occupy the room that Junior vacated three years ago when he went to live full time with his mom. I get along well with Cousin E, and I look forward to temping as his dad.