#I aten't dead yet

[babykittenteach]

Some Ed studies for the evening.

[callipraxia]

There! I did it! I wrote something new! I aten't dead! (yet)! Enjoy a trip to scenic Glass Shard Beach, New Jersey, everyone....

[dimity-lawn]

I had a dream last night where a handful of random strangers and I ended up in some strange old library without a clue as to why or how we were there, or where "there" was, for that matter. It was not the Unseen University Library, but it did seem to go on forever. Among the reasons that it was strange was that there was dust everywhere, but no cobwebs (as if it had been maintained, but somehow the dust stayed intact), the shelves were full of beautifully bound old hardcover books, but the titles seemed fuzzy and out of focus. People seemed interested in the books but the books seemed to resist by putting out nonthreatening but firm do not open or attempt to read vibe. Also, though there was enough light to see, there was no ceiling, only a starry sky. Then for some reason the thought seemed to occur to everyone at once: find Discworld.

The books were a couple of rows deep on the shelves and other books were stacked horizontally on top, so that you would need to remove the top books and then the front row in order to see the second row, but eventually I pulled yet another section of top and front row books from the shelf, about 11 well loved Discworld books floated up and over to a table. Slowly at first, but with increasing speed, we began to find others, all well loved and battered paperbacks. But we could only find 40. Stranger still, nobody could agree on what 40 they were. Someone would say that The Light Fantastic was missing only for someone to hold up I Shall Wear Midnight to show that it wasn't, and the original speaker would say that the other person was holding up The Amazing Maurice and His Educated Rodents.

As we all tried to figure this out, something made everyone look up towards the sky at the same time, and we all watched as large glowing letters appear one at a time (starting with a small uppercase A) in pale-to-sky blue writing (in a font that somehow managed to be a combination of "generic medieval manuscript" and "art nouveau") until they eventually spelled out

. TERENCE DAVID JOHN PRATCHETT . I ATEN'T DEAD

and the missing book appeared and floated down. Everyone watched it descend in a blue glow that matched the writing, and after it had landed on the table I looked up at the writing in the sky as it seemed to slowly fade in a somewhat sparkly way. Once it had gone everyone started talking about what had just happened, and I alone noticed a tall figure robed in black standing between shelves and running a bone finger along a page of a book some distance away. He seemed to notice me, looked up, closed the book, and put it back on the shelf before looking at me again. One blue dot in an empty eye socket dimmed as he tried to wink at me and swept his arms towards the shelves as if telling me to look. I did. Now the author's name or a title became readable, and they were all either about the writing of Terry Pratchett, works that inspired him/he referenced, or were by Terry Pratchett himself.

Unfortunately, I woke up before I could read anything.

[sorchaivy]

TL;DR - Sir Terry Pratchett continues to be an amazing presence in so many lives, and will do so for as long as his books (over 70 of them!) are read and loved. So pretty much as long as literate humanity continues to exist, I reckon.

I first wrote this on the morning that he passed away. It holds true eight years later.

~~~

Because I never can just say something simply, I have to go back and try again.

Which seems fitting. Since it was Sir Pterry (note spelling) who first introduced me to the concept of the "Draft 0". Draft 0 is pretty simple, he said. You just write. You write everything you could possibly need, and an awful lot you possibly won't, and then some more that you certainly won't. You write and write until it's all there on the page, your verbal block of marble.

And THEN you start carving out the piece, the story, the masterwork. Storycraft as sculpture. It's a metaphor that appeals to me.

He said that in a talk he gave at Melbourne University, which Mum took me to see back in, oh, would have been 2006, I think. That was the same talk where I heard the Best Cosplaying Story ever. Where he talked about going into the Outback, looking up at the stars, and realising that Orion was upside down, and what a giddy, marvellous, humbling moment that was. And where I discovered that he thought Sam Vimes was a better man than he was himself (I would respectfully disagree, but in fairness I only ever really met Sam).

Terry Pratchett has been a part of my life since Mum first handed me "Mort" at age 15 and said, "I think you might like this." (She was right.) He had a gift for saying a thing in a way that made it seem like it had always been obvious, and yet was completely revelatory at the same time.

His books helped me walk away from organised religion (and, ultimately, theism full stop). Helped me forge my own moral and ethical codes. Helped me enter the heady world of critical thinking. Helped me find humour and gentle amusement in the foibles and oddities of this weird species we belong to (don't get me wrong, I still get furious at deliberate ignorance, bigotry and cruelty; but simple mistakes and errors don't infuriate me as much as they did before I encountered his affection for the stupidity of people). Helped me when Mum died. Helped me when things seemed to fall apart, and when things seemed to be going so impossibly right that I was waiting for the other shoe (not Reg).

Sir Terry once wrote that a person's life isn't truly ended until the last ripples of their life dies away. Until the clock they wound winds down. Until the words they spoke no longer echo. Until the worlds they wrote no longer spin. Until the Turtle no longer moves.

My sister called to see if I was okay. She said, "He never meant as much to me, but for you, it's like you've lost 1,000 friends all at once."

And I smiled. I honestly did. Right there on the tram. Because you know what? I haven't. They're all still there, in the books on my shelves, in the places in my head, in my bones. And a little piece of him is in every single one. I haven't lost anything, not truly.

His family. His friends. The people who had the privilege (and, possibly, frustration) of knowing him, the man behind the words, the humanest human, who talked and laughed and swore and wept and breathed and ate and shat and slept and snored and sneezed and all the little things that will suddenly mean so much. Because now he is not doing any of them.

Those are the people my heart breaks for now. Not myself. Not those of us who were touched by the works but not the man. We still get to hold him and his memory, and we haven't lost anything at all, not truly. But they have. So spare a moment's thought for the ripple that is a tidal wave passing through their lives right now.

And I hope that, in time, they too can draw comfort from the knowledge that the ripples are still going. That they may never stop.

The Turtle Still Moves.

Vale Sir Pterry. You aten't dead. Not to me.

[helveticabrown]

Chapters: 3/? 

Fandom: Once Upon a Time (TV) 

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences 

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply  

Relationship: Evil Queen | Regina Mills/Emma Swan

Summary:

Lately, Regina can't seem to focus on anything other than Emma Swan and she can't quite figure out why that is.

[clatterbane]

Things are very strange for Mirrors.

After a little while to get used to the idea, he was willing to get petted some. But, he is still not at all sure about the wheeled contrivance I keep sitting--and moving around! 😿--on.

He seems to be feeling more confident up on surfaces. And I got to pet him after turning on the sink for him to drink. Then he jumped over to a favorite counter spot and let me love on him some more.

Things are still very unsettled, though, and he keeps yelling and dashing around.

Feist, OTOH, seemed OK with me talking to her, and she was talking back at me. But, she wasn't at all sure she even wanted to come in out of the drizzle that started up with me and my chair anywhere near the door.

But, Scary Wheelchair or no? At least they are both aware now that I aten't dead yet, and home again. And hopefully they will get used to the idea of my new wheels.

[thebellicoseautistic]

I aten't dead yet!

[cedarlili]

Aten't Dead Yet

Aten’t Dead Yet

Unlike the Norwegian Parrot, I’m not pinin’ for the fjords. I can attest, however, that the flu is no fun. And having spent three days in bed with my husband, the dialogue was steamy: 

“Did you turn up the heater?” 

“No.”

“I’m so cold… No, I’m so hot.”

“Where’s the thermometer?”

“If your temp goes over 101, take asprin.” 

“Want a water bottle?”

“Ugnnggh.” 

“Hargarl… coff coff coff” 

Yeah. Sexy…

[sorchaivy]

[Written on a tram on the day Sir Pterry died; re-shared to mark the 7th anniversary]

TL;DR - Sir Terry Pratchett continues to be an amazing presence in so many lives, and will do so for as long as his books (over 70 of them!) are read and loved. So pretty much as long as literate humanity continues to exist, I reckon.

~~~

Because I never can just say something simply, I have to go back and try again.

Which seems fitting. Since it was Sir Pterry (note spelling) who first introduced me to the concept of the "Draft 0". Draft 0 is pretty simple, he said. You just write. You write everything you could possibly need, and an awful lot you possibly won't, and then some more that you certainly won't. You write and write until it's all there on the page, your verbal block of marble.

And THEN you start carving out the piece, the story, the masterwork. Storycraft as sculpture. It's a metaphor that appeals.

He said that in a talk he gave at Melbourne University, which Mum took me to see back in, oh, would have been 2004, I think. That was the same talk where I heard the Best Cosplaying Story ever. Where he talked about going into the Outback, looking up at the stars, and realising that Orion was upside down, and what a giddy, marvellous, humbling moment that was. And where I discovered that he thought Sam Vimes was a better man than he himself (I would respectfully disagree, but in fairness I only ever really met Sam).

Terry Pratchett has been a part of my life since Mum first handed me "Mort" at age 15 and said, "I think you might like this." (She was right.) He had a gift for saying a thing in a way that made it seem like it had always been obvious, and yet was completely revelatory at the same time.

His books helped me walk away from organised religion (and, ultimately, theism full stop). Helped me forge my own moral and ethical codes. Helped me enter the heady world of critical thinking. Helped me find humour and gentle amusement in the foibles and oddities of this weird species we belong to (don't get me wrong, I still get ragemakey at teh stoopid - but far less than I would have, had I not had Sir Terry in my life). Helped me when Mum died. Helped me when things seemed to fall apart, and when things seemed to be going so impossibly right that I was waiting for the other shoe (not Reg).

Sir Terry once wrote (and I've already seen this quote pop up in a few of my friends' posts this morning) that a person's life isn't truly ended until the last ripples of their life dies away. Until the clock they wound winds down. Until the words they spoke no longer echo. Until the worlds they wrote no longer spin. Until the Turtle no longer moves.

My sister saw my first post this morning, and called to see if I was okay. She said, "He never meant as much to me, but for you, it's like you've lost 1,000 friends all at once."

And I smiled. I honestly did. Right there on the tram. Because you know what? I haven't. They're all still there, in the books on my shelves, in the places in my head, in my bones. And a little piece of him is in every single one. I haven't lost anything, not truly.

His family. His friends. The people who had the privilege (and, possibly, frustration) of knowing him, the man behind the words, the humanest human, who talked and laughed and swore and wept and breathed and ate and shat and slept and snored and sneezed and all the things that will suddenly mean so much. Because now he is not.

Those are the people my heart breaks for now. Not myself. Not those of us who were touched by the works but not the man. We still get to hold him and his memory, and we haven't lost anything at all, not truly. But they have. So spare a moment for the ripple that is a tidal wave passing through their lives right now.

And I hope that, in time, they too can draw comfort from the knowledge that the ripples are still going. That they may never stop.

The Turtle Still Moves.

Vale Sir Pterry. You aten't dead. Not to me.