Home & House

thanks!

On Fri, Sep 22, 2017 at 5:10 PM, Kris Howell <aneerieangle@gmail.com> wrote:

I always enjoyed Bardi's A Poem A Day month.  Thanks for putting this poem out here, Llana.  Good luck with the move!!

Kris

On Fri, Sep 22, 2017 at 4:52 AM, Ilana Halupovich <ilana.halupovich@gmail.com> wrote:

By the end of the next month, I am moving. 

First full move since 1984, which means there're tons of things to sift through. 

Remember Tamson House Writers circle?

"When poetry became flat

spread itself like some

ancient sacrifice in

two dimensions

against the page

and floated away

from the poet into

some slippery slide

of meanings

was it then that

love became a verb?

became something

that has to be done

instead of something

still and powerful

and simply there to be.

bardi, November 1999

On Thu, Sep 14, 2017 at 6:57 AM, Opakele <lelogan100@gmail.com> wrote:

Thank you for sharing this news.

Yes.  I have emerged from Lurkdom.

Everett, beautiful tribute.

On Wed, Sep 13, 2017 at 2:26 PM, 'Leslie Valente' via Tamson House <tamson-house@googlegroups.com> wrote:

Heartbreaking. My sorrow to everyone,

Leslie

Sent from my iPad

On Sep 13, 2017, at 9:03 AM, Everett Warren <ellyssian@gmail.com> wrote:

The group files in, very somber, in black tuxedos and bow ties, and takes their position, all in a row, heads bowed as the pipers begin to play.

The bagpipes are made from herring, some of them a wee bit too fresh, others not nearly so.

Most will be consumed by the pipers after, or even during, the performance.  Two or three of them stand, rocking from foot to foot, fish bladder bagpipeless flippers clasping and unclasping in front of them, a sheepish look on their beaks.

They play all the traditional military funeral tunes, several that we might recognize, others, like Shackleton's Departure and Alas, My Love Was Dispatched By A Leopard Seal, from a repertoire most humans are unfamiliar with.

There are words spoken by several birds of high ranking, about how critical a part he played in the planned overthrowing of all humanity, and how, for a double (triple (quadruple (quintuple (well, he always *seemed* to be on our side) ) ) ) agent, he really wasn't a bad sort.

They mention his music, how people miss hearing it, how penguins eat herring to it, how some people really wish they could have shared a stage with him, and how he never had much patience to listen to the shrill cacophany of the herring pipe bands at formal events (it really does go right through even the best hearing protection known to man or waterfowl).

They talk of his Housemates, who have, individually and in small groups, thwarted and enacted so many devious schemes on behalf of and against the penguin empire that many of them have waxwork figures in both the Hall of Heroes and the Villa of Villains, and how that group of friends -- some for decades -- will sorely miss him, for he was quite clearly always on their side, and always a good friend.

They speak of the children he has left behind, and several of the generals volunteer to tend to the egg themselves, only to find that they have all grown out of that stage.  They offer words of condolences to his family, with promises of both leaving herring behind, in his memory, and picking up the herring he kept hidden to use as bribes and in other incentive programs.

They go on and on about herring because, well, they're penguins.  They wonder whether or not he liked it as much as he told them he did, and the general consensus is that, while he might have liked some fish ruined (whether by frying or other methods of destruction), he probably didn't like raw herring nearly as much as he pretended to, but he was still mostly a good sort, even if he was a hairless monkey who might have spit out some of the fish when he thought no one was looking.

I duck out of the service then, only a few of the herring pipes still blurting and blatting along, mostly to the tune of The Shoals of Herring, and I set the burner phone down next to my discarded bow tie and tuxedo jacket, knowing that some of the leopard seals Bardi used to work with will already have the signal tracked.

I leave one of the doors unlocked on my way out.

Rest in peace, Bardi, Taedgh O'riley, and all other aliases you might have used in this world, the last, or in the next.  One of these days, we'll play some tunes together... probably on a stage in Tamson House.

Cheers,
        Everett


Everett A Warren
everett@everettawarren.com
ellyssian@gmail.com

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ilana

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ilana

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I always enjoyed Bardi's A Poem A Day month.  Thanks for putting this poem out here, Llana.  Good luck with the move!!

Kris

On Fri, Sep 22, 2017 at 4:52 AM, Ilana Halupovich <ilana.halupovich@gmail.com> wrote:

By the end of the next month, I am moving. 

First full move since 1984, which means there're tons of things to sift through. 

Remember Tamson House Writers circle?

"When poetry became flat

spread itself like some

ancient sacrifice in

two dimensions

against the page

and floated away

from the poet into

some slippery slide

of meanings

was it then that

love became a verb?

became something

that has to be done

instead of something

still and powerful

and simply there to be.

bardi, November 1999

On Thu, Sep 14, 2017 at 6:57 AM, Opakele <lelogan100@gmail.com> wrote:

Thank you for sharing this news.

Yes.  I have emerged from Lurkdom.

Everett, beautiful tribute.

On Wed, Sep 13, 2017 at 2:26 PM, 'Leslie Valente' via Tamson House <tamson-house@googlegroups.com> wrote:

Heartbreaking. My sorrow to everyone,

Leslie

Sent from my iPad

On Sep 13, 2017, at 9:03 AM, Everett Warren <ellyssian@gmail.com> wrote:

The group files in, very somber, in black tuxedos and bow ties, and takes their position, all in a row, heads bowed as the pipers begin to play.

The bagpipes are made from herring, some of them a wee bit too fresh, others not nearly so.

Most will be consumed by the pipers after, or even during, the performance.  Two or three of them stand, rocking from foot to foot, fish bladder bagpipeless flippers clasping and unclasping in front of them, a sheepish look on their beaks.

They play all the traditional military funeral tunes, several that we might recognize, others, like Shackleton's Departure and Alas, My Love Was Dispatched By A Leopard Seal, from a repertoire most humans are unfamiliar with.

There are words spoken by several birds of high ranking, about how critical a part he played in the planned overthrowing of all humanity, and how, for a double (triple (quadruple (quintuple (well, he always *seemed* to be on our side) ) ) ) agent, he really wasn't a bad sort.

They mention his music, how people miss hearing it, how penguins eat herring to it, how some people really wish they could have shared a stage with him, and how he never had much patience to listen to the shrill cacophany of the herring pipe bands at formal events (it really does go right through even the best hearing protection known to man or waterfowl).

They talk of his Housemates, who have, individually and in small groups, thwarted and enacted so many devious schemes on behalf of and against the penguin empire that many of them have waxwork figures in both the Hall of Heroes and the Villa of Villains, and how that group of friends -- some for decades -- will sorely miss him, for he was quite clearly always on their side, and always a good friend.

They speak of the children he has left behind, and several of the generals volunteer to tend to the egg themselves, only to find that they have all grown out of that stage.  They offer words of condolences to his family, with promises of both leaving herring behind, in his memory, and picking up the herring he kept hidden to use as bribes and in other incentive programs.

They go on and on about herring because, well, they're penguins.  They wonder whether or not he liked it as much as he told them he did, and the general consensus is that, while he might have liked some fish ruined (whether by frying or other methods of destruction), he probably didn't like raw herring nearly as much as he pretended to, but he was still mostly a good sort, even if he was a hairless monkey who might have spit out some of the fish when he thought no one was looking.

I duck out of the service then, only a few of the herring pipes still blurting and blatting along, mostly to the tune of The Shoals of Herring, and I set the burner phone down next to my discarded bow tie and tuxedo jacket, knowing that some of the leopard seals Bardi used to work with will already have the signal tracked.

I leave one of the doors unlocked on my way out.

Rest in peace, Bardi, Taedgh O'riley, and all other aliases you might have used in this world, the last, or in the next.  One of these days, we'll play some tunes together... probably on a stage in Tamson House.

Cheers,
        Everett


Everett A Warren
everett@everettawarren.com
ellyssian@gmail.com

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ilana

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By the end of the next month, I am moving. 

First full move since 1984, which means there're tons of things to sift through. 

Remember Tamson House Writers circle?

"When poetry became flat

spread itself like some

ancient sacrifice in

two dimensions

against the page

and floated away

from the poet into

some slippery slide

of meanings

was it then that

love became a verb?

became something

that has to be done

instead of something

still and powerful

and simply there to be.

bardi, November 1999

On Thu, Sep 14, 2017 at 6:57 AM, Opakele <lelogan100@gmail.com> wrote:

Thank you for sharing this news.

Yes.  I have emerged from Lurkdom.

Everett, beautiful tribute.

On Wed, Sep 13, 2017 at 2:26 PM, 'Leslie Valente' via Tamson House <tamson-house@googlegroups.com> wrote:

Heartbreaking. My sorrow to everyone,

Leslie

Sent from my iPad

On Sep 13, 2017, at 9:03 AM, Everett Warren <ellyssian@gmail.com> wrote:

The group files in, very somber, in black tuxedos and bow ties, and takes their position, all in a row, heads bowed as the pipers begin to play.

The bagpipes are made from herring, some of them a wee bit too fresh, others not nearly so.

Most will be consumed by the pipers after, or even during, the performance.  Two or three of them stand, rocking from foot to foot, fish bladder bagpipeless flippers clasping and unclasping in front of them, a sheepish look on their beaks.

They play all the traditional military funeral tunes, several that we might recognize, others, like Shackleton's Departure and Alas, My Love Was Dispatched By A Leopard Seal, from a repertoire most humans are unfamiliar with.

There are words spoken by several birds of high ranking, about how critical a part he played in the planned overthrowing of all humanity, and how, for a double (triple (quadruple (quintuple (well, he always *seemed* to be on our side) ) ) ) agent, he really wasn't a bad sort.

They mention his music, how people miss hearing it, how penguins eat herring to it, how some people really wish they could have shared a stage with him, and how he never had much patience to listen to the shrill cacophany of the herring pipe bands at formal events (it really does go right through even the best hearing protection known to man or waterfowl).

They talk of his Housemates, who have, individually and in small groups, thwarted and enacted so many devious schemes on behalf of and against the penguin empire that many of them have waxwork figures in both the Hall of Heroes and the Villa of Villains, and how that group of friends -- some for decades -- will sorely miss him, for he was quite clearly always on their side, and always a good friend.

They speak of the children he has left behind, and several of the generals volunteer to tend to the egg themselves, only to find that they have all grown out of that stage.  They offer words of condolences to his family, with promises of both leaving herring behind, in his memory, and picking up the herring he kept hidden to use as bribes and in other incentive programs.

They go on and on about herring because, well, they're penguins.  They wonder whether or not he liked it as much as he told them he did, and the general consensus is that, while he might have liked some fish ruined (whether by frying or other methods of destruction), he probably didn't like raw herring nearly as much as he pretended to, but he was still mostly a good sort, even if he was a hairless monkey who might have spit out some of the fish when he thought no one was looking.

I duck out of the service then, only a few of the herring pipes still blurting and blatting along, mostly to the tune of The Shoals of Herring, and I set the burner phone down next to my discarded bow tie and tuxedo jacket, knowing that some of the leopard seals Bardi used to work with will already have the signal tracked.

I leave one of the doors unlocked on my way out.

Rest in peace, Bardi, Taedgh O'riley, and all other aliases you might have used in this world, the last, or in the next.  One of these days, we'll play some tunes together... probably on a stage in Tamson House.

Cheers,
        Everett


Everett A Warren
everett@everettawarren.com
ellyssian@gmail.com

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ilana

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Thank you for sharing this news.

Yes.  I have emerged from Lurkdom.

Everett, beautiful tribute.

On Wed, Sep 13, 2017 at 2:26 PM, 'Leslie Valente' via Tamson House <tamson-house@googlegroups.com> wrote:

Heartbreaking. My sorrow to everyone,

Leslie

Sent from my iPad

On Sep 13, 2017, at 9:03 AM, Everett Warren <ellyssian@gmail.com> wrote:

The group files in, very somber, in black tuxedos and bow ties, and takes their position, all in a row, heads bowed as the pipers begin to play.

The bagpipes are made from herring, some of them a wee bit too fresh, others not nearly so.

Most will be consumed by the pipers after, or even during, the performance.  Two or three of them stand, rocking from foot to foot, fish bladder bagpipeless flippers clasping and unclasping in front of them, a sheepish look on their beaks.

They play all the traditional military funeral tunes, several that we might recognize, others, like Shackleton's Departure and Alas, My Love Was Dispatched By A Leopard Seal, from a repertoire most humans are unfamiliar with.

There are words spoken by several birds of high ranking, about how critical a part he played in the planned overthrowing of all humanity, and how, for a double (triple (quadruple (quintuple (well, he always *seemed* to be on our side) ) ) ) agent, he really wasn't a bad sort.

They mention his music, how people miss hearing it, how penguins eat herring to it, how some people really wish they could have shared a stage with him, and how he never had much patience to listen to the shrill cacophany of the herring pipe bands at formal events (it really does go right through even the best hearing protection known to man or waterfowl).

They talk of his Housemates, who have, individually and in small groups, thwarted and enacted so many devious schemes on behalf of and against the penguin empire that many of them have waxwork figures in both the Hall of Heroes and the Villa of Villains, and how that group of friends -- some for decades -- will sorely miss him, for he was quite clearly always on their side, and always a good friend.

They speak of the children he has left behind, and several of the generals volunteer to tend to the egg themselves, only to find that they have all grown out of that stage.  They offer words of condolences to his family, with promises of both leaving herring behind, in his memory, and picking up the herring he kept hidden to use as bribes and in other incentive programs.

They go on and on about herring because, well, they're penguins.  They wonder whether or not he liked it as much as he told them he did, and the general consensus is that, while he might have liked some fish ruined (whether by frying or other methods of destruction), he probably didn't like raw herring nearly as much as he pretended to, but he was still mostly a good sort, even if he was a hairless monkey who might have spit out some of the fish when he thought no one was looking.

I duck out of the service then, only a few of the herring pipes still blurting and blatting along, mostly to the tune of The Shoals of Herring, and I set the burner phone down next to my discarded bow tie and tuxedo jacket, knowing that some of the leopard seals Bardi used to work with will already have the signal tracked.

I leave one of the doors unlocked on my way out.

Rest in peace, Bardi, Taedgh O'riley, and all other aliases you might have used in this world, the last, or in the next.  One of these days, we'll play some tunes together... probably on a stage in Tamson House.

Cheers,
        Everett


Everett A Warren
everett@everettawarren.com
ellyssian@gmail.com

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Heartbreaking. My sorrow to everyone,

Leslie

Sent from my iPad

On Sep 13, 2017, at 9:03 AM, Everett Warren <ellyssian@gmail.com> wrote:

The group files in, very somber, in black tuxedos and bow ties, and takes their position, all in a row, heads bowed as the pipers begin to play.

The bagpipes are made from herring, some of them a wee bit too fresh, others not nearly so.

Most will be consumed by the pipers after, or even during, the performance.  Two or three of them stand, rocking from foot to foot, fish bladder bagpipeless flippers clasping and unclasping in front of them, a sheepish look on their beaks.

They play all the traditional military funeral tunes, several that we might recognize, others, like Shackleton's Departure and Alas, My Love Was Dispatched By A Leopard Seal, from a repertoire most humans are unfamiliar with.

There are words spoken by several birds of high ranking, about how critical a part he played in the planned overthrowing of all humanity, and how, for a double (triple (quadruple (quintuple (well, he always *seemed* to be on our side) ) ) ) agent, he really wasn't a bad sort.

They mention his music, how people miss hearing it, how penguins eat herring to it, how some people really wish they could have shared a stage with him, and how he never had much patience to listen to the shrill cacophany of the herring pipe bands at formal events (it really does go right through even the best hearing protection known to man or waterfowl).

They talk of his Housemates, who have, individually and in small groups, thwarted and enacted so many devious schemes on behalf of and against the penguin empire that many of them have waxwork figures in both the Hall of Heroes and the Villa of Villains, and how that group of friends -- some for decades -- will sorely miss him, for he was quite clearly always on their side, and always a good friend.

They speak of the children he has left behind, and several of the generals volunteer to tend to the egg themselves, only to find that they have all grown out of that stage.  They offer words of condolences to his family, with promises of both leaving herring behind, in his memory, and picking up the herring he kept hidden to use as bribes and in other incentive programs.

They go on and on about herring because, well, they're penguins.  They wonder whether or not he liked it as much as he told them he did, and the general consensus is that, while he might have liked some fish ruined (whether by frying or other methods of destruction), he probably didn't like raw herring nearly as much as he pretended to, but he was still mostly a good sort, even if he was a hairless monkey who might have spit out some of the fish when he thought no one was looking.

I duck out of the service then, only a few of the herring pipes still blurting and blatting along, mostly to the tune of The Shoals of Herring, and I set the burner phone down next to my discarded bow tie and tuxedo jacket, knowing that some of the leopard seals Bardi used to work with will already have the signal tracked.

I leave one of the doors unlocked on my way out.

Rest in peace, Bardi, Taedgh O'riley, and all other aliases you might have used in this world, the last, or in the next.  One of these days, we'll play some tunes together... probably on a stage in Tamson House.

Cheers,
        Everett


Everett A Warren
everett@everettawarren.com
ellyssian@gmail.com

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I didn't know him as well as some of you, but I think this is a beautiful tribute to Bardi. He was a kind man, and we will all miss him.

-Carol

On Sep 13, 2017 8:03 AM, "Everett Warren" <ellyssian@gmail.com> wrote:

The group files in, very somber, in black tuxedos and bow ties, and takes their position, all in a row, heads bowed as the pipers begin to play.

The bagpipes are made from herring, some of them a wee bit too fresh, others not nearly so.

Most will be consumed by the pipers after, or even during, the performance.  Two or three of them stand, rocking from foot to foot, fish bladder bagpipeless flippers clasping and unclasping in front of them, a sheepish look on their beaks.

They play all the traditional military funeral tunes, several that we might recognize, others, like Shackleton's Departure and Alas, My Love Was Dispatched By A Leopard Seal, from a repertoire most humans are unfamiliar with.

There are words spoken by several birds of high ranking, about how critical a part he played in the planned overthrowing of all humanity, and how, for a double (triple (quadruple (quintuple (well, he always *seemed* to be on our side) ) ) ) agent, he really wasn't a bad sort.

They mention his music, how people miss hearing it, how penguins eat herring to it, how some people really wish they could have shared a stage with him, and how he never had much patience to listen to the shrill cacophany of the herring pipe bands at formal events (it really does go right through even the best hearing protection known to man or waterfowl).

They talk of his Housemates, who have, individually and in small groups, thwarted and enacted so many devious schemes on behalf of and against the penguin empire that many of them have waxwork figures in both the Hall of Heroes and the Villa of Villains, and how that group of friends -- some for decades -- will sorely miss him, for he was quite clearly always on their side, and always a good friend.

They speak of the children he has left behind, and several of the generals volunteer to tend to the egg themselves, only to find that they have all grown out of that stage.  They offer words of condolences to his family, with promises of both leaving herring behind, in his memory, and picking up the herring he kept hidden to use as bribes and in other incentive programs.

They go on and on about herring because, well, they're penguins.  They wonder whether or not he liked it as much as he told them he did, and the general consensus is that, while he might have liked some fish ruined (whether by frying or other methods of destruction), he probably didn't like raw herring nearly as much as he pretended to, but he was still mostly a good sort, even if he was a hairless monkey who might have spit out some of the fish when he thought no one was looking.

I duck out of the service then, only a few of the herring pipes still blurting and blatting along, mostly to the tune of The Shoals of Herring, and I set the burner phone down next to my discarded bow tie and tuxedo jacket, knowing that some of the leopard seals Bardi used to work with will already have the signal tracked.

I leave one of the doors unlocked on my way out.

Rest in peace, Bardi, Taedgh O'riley, and all other aliases you might have used in this world, the last, or in the next.  One of these days, we'll play some tunes together... probably on a stage in Tamson House.

Cheers,
        Everett


Everett A Warren
everett@everettawarren.com
ellyssian@gmail.com

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The group files in, very somber, in black tuxedos and bow ties, and takes their position, all in a row, heads bowed as the pipers begin to play.

The bagpipes are made from herring, some of them a wee bit too fresh, others not nearly so.

Most will be consumed by the pipers after, or even during, the performance.  Two or three of them stand, rocking from foot to foot, fish bladder bagpipeless flippers clasping and unclasping in front of them, a sheepish look on their beaks.

They play all the traditional military funeral tunes, several that we might recognize, others, like Shackleton's Departure and Alas, My Love Was Dispatched By A Leopard Seal, from a repertoire most humans are unfamiliar with.

There are words spoken by several birds of high ranking, about how critical a part he played in the planned overthrowing of all humanity, and how, for a double (triple (quadruple (quintuple (well, he always *seemed* to be on our side) ) ) ) agent, he really wasn't a bad sort.

They mention his music, how people miss hearing it, how penguins eat herring to it, how some people really wish they could have shared a stage with him, and how he never had much patience to listen to the shrill cacophany of the herring pipe bands at formal events (it really does go right through even the best hearing protection known to man or waterfowl).

They talk of his Housemates, who have, individually and in small groups, thwarted and enacted so many devious schemes on behalf of and against the penguin empire that many of them have waxwork figures in both the Hall of Heroes and the Villa of Villains, and how that group of friends -- some for decades -- will sorely miss him, for he was quite clearly always on their side, and always a good friend.

They speak of the children he has left behind, and several of the generals volunteer to tend to the egg themselves, only to find that they have all grown out of that stage.  They offer words of condolences to his family, with promises of both leaving herring behind, in his memory, and picking up the herring he kept hidden to use as bribes and in other incentive programs.

They go on and on about herring because, well, they're penguins.  They wonder whether or not he liked it as much as he told them he did, and the general consensus is that, while he might have liked some fish ruined (whether by frying or other methods of destruction), he probably didn't like raw herring nearly as much as he pretended to, but he was still mostly a good sort, even if he was a hairless monkey who might have spit out some of the fish when he thought no one was looking.

I duck out of the service then, only a few of the herring pipes still blurting and blatting along, mostly to the tune of The Shoals of Herring, and I set the burner phone down next to my discarded bow tie and tuxedo jacket, knowing that some of the leopard seals Bardi used to work with will already have the signal tracked.

I leave one of the doors unlocked on my way out.

Rest in peace, Bardi, Taedgh O'riley, and all other aliases you might have used in this world, the last, or in the next.  One of these days, we'll play some tunes together... probably on a stage in Tamson House.

Cheers,
        Everett


Everett A Warren
everett@everettawarren.com
ellyssian@gmail.com

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The Witchwood Crown by Tad Williams.  I just started it yesterday. 

Michelle

-----Original Message-----
From: Grey Malkin <grymalkyn@gmail.com>
To: tamson-house <tamson-house@googlegroups.com>
Sent: Fri, Sep 1, 2017 6:58 pm
Subject: Perennial Subject....

I know Our Patron is coming out with a new book shortly, but what's everyone reading right now?

I just finished a collection of Lord Peter Wimsey mystery stories.  At first I was disappointed in it because I had heard good things about the character and series and thought I was getting a NOVEL collection.  Oops.  Once I realized my mistake, I enjoyed them, though, and will pick up the novels later.

This afternoon I started The Autobiography of James T. Kirk which is surprisingly good.  I'm only a few pages into it and I'm already starting to forget that it's about a fictional character.  Which is silly, but there you go.  It's original timeline, by the way, Kirk as portrayed by William Shatner.  There are even photographs in the middle of the book -- most of them are from promo photos or stills from episodes. 

As for what's next...well, I suppose that depends, in part, on what I purchase tomorrow when my best friend and I run up to Buffalo for the specific purpose of visiting Barnes & Noble in person.

Laurie

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i just finished bujold's "curse of chalion".  i'm about to start martinez'
"chasing the moon".

here are some things i've read in the past 12 months that i recommend:

        Hughes: Henghis Hapthorn series

        Leckie: Imperial Radch series

        Liu: The Paper Menagerie

        MacFarlane: Landmarks

        May: Lewis series

        Reid: Year Zero

        Swanwick: Best of Michael Swanwick

        Wallace: Sin du Jour series


things i've recommended before and am likely to again in the future:

        Aaronovitch: Rivers of London series

        Kingfisher: i haven't read anything less than quite good by her.
                    her buddy ursula vernon is also very good.

        McCullough: Webmage series or Blades series


i've read lots of other stuff besides, but these rise to the top.

wayne

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