O hooly, hooly she rose up

The cold appears to be in retreat. At least, I can breathe, which has to be counted a Good Thing. Also, I was able to get some work done, arriving this afternoon at the point I had expected to reach last Sunday. Not as Good a Thing, but for'ard progress nonetheless.

One of the days when I was too miserable to move, I lay in bed and listened to NPR, kind of dozing in and out. In this way, I half-heard a talk about ballads, and how the form had traditionally been open source, with every bard and barmaid who sung a particular ballad embroidering and/or altering it as they pleased. Nowadays, the form is no longer open source; we know if a certain ballad was written by Springsteen or Dylan and the song is sung as the writer intended. One of the people in the discussion group allowed as how we had lost some richness in the process, but was inclined to feel that it was more than balanced by our being able to know who the songwriter was, thus gaining All Kinds of Depth and Insight into the Song.

Which, even in my depleted state, was...a shock. I didn't realize that Actual Grownups believe that knowing the artist or writer's background shines the bright light of Discovery upon their work.

After I became less miserable, I graduated to the couch and read. Miss Melville Regrets by Evelyn E. Smith (sadly out of print -- but plenty available on the used book sites) is a hoot and a half -- the story of how a middle-aged society spinster took up the gentle art of assassination.

I'm sorry to say that Thunderbird Falls was not nearly as entertaining. This may have had something to do with the fact that the only character I actually liked got killed. Also? I had a headache.

Am now reading Richard Burton's account of his journey to Mecca, which is fascinating and notable for the absolute clarity of its prose.

And now I'm at the computer, getting ready to swear off for the night, consult with kinzel, and I dunno, do the dishes or something...