So far as I can tell, this is Pratchett's first novel about the witches-Nanny Ogg, Granny Weatherwax, and Magrat Garlick. It was...pretty good. Just as he would later take on The Phantom of the Opera in Maskerade, in Wyrd Sisters Pratchett manages to reverse-engineer something very strongly resembling Macbeth.  The plot is thus:  three witches are meeting a hilltop when a dying coach driver delivers a baby prince to them; they manage to hide the child with some roving players, but the kingdom still suffers under the reign of an evil duke and his even more vile wife. At first, no one's very bothered by the assassination of the old king, the disappearance of his heir, or even by the fact that the duke has a penchant for setting houses on fire with the tenants still inside.  Eventually, though, even the extremely hardy peasants of Lancre have had enough royal nonsense, and then the duke has the witches to reckon with.

I really have to give Pratchett this much: I thought he'd telegraphed the ultimate plot twist within about fifty pages of the opening line, and he had...but then he yanked it out from under me at the very last second. I had forgotten that even when Pratchett seems to be going for the conventional story, he'll twist it a little to account for people's innate earthiness. I'm not always thrilled by the way the he portrays "reality," because it usually seems to involve more sharp edges and more boogers than are strictly necessary, but I have to admit that it almost always makes the books more interesting.

The only real criticism I have here is that although Pratchett certainly makes fun of the way everyone looks, he reserves a certain extended mockery for teenage girls/younger female protagonists.  And really, that's just not as funny as he thinks it is. Speaking as someone who actually was a teenage girl not too long ago and still is a relatively young woman: there's a reason we're so "silly" and "preoccupied with our looks," and it has more to do with crushing societal pressure than innate shallowness. So the fact that Pratchett constantly mocks plain girls for trying to gussy themselves up is just...mean, and not in a particularly intelligent way.  The thing that usually makes Pratchett so powerful and so funny is that he sends up all the nasty little flaws that people are often completely unaware they have. But I can assure you that if I have a bodily flaw, I fucking know about it-either because someone else told me about it in an attempt to be "helpful," or because I stood in front of the mirror after one of those "helpful" hints and tried to find and categorize everything else that was wrong with me.  Plain, ugly, or just indifferent girls almost always know it, because no one has much interest making sure that girls feel confident and comfortable with what they've got. I mean, hell, just last week one of my friends got told by total strangers that she needed to shave her legs, and not so long ago, I was walking home and a bunch of teenage boys I'd never seen before called me ugly. So guess what? Cataloging the physical flaws of a young woman--in this case, Magrat--is not "subversive" or "unexpected" or whatever Pratchett wanted it to be.  It's just a thoroughly typical slap in the face to female readers.

And that slap in the face doesn't make me dislike his work, but it does make me respect it less.

Recommended for: Anyone with a slightly dirty sense of humor, anyone who can stand to have the author show them every unattractive part of a character, and oh-anyone who likes fantasy.

Figured this was worth a quick post for those who missed it on Kotaku. Rhianna Pratchett (Terry's daughter), who also penned Overlord and Heavenly Sword, will be working on Mirror's Edge.

I know a few of you are Pratchett fans, and even gained interest in Overlord when you learned she was the writer. What did you think of her work there? Did you know she worked on Heavenly Sword, too?

http://kotaku.com/5023710/this-is-your-mirrors-edge-writer

Odwrócił się do zebranych obywateli.
- No dobra, zgrajo! - huknął. - Wiem, że niektórzy z was służyli w regimentach! Ilu zna "Wszystkie małe aniołki"?
W górę uniosło siękilka pamiątek, z kategorii tych groźniejszych.
- Bardzo dobrze! Mamy już chór! No więc to jest piosenka żołnierska, jasne?Wy nie wyglądacie jak żołnierze, ale na bogów, dopilnuję, żebyście śpiewali jak oni! Złapiecie słowa po drodze! W prawo zwrot! Naprzód marsz! "Wszystkie małe aniołki się wznoszą, się wznoszą! Wszystkie małe aniołki się wznoszą wnet!" Śpiewać, matczyne syny!
Maszerujący podchwytywali piosenkę od tych, którzy już ją znali.
- "A jak one się wznoszą, się wznoszą, się wznoszą? Jak one się wznoszą, się wznoszą wnet?"
- "One się wznoszą głowami, głowami, głowami..." - śpiewał Dickins, skręcając za róg.
Vimes słuchał, jak refren cichnie w oddali.
- Ładnie - stwierdził młody Sam.
- To stara wojskowa piosenka - wyjaśnił Vimes, bo przypomniał sobie, że chłopak słyszy ją po raz pierwszy.
- Naprawdę, sierżancie? Przecież jest o aniołkach.
Zgadza się, pomyślał Vimes. I zdziwiłbyś się, jakie części ciała podnoszą te aniołki w następnych zwrotkach. Prawdziwa żołnierska piosenka, sentymentalna, ale z nieprzyzwoitymi kawałkami. (..)

Uwielbiam Pratchett'a :D

But as a sample of his great writing, as well as his role as an atheist, I invite everyone to click this link and read what he has to say about the nature of gods. It's very interesting and illuminating.

Anyway!

Terry Pratchett, The Wee Free Men and A Hat Full of Sky

A friend got me The Wee Free Men as a late birthday present (along with Flora Segunda, which I will get to when it is not boxed up along with the vast majority of my book collection).  I'm not typically a big Pratchett fangirl; I loved Hogfather with a violent passion, but none of the other Death books ever really did it for me, and I've read a couple of the witches books but was not particularly enamored with any of them (although they are DAMN entertaining).  The Wee Free Men, however, is fanfuckingtastic, and I highly recommend it.

The book stars Tiffany Aching, a young girl with a little brother named Wentworth whom she doesn't particularly like, a dead granny whom she badly misses, and a talent for witchcraft that could really get her into trouble in a village where they still like to burn women who wear pointy hats.  She lives in the Chalk, a shepherding community where sheep are life; she spends her days running her parents' dairy and honing her talent for being ignored whenever she feels like it (and sometimes when she doesn't).   Annoyingly, baby Wentworth follows her everywhere.  But life is more or less good, until one day she spots a fairy tale creature down at the local stream.  And kicks its ass, very creatively.

Then, of course, the queen of the fairies steals Wentworth (why?  Who knows.  All he does is scream for sweets).  Aided by the Nac Mac Feegles, the foul-mouthed, blue-skinned, six-inch-high Wee Free Men of the title, Tiffany sets off on a journey to save him.

I loved The Wee Free Men so much that I immediately went out and picked up the sequels, A Hat Full of Sky and Wintersmith.  I finished A Hat Full of Sky, but I've rather stalled out on Wintersmith.  Frankly, the unfortunate truth is that after The Wee Free Men, Tiffany kind of degenerates into a Canon Sue.  Part of the problem is that Pratchett brought in one of the main characters from the witches books, Granny Weatherwax, and of course Tiffany is the only one to touch her stone-cold little heart.  Also, Tiffany is so omigod amazing that both sequels focus on a supernatural being taking an extreme liking to her--in A Hat Full of Sky, a creature called the hiver wants to basically take over Tiffany's brain because it so OMIGOD AWESOME, and in Wintersmith, the spirit of winter develops a crush on her.  Seriously.  SERIOUSLY.

I haven't finished Wintersmith, so I'm not going to bash it--and even when I do finish, I probably still won't criticize it all that much even if it keeps making Tiff so amazing.  Because honestly?  At heart, I am still a teenage girl, and teenage girls love the idea of the cold (literally!), heartless spirit of winter falling in love with them.  Still.  I like all three of these books, but my feeling right now is that A Hat Full of Sky DEFINITELY did not live up to the potential of The Wee Free Men, and that Wintersmith probably won't.  And that annoys me.

Recommended for:  Pratchett-lovers, people who like a pragmatic heroine.

Neil Gaiman, Anansi Boys

Fat Charlie (who is not actually fat) has been cursed with the world's most humiliating father; fortunately, he hasn't seen the old bastard in years.  Unfortunately, Charlie's fiancee Rosie is one of those relentless do-gooder types, and she insists that Charlie contact his dear old dad so that he can invite him to the wedding and thereby mend fences.  But when Charlie gets ahold of an old family friend, he's informed that daddy dearest has just kicked it.

Also, his dad was apparently the Trickster God Anansi, and Charlie has a brother named Spider that he never knew about.

Shenanigans, predictably, ensue.

I didn't expect to really care for this, frankly, because I've read Neverwhere and Coraline, and both of them left me rather cold (although that was probably at least partially the point).  But Anansi Boys has a reasonably compelling plot, the forays into the realm of the gods aren't long-winded or boring (as such forays typically are), and Gaiman has crafted a wonderfully sly narrative voice.  Actually, it was the narrator that really sold me on this book--it had this incredibly underhanded and understated sense of humor that you really had to pay attention to catch, but once you did?  Omigod, y'all, I rolled .  Well worth the price of admission, and then some.

Recommended for:  Anyone who likes good, relatively light fantasy.

Ah... Ils ont aussi un sac de la poste d'Ankh-Morpork.

*edit* En se baladant sur le web, on peut tomber sur des trucs marrants, comme quoi les animefans sont pour certains de gros sectaires incapables de se secouer les deux neurones qu'il leur reste. C'est ici, dans la partie commentaires, vers le milieu.

*cuicuipioupiou*
Tonkam fête ses 15 ans, avec à la clé des éditions spéciales de certains de ses manga.

Sinon tout à l'heure j'ai lu un article sur le Salon du livre, là. Bon, j'y étais et c'est vrai que cette édition du Salon du Livre ne brillait pas par son espace manga : ce n'était pas "au fond à droite", mais "à droite au fond", ce qui revient au final à la même chose. A croire que le manga est une plaie honteuse, quelque chose à cacher, et cela encore en 2008. D'ailleurs je n'y suis même pas allée (xD), je cherchais des bouquins en anglais et j'ai pas trouvé. Par contre j'ai papoté avec des gens de l'association des archivistes français (allez un coup de pub), ils sont très sympas :).
J'ai tout de même réussi à trouver le stand Kurokawa, après avoir fait dix fois le tour des allées, tellement il était planqué dans le stand de son éditeur d'origine, Fleuve Noir, comme si ils ne voulaient pas que j'achète les Emma les méchants ;_;.
Sinon rien à voir mais j'ai eu une dédicace (mais pas de dessin, trop pressée la Tata) d'Alan Lee sur un tome des Enfants de Hurin. \o/

Ah au fait Going Postal, avec Moist von Lipwig, un nouveau personnage, vient de sortir sous le nom français de Timbré! aux éditions de l'Atalante (allez les nantais o//). C'est du Pratchett, mangez-en, ça réduit le trou de la sécu. En plus y'a des vrais morceaux de golem dedans, c'est bon pour le calcium.

Organspenden sind wichtig (ohne Übertreibung: sogar lebenswichtig), und wie theleprompt ganz richtig schreibt gibt es keine sachlichen Argumente dagegen.

Heute ist der internationale Tag der Organspende, pünktlich dazu wurde eine neue Aufklärungskampagne gestartet.

Das ist gut und wichtig.
Neben AIDS ist Organspenden eine der ganz großen und wichtigen Dinge, über die zu wenig aufgeklärt wird und die die Medien als nicht berichtenswert einstufen.

Wenn sich Brigitte Nielsen vor den Kameras generalüberholen lässt weil in Würde altern bäh ist, wird eine 20-teilige Soap draus gemacht.

Wenn es um lebensrettende Maßnahmen und Vorsorge geht, mit der JEDER VON UNS helfen kann, ist das keine zwei Zeilen in der Tagesschau wert.

Dabei ist es so einfach: hinsetzen, ein wenig überlegen, vielleicht noch hier informieren und dann hier den Organspendeausweis herunterladen, ausdrucken, ausfüllen und ins Portemonnaie legen.

Es nicht zu tun ist egoistisch und dumm.

I just found out last night that SkyOne aired "The Colour of Magic" not too long ago.  I didn't even know that they were filming it.  SkyOne also filmed "Hogfather" a couple of years ago.  While finding that out, I also found out that "Going Postal" is in the works.

While I'm glad to see all this good stuff going on for Mr Pratchett, I have to say it kind of sucks that this stuff is going on in the UK and barely making any waves over here.  Granted, "Hogfather" is on DVD and I can get it at my local Blockbuster.  How long will it be before "The Colour of Magic" is here, though?  I'm an American and have no patience.  Someone must appease me.

I don't know what kind of deal J.K. Rowlings struck with the Devil, but I'm beginning to wonder if I want in on that kind of action.  Just because she does stuff for charity doesn't mean Old Scratch won't want his due when her time is up.

Wczoraj koło 2:30 skończyłam czytać Prawdę Pratchetta i muszę powiedzieć, że autor po raz kolejny odwalił kawał dobrej roboty. Ba! Każda jego książka ma coś w sobie.
Na chwilę obecną bardzo żałuje faktu, że nie przeczytałam jej wcześniej. Kto wie, może wyrósł by ze mnie jakiś dziennikarzyna. Opiekuńcze skrzydełka Piaska i idee wysnute z Prawdy.. To mógłby być mój przepis na sukces w medialnej (i robotę, i śliczne świadectwo, i znajomości).
Ale niestety.. Jasny i wyraźny szlak literata/pisarczyka (zależy, co by ze mnie w końcu wyrosło) ukazał się przed mymi oczami dopiero późną nocą. Właściwie już dzisiejszą.

Teraz trochę o samej książce.

Pratchett ma niesamowitą zdolność do prostego przekazywania prostych rzeczy, które tylko wydają się być skomplikowane.
To tak, jak z nowym telewizorem. Multum guzików na pilocie, a wystarczy nacisnąć tylko jeden, żeby włączyć TV.
Pan P. jaskrawą farbą maluje strzałkę do tego przycisku.

Ponadto ów autor ma w zwyczaju wykpiwać otaczającą rzeczywistość, przerysowywać ją, karykaturować i ironizować ze światem.
Bo czym innym jest tak na prawdę Świat Dysku, jeśli nie odbiciem? Odbiciem naszej - ludzkiej głupoty..?

Wróćmy do mnie.

Przeznaczenie.. Czy ktoś w nie wierzy?
Mnie by się to bardzo przydało. Ufność w Wielki Plan i w fakt, że nic nie dzieje się bez powodu. W to, iż wszelkie porażki, zawody, ale i sukcesy; wszystkie wydarzenia mające miejsce w krótkim czasie życia mają jakiś sens. Są.. Oczekiwane. Stanowią lekcję i w ostatecznym rozdaniu przyniosą szczęście w grze.

Chciałabym w to wierzyć, ale.. Gdzie leży prawda? (to już moja osobista obsesja nie mająca powiązań z ostatnimi nocami)

+ ebook Prawda, T. Pratchett, 1,769 KB, .pdf w .rar
[click]

+ nowy dział - Rotacja mp3

Supanova - First time. Had fun. Jewel Stait was interesting and amusing, Michael Winslow was very funny and had a polished performance with amazing vocal sound effects. Some great costumes (heavy on the anime repeats, but the less-replicated steampunk pieces were very cool, as was the individual in Star Wars camouflage hiding in the bushes). I might dress up next year but most fun was drawing the other attendees.

Spiderwick (twice) - Not perfect, but not bad. I liked the flawed characters, the actors, and Mallory, the overbearing, strong-minded, sword-wielding older sister was pretty cool. Unfortunately it did get a little too sentimental at times (out of keeping with the rest of the film) and was another victim of the inexplicable genre of wanton destruction of beautiful houses.

One Man Star Wars - Fun for the nostalgia** and to watch anyone do this. It was a bit pricey for what it was, but too long to have been a comedy club act, so I won't complain. It is certainly worth seeing and I hope he tours One Man Lord of the Rings here.

The Other Boleyn Girl - Pretty, pretty dresses. Pretty scenes. Pretty light. Pretty much a tudor-inspired soap opera. And very, very heavy on the foreshadowing (oh please - is this the third chicken we have seen having its head chopped off in preparation for dinner while the King arrives, in case we didn't get it the first time?)***. Still, Deb and I had gone on purpose to mock and we didn't much, so it was better than we expected. Highlight: In the first scene in the King's chambers Deb started singing "Love shack" and at the end of the credits that was the song which came over the cinema radio!

Matchbox 20 (with Thirsty Merc supporting) - My sister lent me her Matchbox 20 CDs a while ago and to my surprise I knew every song on them. In order. Turns out they were big when I was at boarding school and, along with Sarah McLachlan were part of my first exposure to popular music****. And since they have some memorable, iconic, singable songs and I knew the words (which usually makes concerts better) I enjoyed it very much. My favourite part was when they covered 'Under the Milky Way Tonight'. Thirsty Merc opened and they were... oh, I like their sound and their hair, both of which is a bit old-rock, but most of their songs are just too sentimental. Also, we were near the front and drinks and finger food at the bar were included in our tickets and we drew pictures of each other, so it was a pretty good night all up. Thanks for the tickets, M&J, sorry you had to go on a cruise:)

The Truth - Brisbane Arts Theatre's annual play based on a Pratchett Novel. This year it was The Truth^. Otto Chriek stole the scene hands-down. Although so did Sacharissa and Otto ("Please! Not to breath like that!") and Gaspode and Foul Ole Ron... and I fell for William^^ just a little bit. The theatre is small and the sets are basic (well, they were. Now the one set is quite elaborate). Yes there is a person dressed as a dog with a cigarette in his mouth and, at one point, a tutu. Yes, the opening music was 'Good News Week'. And it rocked and was hilarious and caught the book brilliantly. Moveable type is now my new hero^^^, maybe even up there with the Rule of Law. I did wonder if they would cut Otto Chriek's periodic evaporations (he is a vampire photographer with an unfortunate reaction to bright lights) but they changed it for the stage and his histrionics were effective and regularly startling. And Pratchett Does Allusions Well.

-------------------

*And while you do, check out these reviews for some interesting angles on the movie: Gender inequity in Whoville, and Horton hears a racist.

**Even if mine doesn't go back that far. In year 11 I had a weekly "gifted and talented" class. The teacher asked me what I wanted to do and I said (1) use the internet and (2) "Watch Star Wars", so she showed me how to use the computer in the library, and borrowed the original trilogy from the video store. I got to watch them back at the boarding house because it was, technically, homework :) Unfortunately, she borrowed the last two out of order.^^^^

***Confession: I had to ask Deb which number this queen was just to double-check her fate. I can't remember the names, just the fates: "Divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, survived". It's a bit like Dubček. I could never remember his name, so I used to walk around in year 12 saying "How much dub could a dubček ček ček if a dubček could ček dub," and now that's all I remember about him.

****Also Pauline Pantsdown. Oh, and Alannis Morissette, but that was a really, really bad first experience and took me a long time to get over.

^... shall make you fret.

^^William: "Hold on, hold on, there must be a law against killing lawyers."
Goodmountain: "Are you sure?"
William: "There're still some around, aren't there?"

^^^There was a BBC documentary on this with Stephen Fry, one hour, all on You-tube, but it's gone now. If you get the chance, watch it, if only for seeing how a wooden counterthread for a screw is carved by hand and Stephen Fry behaving like a complete fanboy over the reconstructed press ("a most satisfactory object").

^^^^Han shot first.

And while I liked it a lot, perhaps more than A Good Man, I also noticed a definite drop in my mood.  Tragic & seemly senseless violence factors large in her stories, and it can bring one down if you read too many too fast.  Don't get me wrong - they are good, in that same well-crafted, rattle your heart & brain kind of way, but also a bit of of a downer.

So J says, maybe you should read something happy -- like Pratchett.

Ahhhh, I feel much better now :-)

I've been purposefully stretching his books out to make them last.  I think there are 30 books in his Discworld series, and I only read 2-3 at a time (in order of course - this is me we are talking about!), and then wait a couple of months before reading any more. If you are unfamiliar - the series has a set of characters that he will jump between ... one book will feature one character, who might make a cameo in the next book that focuses on someone else, but they are also written so that each is a self-contained story and doesn't require prior knowledge to enjoy each on their own.  They are found in the stores under Fantasy, and they are a bit of a satire (some more heavy handed than others) of politics, religion, human behavior, etc. And they are quite funny.  If you think puns are funny.  Which I admit I do.  Also the footnotes make me laugh out loud.

Per Wiki, he's now the 2nd best-read author in the UK, and while some of you may dislike him for reasons similar to the 1st best-read UK author, I found him to be a perfect choice for today's lazy Sunday afternoon.

"I don't mean to be nosy. It's just that it takes me quite a long time to write that much, and even when I have all the words down, I go back and fuss with it over and over again."

I read the email and started to write my reply... and then thought, no, this might actually make an interesting blog post. So, with Lottie's permission, I’m going to address it here -- and add a few thoughts on daily targets in general.

How quickly I write isn’t important -- or, rather, it is, but only to me. Lottie understands this, her question was born of curiousity more than anything else, but I just want to make that clear. As it happens, it takes me about an hour and a quarter to get 1,000 words down. I’ve always written quickly, almost in a trance-like state!, but in the early days the quality was rarely there. Oddly, looking back, I don't think that mattered; we, I believe, learn to write through the act of writing -- the process itself sharpens the blunt tools we start off with. I still believe that the best way to improve as a writer is simply to say (and I apologise in advance for the language ;) ) "Fuck it" and dive in. As an exercise, just free associate. Pick an idea and write as much as you can in, say, half an hour. To begin with, the quality won't be there (my first novel was rejected with the words "you have a lot to learn about the narrative form"!), but in time you will surprise yourself.

That said, it is important for me to stress that every writer has to find his or her own way of doing things. Set targets that demand something of you, but don't make them unreachable. Terry Pratchett, for example, used to write 600 words a day (I don't know how his illness has affected this.) I’m just getting into the swing of it at 600 words -- but I’m not Terry Pratchett. It was right for him.

So, in conclusion:

1. Speed writing exercises centered around free association can help "hone" one's talent (and help you tap into thoughts you never knew you had!)
2. What works for me may not work for you. Experiment with work patterns. See what feels right.
3. Targets are important. They should tax you, but also be doable.
4. Try to do a little every day. When it's as much a part of your daily routine as taking a d -- okay, brushing your teeth, then you’re on your way.
5. Enjoy. It's only writing, after all.

"MENSCHEN SIND INTERESSANT:
DAS UNIVERSUM STECKT VOLLER WUNDER
UND SIE ERFINDEN DIE LANGEWEILE."

Para empezar, Mundodisco es una representación exagerada y muy, muy irónica de nuestro planeta tierra en la época del medievo. Si a ello le añades toques increibles de fantasía y un humor derivado del más puro esperpento Monty Python, lo metes en la Thermomix y lo dejas diez minutos a fuego lento puedes obtener, dependiendo de la velocidad de mezcla, uno de los muchísimos volúmenes que componen esta saga.

Partiéndo de esa base, comencemos a explicar lo principal:

• El Mundo Disco

Un mundo con forma de disco, que es soportado por cuatro elefantes gigantes, que navegan por el universo sobre la concha de una tortuga de tamaño incomparable, Gran A´tuin. En la geografía del disco las direcciones no se expresan como lo hacemos nosotros (norte, sur, este y oeste). En un punto cualquiera del disco podemos estar mirando hacia el centro (dirección Eje) o de espaldas al centro (dirección Borde). Las dos direcciones perpendiculares a las anteriores son Giro y Contragiro (o dextro y levo), ya que el disco rota sobre su eje para que se sucedan las estaciones. El clima en el Borde es cálido, y se va endureciendo a medida que nos movemos en dirección Eje.

• Los personajes

Dentro de esta categoría podemos incluir varios grupos o sagas dependiendo de quién es el protagonista. Rincewind es un mago que nunca ha tenido especial habilidad para los hechizos, as brujas Yaya Ceravieja y Tata Ogg que aplican sus conocimientos sobre "Cabezología" allá donde fueren, La muerte, que tiene una visión muy particular sobre la vida, Los magos, Los gremios, La guardia de la ciudad con Vimes y Zanahoria al frente protegiendo la ciudad de Ankh-Morpork...

Son inumerables los personajes que deambulan por los -hasta ahora - 36 libros publicados, Y cada uno con sus particularidades que hacen de esta saga un imprescindible en toda biblioteca de los amantes del género del humor.

He leido los 20 libros publicados en castellano hasta el momento, y como resumirlos todos es una tarea un tanto ardua, prefiero hacerlo solo del último que cayó en mis manos: "Pies de Barro"

La guardia de al ciudad se ve desbordada por varios asesinatos ocurridos en las calles de Ankh-Morpork. Parece ser que están implicados de alguna manera los gólems que trabajan en diferentes establecimientos, pero la investigación se tuerce, ya que ellos no pueden actuar por cuenta propia, ¿O si?

Por otro lado, Lord Vetinari sufre un envenenamiento progresivo que le obliga a permanecer en cama mientras Vimes Intenta por todos los medios averiguar el método de envenenamiento. Mencion aparte para Jovial, la nueva incorporación de la guardia que hace cambiar la decoración del palacio tantas veces que si tuvieran Ikea se estaría frotando las manos.

Del argumento nada más se debe decir. Y he dicho bien. Hay que descubrir página a página el intrincado humor de Pratchett, intentando dilucidar muchas veces a que objeto del mundo real se refiere con sus descripciones en MundoDisco. La ironía de los textos no gusta a todo el mundo, pero merece la pena disfrutar ,al menos, del fino humor destilado de muchas de sus páginas.

Por último decir que el pobre sufre una rara enfermedad de Alzheimer que puediera provocar una retirada prematura del maestro. Lástima que estos males priven a la gente de disfutar unos años más de su genio. Por el momento, disfrutad si podeis de cualquier libro de Pratchett -que no solo se reducen a la saga de MundoDisco- y no os limiteis solo a "¡Guardias! ¿Guardias?". Si tú, no te escondas, que sabes quien eres...

Clonk...comme un coup sec derrière la nuque.

Terry Pratchett est un écrivain britannique qui souilla mon jeune cerveau de son miasme littéraire il y a 15 ans, lorsqu'à cause de cette sale curiosité (qui tue le chat et le balance dans la flotte lesté de caillasses), j'empruntais négligemment 'La Huitième Couleur' à la Bibliothèque de mon petit village cambrousard.

"Les annales du Disque-Monde", est-ce que ça a un rapport avec le jeu débile 'Discworld' que j'ai essayé l'autre jour sur le PC d'un pote ? Pas sur, peut-être que c'est juste une image poétique sur le 'monde du disque', du CD-ROM. Tellement c'est hi-tech un CD-ROM, tu peux faire tenir un monde dessus. Ouais, ça doit être ça. En tout cas, dans le jeu, ça parle de tortue...

Bon à cette époque, j'enchaînais bouquins sur bouquins, dans un registre fantasy-SF d'un classicisme austère. Arthur C. Clark, Asimov, Bradbury, Barjavel, Huxley...je m'en gavais jusqu'à l'écoeurement.

"Dans un ensemble lointain de dimensions récupérées à la casse, dans un plan astral nullement conçu pour planer, les tourbillons de brumes stellaires frémissent et s'écartent...

Voyez..."

(fragment de l'incipit de La Huitième Couleur, 1983)

S'en suit une description astronomique d'un tortue. Ah. C'était donc ça.

Je n'étais pas franchement préparé...à vrai dire je m'attendais à des trolls, des nains, des magiciens et un peu de barbares sanguinaires. Bon en même temps il y en a pleins le bouquin, de ces articles de fantasy-discount. A la différence qu'ils ont conscience d'être des clichés, tant et si bien...ah, voila que je théorise...enfin, tant et si bien que le lecteur se retrouve dans un costume de lecteur de fantasy de carnaval, avec un bouquin complice et moqueur dans les mains, pétri d'humour so-british et de jeux de mots fabuleusement traduit (par Patrick Couton, traducteur héroïque).

Et depuis, je suis la petite vie du Disque-Monde, au grès des publications de Pratchett, auteur prolifique puisqu'on en est à 36 bouquins (english) à l'heure où j'écris ces lignes, ce qui donne une moyenne d'1,44 par an.

Pas mal.

D'autant que la seule faiblesse que j'ai pu déceler au fil des ans tient au fait que les pages de la collection Atalante ont tendance à se décoller à la 7ème lecture.

Ainsi, mon petit imaginaire personnel a mûrit accompagné de Rincevent, Cohen, Vimaire, Chicard (oui, dur), Ridculle, Mémé Ciredutemps...et La Mort, lui-même (héhé), en personne. Quand ma tête est malade, l'écriture de Pratchett est comme une brise de fraîcheur senteur lavande dans un barbecue allumé encrassé de graisse de chipolatas.

Enfin...je n'écris pas pour faire un éloge des Annales du Disque-Monde ; série archiconnue, vendue à des millions d'exemplaires, traduit dans une centaine de langues, brassant pleins de fric et de fans hystériques. Je voulais juste exprimer ce que ces livres représentent pour moi, ce qui fait qu'une petite brève d'actualité parcourue d'un premier coup d'oeil distrait, puis d'un second incrédule, me laissa tout triste, il y a de cela moins d'une semaine.

En effet, lundi 28 avril 2008, Terry Pratchett fêtait ses 60 ans.

Ah oui. Et j'ai aussi appris qu'il avait été diagnostiqué d'une forme rare et précoce de la maladie d'Alzheimer.

Clonk...comme un coup sec derrière la nuque.

Cette nouvelle m'a affecté plus que je ne l'aurais cru. Évidemment, je suis inquiet concernant l'avenir de la série, mon besoin régulier de fixs disque-mondiaux se trouvant menacé si le cerveau qui les conçoit venait à défaillir. Mais je suis aussi, bizarrement, mais profondément peiné par cette putain de mauvaise nouvelle. Je suis bêtement sentimental, personne ne mérite une maladie aussi nulle, mais...quoi...Pratchett...sorte de figure vibrante au firmament de mes guides spirituels...tu t'en irais rejoindre le charnier des anciens combattants de l'écriture servant de piédestal aux nouveaux rigolos, déjà ?

C'est juste pas juste. Comme dirait Ron l'Infect : "Faichié".

"All right," said Susan. "I'm not stupid. You're saying humans need... fantasies to make life bearable?"

REALLY? AS IF IT WAS SOME KIND OF PINK PILL? NO. HUMANS NEED FANTASY TO BE HUMAN. TO BE THE PLACE WHERE THE FALLING ANGEL MEETS THE RISING APE.

[Conversation between DEATH and Susan Sto-Helit in Hogfather by Terry Pratchett]

I thoroughly enjoy the Discworld series. There's a little bit of everything in it. Metaphysics, philosophy, ethical conundrums (you can't have good fiction without ethical questions). By making satire on the real world through the use of a fantasy setting, Pratchett forces us to look in the mirror. Plus, it's just a great read.

I'd have to say that my favorite character is Death. I've often wondered why I like Death so. Maybe it's because this anthropomorhphic personification spends his li-- existence studying humanity. As he looks through the microscope, he can't help but become a little more like his subjects (because they tend to look up the scope and wave). On one hand, he has the naiveté of a child. On the other, he is the most cynical being on the Disc. Take his motto, There's no justice. There's just me.

His cynicism comes from the fact that he has been around longer than almost anything else in the universe (the Creator and Death of Universes are older). He's seen it all and lived to tell about it.

In the quote I started this essay with, Death is right on the money—humans need fantasy. It's an art which is part of what makes us human. People have this driving need to make representations of reality. Sculptures. Paintings. Sketches. Photographs. We make art because it is part of the human condition.

Within humanity there seems to be something that drives us to believe that the universe is more than a hodgepodge mix of molecules coming from an explosion. We look up into the sky and say there has to be something more—a reason for why. Most of us aren't satisfied with statements like “Things just happen.” We want things to make sense and aren't satisfied until they do. So to help them make sense, we write a story, a song, or make visual art.

People want order in the world. We want there to be a reason for everything. Cause and effect is an integral part of humanity. God created us special. We are lower than the angels but higher than the animals. At our best, humans are capable of the greatest acts of mercy and charity—acts which I imagine the angels look on agog that we physical creatures managed to come up with that. At our worst, we make the most base of animals look like Ms. Manners. Humans occupy a special niche in the cosmos. We form a crucible where the greatest and worst has the chance to come to the surface. We have our Stalins, Hitlers, Attila the Huns, and Mansons. But we also have our Reagans, Lincolns, Chrysostoms, Grahams, and Pauls.

We use art to make the unknowable parts of the world a little less mysterious. We write stories to explore how the world would be different if, say, Muhammad had become a Christian. Painters like Fra Angelico and Michaelangelo explained deep theological truths through their paintings. Who can help being moved Michaelangelo's Last Judgment? Especially when looking at those whose names were not found in the book? Especially thought provoking for me is this person . Like the pastor in the link above says:

"For me this is one of the most powerful images every produced. This man has just realized his fate. Could it be that he had fooled himself for years about how he was living? Notice the dread and despair. Notice too the demon that has him. The simple color coding may imply that the demon is really evil (dark, almost an olive color, like dead flesh). The man on the other hand is lighter than the demon and some of the other damned. Could it be that he was not the worst sinner? Just bad enough?"

If that is Michaelangelo's point, then it is a good one. The subject was a good man, perhaps he gave money to the poor. He was kind. But in the end, his name wasn't in the Book. Don't let this be you. Michaelangelo even paints himself into the painting as one of those waiting to hear his eternal verdict. How did one get a "not guilty" verdict from Christ the Judge in Michaelangelo's painting? Look at those in the top part of the painting. They cling to the Cross and to Christ (a column in medieval religious paintings often symbolizes Christ), and for that, they hear "Enter in to the joy of the Lord."

But art isn't all good. Art can be abused very easily. Michaelangelo painted nudes into the Last Judgment to portray a bodily resurrection where we stand with no secrets before Christ (clothes were added to them later). That isn't why certain magazines have the pictures they do. They do it for the base reaction of the customer. They portray women and men as sacks of meat good only for sexual gratification not as people in their own right. And the abuse of art doesn't end with pornography. What about those who pass off pictures of violent death as art? I knew a guy in college who collected such pictures. That was more than just creepy.

Best and the worst all rolled into one package. That's humanity for you. And along the way, we'll write a book or two, paint a fresco, and sculpt a few statues. Not because we can, but because we have to.

Τι συμβαίνει όταν στον Δισκόκοσμο ένα τσούρμο ευτραφών, καλοπερασάκηδων, μισογύνηδων μάγων-μελών ΔΕΠ του Αθέατου Πανεπιστημίου -ενός εκπαιδευτικού ιδρύματος φτιαγμένου όχι για να ανοίγει νέους ορίζοντες στη μαγεία αλλά για να την περιορίζει- βρίσκονται κατά έναν μαγικό τρόπο στο Μονονήσι ,  ένα νησί όπου όλη η χλωρίδα και η πανίδα αποτελείται από ένα δείγμα κάθε είδους, μερικές χιλιάδες χιλιόμετρα και χρόνια μακριά από την έδρα τους; Μα φυσικά συναντούν τον θεό της Εξέλιξης των ειδών στο εργαστήριό του και έχουν μαζί του μια πολύ ενδιαφέρουσα συζήτηση για το ρόλο της αναπαραγωγής, μιας και δεν την έχει εφεύρει ακόμα:

“Καταπληκτική κατασκευή,” είπε ο Ridcully, προβάλλοντας από τον ελέφαντα. Πολύ καλές ρόδες. Αυτά τα κομμάτια τα βάφεις πριν τη συναρμολόγηση, έτσι δεν είναι;”

“Δεν πρόκειται για μοντελισμό, κύριε,” είπε ο Ponder, παίρνοντας ένα νεφρό από τα χέρια του και στερεώνοντάς το πίσω. “Είναι ένας αληθινός ελέφαντας υπό κατασκευή!”

“Α.”

“Που φτιάχνεται, κύριε,” είπε ο Ponder, αφού ο Ridcully δε φαινόταν να έχει μπει στο νόημα. “Πράγμα που δεν είναι σύνηθες.”

“Α. Πώς φτιάχνονται κανονικά, λοιπόν;”

“Από άλλους ελέφαντες, κύριε.”

“Α, ναι...”

“Αλήθεια; Έτσι φτιάχνονται;” είπε ο θεός. “Πώς; Αυτές οι προβοσκίδες είναι αρκετά πρακτικές, αν μου επιτρέπετε να ευλογήσω τα γένια μου, αλλά όχι ιδιαίτερες καλές για λεπτεπίλεπτη δουλειά.”

“Α, δε φτιάχνονται έτσι, κύριε, προφανώς. Με το... ξέρετε... το σεξ...” είπε ο Ponder και ένιωσε να κοκκινίζει.

“Σεξ;”

Τότε ο Ponder σκέφτηκε: Μονονήσι. Ωχ...

“Εεε... θηλυκά κι αρσενικά...” τόλμησε να πει.

“Τι είναι αυτά λοιπόν;” είπε ο θεός. Οι μάγοι σώπασαν.

“Συνεχίστε, Κύριε Stibbons,” είπε ο Αρχιπρύτανης Ridcully. “Είμαστε όλοι αυτιά. Ιδίως ο ελέφαντας.”

“Λοιπόν...” Ο Ponder ήξερε ότι γινόταν κατακόκκινος. “Εεε, λοιπόν, πώς δημιουργείτε λουλούδια και άλλα τέτοια ως τώρα;”

“Τα φτιάχνω,” είπε ο θεός. “Και έπειτα τα παρακολουθώ και βλέπω πώς λειτουργούν και όταν μαραθούν φτιάχνω μια βελτιωμένη έκδοση βασισμένη στα αποτελέσματα της παρατήρησης.” Συνοφρυώθηκε. “Αν και τώρα τελευταία τα φυτά δείχνουν πολύ παράξενη συμπεριφορά. Ποιος ο λόγος για αυτούς τους σπόρους που παράγουν ολοένα; Προσπαθώ να τα αποθαρρύνω, αλλά δε μ' ακούνε.”

“Νομίζω ότι...ε... προσπαθούν να εφεύρουν το σεξ, κύριε,” είπε ο Ponder.”Εεε...με το σεξ μπορείς... μπορούν... τα πλάσματα μπορούν... να φτιάξουν τα επόμενα... πλάσματα.”

“Εννοείς ότι... οι ελέφαντες μπορούν να φτιάξουν κι άλλους ελέφαντες;”

“Μάλιστα, κύριε.”

“Σώπα! Αλήθεια;”

“Ω, ναι.”

"Πώς τα καταφέρνουν; Η ρύθμιση του κουνήματος των αυτιών είναι ιδιαίτερα χρονοβόρα. Χρησιμοποιούν ειδικά εργαλεία;”

Ο Ponder είδε τον Κοσμήτορα να κοιτά την οροφή, ενώ και οι υπόλοιποι μάγοι ανακάλυπταν κάτι δήθεν συναρπαστικό για να ασχοληθούν μαζί του έτσι ώστε να αποφεύγουν ο ένας το βλέμμα του άλλου.

“Εμ, κατά κάποιον τρόπο,” είπε ο Ponder. Ήξερε ότι μπροστά του βρισκόταν ένα αγκαθωτό μονοπάτι και αποφάσισε να τα παρατήσει. “Αλλά στ' αλήθεια δεν ξέρω και πολλά γύρω από -”

“Και εργαστήρια, το δίχως άλλο,” είπε ο θεός. Έβγαλε ένα βιβλίο από την τσέπη του και πήρε το μολύβι που είχε στο αυτί του. “Σε πειράζει να κρατήσω σημειώσεις;”

“Τα πλάσματα... εεε... το θηλυκό...” προσπαθησε να πει ο Ponder.

“Το θηλυκό,” είπε ο θεός υπάκουα, σημειώνοντάς το.

“Να, το θηλυκό... ένας διαδεδομένος τρόπος... το θηλυκό... φτιάχνει κατά μία έννοια το επόμενο... μέσα της.”

Ο θεός σταμάτησε να γράφει. “Τώρα, είμαι βέβαιος ότι αυτό δεν είναι σωστό,” είπε. “Δεν μπορείς να φτιάξεις έναν ελέφαντα μέσα σε έναν άλλο ελέφαντα-”

“Εεε... μια μικρότερη έκδοση...”

“Α, για άλλη μια φορά πρέπει να επισημάνω το ψεγάδι. Μετά από μερικές τέτοιες κατασκευές θα κατέληγες σε έναν ελέφαντα σε μέγεθος λαγού.”

“Ε, μεγαλώνει αργότερα...”

“Αλήθεια; Πώς;”

“Κατά κάποιον τρόπο... αναπτύσσεται... ε... από μέσα προς τα έξω.”

“Και το άλλο, αυτό που δεν είναι το, εεε, θηλυκό;” Ποιος είναι ο ρόλος του σε όλο αυτό; Είναι άρρωστος ο συνάδελφός σας;”

Ο Μαθηματικός χτύπησε τον Κοσμήτορα δυνατά στην πλάτη.

“Είμαι εντάξει,” τσίριξε ο Κοσμήτορας, “με πιάνουν... συχνά... αυτές οι κρίσεις βήχα...”

Ο θεός σημείωσε επιμελώς για κάποια δευτερόλεπτα, και έπειτα σταμάτησε και μάσησε σκεφτικός την άκρη του μολυβιού του.

“Και όλο αυτό το, εεε, το σεξ γίνεται από ανειδίκευτους εργάτες;”

“Ω, ναι.”

“Κανένας ποιοτικός έλεγχος οποιασδήποτε μορφής;”

“Εεε, όχι.”

“Πώς το κάνει το δικό σας είδος;” είπε ο θεός. Κοίταξε ερωτηματικά τον Ponder.

“Το... εεε... εμείς... εεε...” τραύλισε ο Ponder.

“Το αποφεύγουμε,” είπε ο Ridcully. “Άσχημος βήχας σε έχει πιάσει, Κοσμήτορα.”

“Αλήθεια;” είπε ο θεός. “Πολύ ενδιαφέρον. Τι κάνετε αντί γι' αυτό; Διχοτομείστε; Αυτό δουλεύει μια χαρά στις αμοιβάδες, αλλά οι καμηλοπαρδάλεις το βρίσκουν εξαιρετικά δύσκολο, το ξέρω καλά.”

“Τι; Όχι, επιδιδόμαστε σε υψηλότερα πράγματα,” είπε ο Ridcully. “Και κάνουμε κρύα μπάνια, υγιεινούς πρωινούς περιπάτους, τέτοια πράγματα.”

“Θεέ μου, καλύτερα να το σημειώσω αυτό,” είπε ο θεός, ψαχουλεύοντας το μανδύα του. “Πώς ακριβώς λειτουργεί η διαδικασία; Τα θηλυκά σας συνοδεύουν; Αυτά τα υψηλότερα πράγματα... Πόσο ψηλά ακριβώς; Αυτή είναι μια πολύ ενδιαφέρουσα ιδέα. Να υποθέσω ότι απαιτούνται επιπλέον οπές;”

“Τι; Παρντόν;” είπε ο Ponder.

“Να βάλω τα πλάσματα να φτιάχνουν τους εαυτούς τους, ε; Νόμιζα ότι όλη αυτή ιστορία με τους σπόρους ήταν απλώς υπερβάλλων ζήλος, αλλά, ναι, βλέπω ότι θα με γλίτωνε από πολύ δουλειά, πολύ δουλειά. Φυσικά, θα πρέπει να δουλέψω λίγο παραπάνω στο στάδιο του σχεδιασμού, σίγουρα, αλλά υποθέτω ότι έπειτα θα λειτουργεί στην ουσία από μόνο του.” Το χέρι του θεού είχε πάρει φωτιά καθώς έγραφε και ο ίδιος συνέχισε, “Χμμ, ορμές και ένστικτα, θα είναι μάλλον ζωτικής σημασίας... ε...[...] Το μόνο πράγμα που δεν καταλαβαίνω πολύ καλά είναι το γιατί οποιοδήποτε πλάσμα θα επιθυμούσε να ξοδέψει χρόνο σε όλο αυτό το...” έριξε μια ματιά στις σημειώσεις του, “το σεξ, όταν θα μπορούσαν να διασκεδάζουν με την ψυχή τους...”

Terry Pratchett, The Last Continent, σσ. 231-235

]]> http://ichthyes.wordpress.com/?p=295 Sun, 30 Mar 2008 17:18:17 +0000 literarydeadkittens http://ichthyes.wordpress.com/?p=295 One of the hot news items of late has been Terry Pratchett and his current condition. He had Alzheimer's, and has pledged $1 million to the cause, which, as he said, is severely underfunded by comparison to the funding for cancer research. And, as everyone's aware, this no way means cancer research is swimming in money.

Recently the MatchItForPratchett Campaign has started, encouraging Pratchett fans to give one pound each to match Terry's donation. To see more about Alzheimer's, click here, and to take a look at the MatchIt campaign, click here.

The Rules:

1. Pick up the nearest book of 123 (or more) pages.

Thud!" Terry Pratchett

2. Open the book to page 123 and find the 3rd sentence.

Once you had a good excuse, you opened the door to bad excuses.

3. Post the next 5 sentences.

He had nightmares about being too late. He had a lot of nightmares about Young Sam. They involved empty cots, and darkness. It had all been too ... good. In a few short years he, Sam Vimes, had gone up in the world like a balloon.

4. Tag 5 people.

Boo, Madmouse, Tah, Neo and LaMa. Well, everyone really :P

(This turned out much longer than I anticipated. Introductory paragraph below, but hit "more" for the rest. I'd like to do something like this for every day of the trip, but that really took it out of me. In case you can't guess from the much improved writing below, I bought a pair of Terry Pratchett books while in Oregon, and that always does wonders for my writing.)

It was dark. Long before the sun had even had thoughts of tumbling out of bed and wearily rising over the horizon. It was too early even for the proverbial early bird to have stirred in its nest. Even the nocturnal animals knew this was no hour to be awake, and hastily made their way to their homes as his minivan coasted by. A few dead leaves, the remains of winter, followed the wind that trailed. The headlights shone upon the sleepy road, which twisted through the trees as a restless sleeper would through blankets. Out in the distance, a faint red beacon could just be seen. The Windstar eased to a halt outside the intersection as its driver took another piece of candy from its wrapper. The sugar was doing little to keep him awake, and it was only the placebo effect that was doing any good. He waited with imperceptible anticipation for the light to shift hues. There was no rush, of course. By no means would he be the last to arrive. It was this careful attention to punctuality that he took pride in.

He wondered what the coming week would bring, trying to occupy his thoughts before Boredom (and subsequently, Sleep) took hold. There was a job to be done. He knew that much. There was always the Job, but it wasn't until a job showed up that you even thought about Working on the Job. What aforementioned job was, however, he was unsure. The location was most certainly Oregon. Given that, he deduced that the job was to be done in the United States, and surely on Earth. This also meant the job was not to be done in Tennessee, or any celestial bodies for that matter. Other galaxies were right out. With this train of thought, he'd be able to deduce a near infinite number of facts about the job, but that train would undoubtedly loop back to Boredom's central station, Redundancy. Perhaps the nature of the job could be meditated on. There was a camp somewhere in Oregon (not on any celestial bodies, mind you) that was severely understaffed. Cabins needed to be cleaned and fixed up in preparation for the coming months' rush of young children in ridiculously colored coats against their will and older children in similarly ridiculous clothes of their own accord. There was also the small church. An urban ministry, acronymed as something like WELL, or FLOW... churches always seemed to acronym as water-related things. They loved that water metaphor. Regardless, they needed help, too. He wasn't sure what the job there would entail, but, whatever it turned out to be, it would let him do the Job.

The light turned green.

The minivan lazily rolled across the intersection, probably well aware of the hour. It did, after all, have a clock in the dashboard. It rolled into the parking lot and slowed to a stop between the white lines of a parking space. About ten others were waiting next to a larger van, illuminated by the yellow light of a street lamp. The driver dismounted from the Windstar and took his luggage towards the others. The Windstar felt no sense of abandonment, though. It did not feel that its owner was leaving it to rust for the rest of its days. No, vans have no feelings, and you're very silly for thinking otherwise.

His arrival was met with a few half-hearted cheers that said, quite plainly, "I'm glad you're here, but I'd rather see a bed." These were good friends. When you're in front of a soda machine with a thirsty gleam in your eye, they don't say "here's a dollar if you promise to pay me back." That's an acquaintance. They don't say "here's a dollar, don't worry about it." That's just an average friend. No, they say "I'll split mine with you, just don't backwash." They do the right thing, but not because it's honorable or commendable. They do it because that's what friends do.

There would be twenty in all. As four AM drew near, the missing members pulled into the church parking lot. Sarah (not to be confused with Sara) had brought some of her highly regarded scones to share. The small crowd formed a circle. A prayer was said, and the vans were loaded. Before stepping into the van, the Windstar's pilot took a look at the trees dotting the parking lot, tinged yellow by the street lamps. There were buds, ready to flower. They'll bloom before we return, he thought. He logged the idea away and stepped into the van.

The ride to the airport was filled with joking and laughter, but, as the reader will note, the difficulty of memory formation is proportional to the lack of sleep, so the story here skips a bit. There was something about broccoli, and... er... um...

The airport! A... uniquely designed building, to say the least. See it below, as the field of vision zooms out and upwards. It sprawls outward, as a city that finds it's grown too big for its summer wear. The difference being that the airport was built all at once, and, most surprisingly, looks this way by design. The view continues to pan outward, and we see a tiny dot on the highway, moving towards the tangled terminals; if it was not pointed out, it would be completely overlooked as mere flavor in the scene. As always happens when viewing an airport from a high, distant vantage point, an airplane roars by, testing the limits of the reader's imagination's surround sound. The scene fades to a montage, as the twenty Workers leave the van, get their passes, permeate through the cliche security point, and arrive at the gate.

They were early, of course. He had no problem with this. But it did mean he would have to think some more to keep Boredom et al at bay. There was the cold weather. It's cold outside. Well, that train of thought has reached the end of the line. What else? There were those scones, they were good. Wonder what's in 'em... And what where they saying about broccoli on the van? There was also that...

Oh yeah. The Job.

It was something people could forget about easily. When you were overwhelmed with jobs, you tended to forget their purpose: earn money, buy food, eat it, keep alive so you can do the Job. But people always forgot the Job. It sank into the background as "more important" things rose up. Responsibilities, status, wealth, even fear. But you couldn't let it sink like that. Not when you were Employed. You had to remember. You had to do the Job.

The plane hit the ground with a loud thud. The wind sounded out with a long roar as it saw the plane speeding by. All in all, a cacophony of airplany noises were going on as the passengers saw the nearing terminal. After much bustling, the carry-ons found their owners and everyone's circadian clocks were feeling a bit confused. Todd, the understood leader of the twenty, got the rented vans. The remaining nineteen waited by the baggage claim. Various portable storage devices drifted across on the conveyor belt, hoping to be reunited with their respective carry-on buddies. A section of extremely uncomfortable benches was claimed for the group, and, to no alarm, many sat on the floor. Reclaimed suitcases became makeshift pillows as the wait for Todd dragged on. A hackysack emerged at one point, as did another bag on Sarah's scones. Then... er... maybe, no...

The vans! They were loaded with luggage and people. And some scones. Todd and Chad took the driver's seats, while Sarah piloted the minivan that had been rented exclusively for carrying all the luggage. The others chose the van they would end up spending the rest of the week in. The vehicles pulled out. The airport disappeared behind them, while exciting adventures in Oregon (not on any distant stars) awaited them ahead. There was a Job to do.