Wassail, traveler, and welcome to The Gable Grey -- a place of retreat, of renewal, and of resistance: a tree-shaded refuge in Dark Times. Now pass the threshold, and rest from journeys! For a cold wind is blowing; and here, if you wish, you may hear tidings of the world without...

Friday, September 7, 2007

Awhile ago...

The storied First Post... it is as difficult to begin this as it is to write the first line of a story. I wonder if I will be able to contribute enough to keep this viable, and who it will benefit. I never was one to keep a journal, as romantic as such a thing is made out to be for writers to do. Keeping a journal is usually merely a distraction for the writer from his art; and I have many distractions these days to keep me from Ramandyra, where so many of my stories and dreams take place. Above, another distraction: my daughter, Belle, and my dogs: Beulah and Earl, our Basset Hounds, and young Misha, our Siberian Husky. They will keep me busy today, lovingly busy, while I am home and my wife Adrienne is at work. I doubt much, if any, writing will be done today. It is difficult to visualize realms of Fantasy and Faerie, or even the wide world beyond the borders of my little land to which I have withdrawn nowadays. But it will happen, it must happen; my writing is all I have left to give the world now. How I will restart my writing life, I am not sure; but I am working on it. Ah, now I am being called away already; little hands tugging at my arm.
Breakfast, and another day. Will it be much different than yesterday, I wonder?

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Whiles carried o'er the iron road,
We hurry by some fair abode;
The garden bright amidst the hay,
The yellow wain upon the way,
The dining men, the wind that sweeps
Light locks from off the sun-sweet heaps --
The gable grey, the hoary roof,
Here now -- and now so far aloof.
How sorely then we long to stay
And midst its sweetness wear the day,
And 'neath its changing shadows sit,
And feel ourselves a part of it.
Such rest, such stay, I strove to win
With these same leaves that lie herein.

-- William Morris, from
"The Roots of the Mountains"