So far this quarter

 

I look at pictures of Edinburgh when life in Santa Barbara starts to overwhelm.  As long as there aren't any people I know in the picture, it's very calming.  (If there are friends I haven't seen in months it's just sad.)  This picture was taken from about halfway up the Walter Scott Monument on Prince's St (that's what the brown/black spire is--part of the monument).  The first bridge with the buses is Waverly Bridge, and the odd coverings is actually the train station.  The other bridge, farther back in the picture, is North Bridge.  The first time I walked across it, the wind was so strong my scarf unwrapped itself and almost flew off my neck.  The hills in the background is Arthur's Seat.

Shorts weather in Santa Barbara today.  Dress weather, actually--it was too hot for even shorts.  It was pretty wonderful.  Somebody said it hit 83 degrees today (28 Celsius).  Even the wind was hot, like a Santa Ana.  I can't tell if I've got allergies in addition to my cold.  Blegh.  I love this weather, but blegh for runny noses and not enough cold medicine and pressure in the forehead that makes me want to either scream or curl up into a pathetic ball and groan in pain. (Thank god for Tylonal.)

I shouldn't complain.  One of my flatmates went to the hospital on Sunday for an awful stomach ache and ended up staying the night.  Horrifying.  Made me want to drive out there and give her a hug and some proper food.  (Except I don't have a car.)  For a while they thought it was appendicitis, and that she'd have to have surgery, but it turned out to be a lot less serious.  The day after she came home from the hospital, though, she ended up with both a cold and an ear infection in both ears.  Needless to say, she went home for the weekend to be babied.

My mother's coming up on Saturday with two of her girlfriends (both family friends) for a wine-tasting excursion.  Santa Barbara is wine country, I guess.  I get to come along, though if these allergies don't take a chill pill I don't know how much I'll actually be able to taste.

Whatever, though.  It'll still be nice to see my mother.

Charles de Lint's "The Blue Girl"

** bit of a spoiler alert, though it's not too bad **

I just finished rereading "The Blue Girl" for the first time in about four years (and unfortunately, only during this reading did I realize there are many, many more stories that take place in Newford). My favorite part about the story was Imogene's voice. She's brilliant and quirky and brave and fun, and of course, don't we all wish we were brilliant, quirky, brave and fun?

The adults--the parents, in particular, stood out to me as well. They weren't absentee parents, ...more I just finished rereading Charles de Lint's "The Blue Girl" for the first time in about four years (and unfortunately, only during this reading did I realize there are many, many more stories that take place in Newford). My favorite part about the story was Imogene's voice. She's brilliant and quirky and brave and fun, and of course, don't we all wish we were brilliant, quirky, brave and fun?

The adults--the parents, in particular, stood out to me as well. They weren't absentee parents, as is common in so many other YA books. Maxine's father didn't play much of a role in the story, and Imogene's father didn't at all, but both of their mothers featured relatively prominently. They were minor characters, of course, but what I like to call major-minor characters (as in, they show up and interact with major characters more than other minor characters). Maxine's mother even had her own character arch where she grew and began to recover from her divorce. It was interesting, because both mothers were very clearly supportive characters.

The best part of this story was when Imogene accepts the existence of fairies and realizes she hasn't been dreaming when she sees them. The reader already knew it, Maxine suspected, Christy knew it, Adrian knew it, Tommery knew it--it was totally common knowledge, and all that was left was for Imogene to discover her new reality. When she did, though--that one line ("It wasn't a dream.") was the single most chilling thing I've come across in I don't know how long. It was beautifully done, and it was a stroke of genius on Charles de Lint's part.

It was chilling because bad dreams aren't real. That's what everyone tells themselves, or each other, when we wake up in the middle of the night. "It's okay. It was only a dream. It's over now, it wasn't real. It was only a dream." But to discover that it wasn't just a dream, and that it isn't okay--that's one of the most horrifying things that can happen to someone.

After Imogene comes to that realization, though, the story drops off for a bit. It just isn't as exciting. The pace isn't kept up or anything; they're planning out how to defeat the bad guys and it's just unnecessary word fluff. I honestly got bored enough to think about quitting in the middle of the book, though I'm glad I stuck with it. The climax at the end is worth it.