Tea Blends: The Gods of Life and Death

When I asked my friends what they'd like to read about on a blog run by me, one of the first mentioned topics was tea. This surprised me, since I don't normally think of tea as something I have much to say about, but it is certainly one of my passions. I chart the seasons with the types and styles of tea I prefer, tea is my first go-to for all forms of emotional support, I have a piece of furniture entirely devoted to loose leaf storage, and I rarely travel anywhere without a small collection and a means of steeping and sharing. But short of a post extolling the wonders of lapsang souchong (which I'm not above, and might resort to one day), I wasn't sure where to go with that.

Then I forced my tabletop group to sample my latest experimental theme blend, and a friend of friend asked me to ship them a tin of it, and I realized that I can in fact devote several pages of words to the blends I put together on my own. And formally documenting the recipes will make them easier to replicate!

The tiniest teapot I own! Mug added for reference.

I started playing with customized tea blends a little over a year ago. Simple things. One or two base teas blended with some number of add-ins in the form of fruits or flowers or spices. I make different blends based on whatever I feel like drinking at the time, but the more entertaining ones, and the ones I want to consistently replicate, are blends I make for specific purposes. Tea to represent a theme, or styled after a friend of mine, or, quite often, tea for LARPing. (If you don't know what LARPing is, that's a whole different post, but for now go with "roleplaying with my friends in fictional universes.")  

Today I'll share a little of the first and last in the form of themed blends I've been working on for Crossover, a game that starts this spring. Worry not! The tea is delicious whether or not you know anything about the game, and the symbolism is sufficiently universal that I don't think anyone will have trouble following along. Specifically, the fantasy world in which Crossover takes place has a pantheon of six gods, covering the purviews of Life, Death, Sun, Moon, Joy, and Sorrow, and I've been making blends for each of them. This post covers Life and Death, and more posts will follow with the rest. (If you'd like to learn more about Crossover, you can find information here or at the crossover-larp Google group.) 

Faithful Of Life (a sencha blend)

The blend:

For every teaspoon of sencha,

 - 1/4 teaspoon of dried orange rind (You could use fresh zest, instead, though I'd halve the amount in that case.)

 - 1/2 teaspoon of dried basil (Fresh is better, but we were out. If you use fresh basil, shred it, and halve this amount.)

 - a pinch of whole peppercorns
 - a pinch of calendula and a pinch of blue malva, but really add any edible flowers you have on hand!

Steep at ~160°F for 1-2 minutes. Sencha (like most greens) oversteeps easily, turning from grassy to astringently bitter, so err on the shorter end of that scale. If you don't have an easy way to heat water to a specific temperature (and most of us don't), bring your water to a boil and then let it cool for a few seconds until it's no longer bubbling and steaming.

Immediately after adding the water. This tea won't change much in coloring as it steeps.

Notes on ingredients:

 - The sencha here is a Special Grade Japanese Sencha Yamato from Upton Tea, which is solid and meets all of my gorgeous grassy requirements while still allowing me to buy a sizable tin and remain in budget.

 - The dried flowers were a gift, which is why I'm running low. I've yet to find a good source.

 - Everything else easily picked up from the spice section of my grocery store.

Notes on design:
Creating a tea for a goddess of life, I knew immediately that I wanted the base to be sencha. What better tea to represent nature and growing things than a nice, grassy green? From that starting point, I went on to try to create a summer garden. Flowers were necessary, of course, but I wanted something richer and spicier. "Life" and "nature" can be characterized in many ways, but this source material leans most closely to "red in tooth and claw." The usual delicate, floral green blend wouldn't suit this goddess of jungles and violence at all. So I began playing with a variety of herbs, going for a more savory but still very plant-based flavor, and found that adding basil to the tea suited my purposes perfectly. What I ended up with is still one of my favorite tea blends, a balanced, spicy green that looks gorgeous in the pot and is even delicious chilled, which isn't usually my preference.

I don't actually recommend serving hot tea in wine glasses, but it sure is pretty.

Faithful of Death (a pu-erh blend)

The blend:

For every teaspoon of pu-erh, 

 - 1 whole clove

 - 1/4 teaspoon of mint

 - 1/4 teaspoon of rose petals

Steep with boiling water for at least three minutes, and I usually go to five. You can't oversteep this blend.

Immediately after adding the water.

Notes on ingredients:

 - The pu-erh I used here is from MEM Tea Imports. It's far from my favorite. It's weaker and has less depth than most I'm used to, but I can buy it in bulk, which is useful.

 - Peppermint from Adagio Teas, my usual first stop for herbals and fruit blends.

 - Rose petals from Spices and Tease.

 - Whole cloves from the spice section of my local grocery store.

Notes on design:

Just as sencha was a must for a goddess of life, pu-erh seemed immediately necessary for death. Pu-erh is a type of tea that's aged and fermented, and as such easily brings to mind decay and rot. (The tea itself is delicious. Rich and malty with a depth and complexity of flavor that other teas can't manage. It pairs surprisingly well with chocolate, in general.) Beyond that, though, I was temporarily stumped. Something...wintery, probably? So I went to mint as my go-to for making things taste "cold," and added in cloves for their particular dryness and association with fall and winter seasoning. Both seemed appropriate, but the flavor wasn't balanced. At first I thought it needed more bitterness, and that seemed a reasonable flavor to add to Death, so I tried blending in other tea bases, and I experimented with dark chocolate, but in the end the solution was nearly the opposite. I stole the rose petals I'd originally been using for Life's tea and added them to Death for remembrance and mourning, and the result is dark, but also somehow quiet, almost comforting.

This blend grows into a much richer, darker color as it steeps.

So there you have it! Life and Death. Two tea blends I'm pretty fond of and make on a regular basis even when I'm not working on anything for the game or universe in question. As a bonus, it's entertaining to ask guests who've requested tea from me whether they want life or death sans any context. Next up: Sun and Moon!

Cheers!

PS: I love trying out new blends in my glass teapot, so that I can get a good look at them as they steep and appreciate the appearance as much as the flavor, but straining is an issue. They sell these dear little straining spoons that you can place over a mug to strain through, but if you're an unreasonable human being like me you own over a dozen tea pots and various novelty strainers, but nothing quite so useful. So instead I usually cannibalize a strainer from one of my other pots, or better yet create a makeshift strainer spoon out of an open tea ball.

You can never have enough tea strainers. Never.

Poetry of the Week: The Highwayman

While this blog is new and we're all still getting to know each other, it seems the ideal time to share my favorite poem: Alfred Noyes's "The Highwayman." I first encountered the ballad in middle school in one of those hefty English literature textbooks, which were always a treasure to flip through when class got slow or boring. I instantly fell in love. At this point, its status as my favorite has as much to do with nostalgia as preference, but all the reasons I loved it then still apply. Robbers, romance, gorgeous imagery, and a certain flavor of darkness I've always found comforting, all set to such a clear rhythm that a few years later I'd find out Loreena McKennitt sang a version, which I highly recommend looking up. (Though she omits a couple verses.)

This is not a short or a happy poem, and it's perhaps best read at night by a fire, but without further ado, and before I spoil anything...

The Highwayman - Alfred Noyes
PART ONE

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
         Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin.
They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh.
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
         His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard.
He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred.
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
         Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked.
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord’s daughter,
         The landlord’s red-lipped daughter.
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
         Watch for me by moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”

He rose upright in the stirrups. He scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
         (O, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.

PART TWO

He did not come in the dawning. He did not come at noon;
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,
When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching—
         Marching—marching—
King George’s men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord. They drank his ale instead.
But they gagged his daughter, and bound her, to the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
         And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest.
They had bound a musket beside her, with the muzzle beneath her breast!
“Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her. She heard the doomed man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
         Watch for me by moonlight;
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
         Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it. She strove no more for the rest.
Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast.
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
         Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love’s refrain.

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horsehoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding—
         Riding—riding—
The red coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still.

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer. Her face was like a light.
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
         Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.

He turned. He spurred to the west; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, and his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
         The landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high.
Blood red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat;
When they shot him down on the highway,
         Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.

. . .

And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
         Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard.
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred.
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
         Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

Book Review: Sunshine by Robin McKinley

I mentioned book reviews early on, and I thought at the time I'd be bringing you feedback on Dirty Magic or Of Dawn and Darkness or one of the other books and series I'm in the middle of. But the past few days called for a treasured old favorite of mine instead.

For those of us who've spent our lives haunting the sci-fi/fantasy section, Robin McKinley is one of those names. Even before I'd ever read any of her books, (and after all this time I've only read a couple), I got used to her presence between the Pern novels and whatever Andre Norton books they might have around. I've picked up Deerskin at least a dozen times, but it's never called to me enough to stick.

Unlike Sunshine. Initially published in 2003 and re-released in 2008, it missed the tail end of my own vampire phase (I moved on to assassins at one point and have apparently never left), but fell squarely into the contemporary trend of the Southern Vampire Mysteries and other undead romances. And on the shape of it, it doesn't differ much from form. The Amazon blurb for the book is:

"There are places in the world where darkness rules, where it's unwise to walk. But there hadn't been any trouble out at the lake for years, and Sunshine just needed a spot where she could be alone with her thoughts. Vampires never entered her mind.

Until they found her."

A small town woman in a version of the modern world that knows about supernaturals but doesn't much interact with them, dragged by chance into the larger picture, who finds out more about her own strengths while looking out for herself and her people. There's even something resembling a love triangle with a vampire at one corner. If that formula sounds appealing to you, you'll probably like Sunshine! But even if it doesn't, I recommend giving Sunshine a chance, for a few reasons.

The first is purely and simply the world building. Both in content and delivery. Content-wise, McKinley gives us the tail end of a terrible war, different types of supernatural creature and how they're integrated (or not) with society, supernatural policing agencies, pieces of a fascinating magic system, magic tattoos (a weakness of mine), and vampires that are satisfyingly monstrous. In terms of delivery, I'm always intrigued by modern fantasy that blends the supernatural into the mundane, and this book might be my benchmark. Sunshine is a simple baker, but everyone keeps a few wards around. She doesn't know the ins and outs of supernatural factions or agencies, but she knows what people say about them. The result is a series of small, realistic details and a sense of a greater world beyond what we can see. Our first words on the subject of vampires (and other supernatural creatures, referred to collectively as Others) are given to us by Sunshine with the following disclaimer: "I had kind of a lot of theoretical knowledge about the Others, from reading what I could pull off the globenet about them-- fabulously, I have to say, embellished by my addiction to novels like Immortal Death and Blood Chalice-- but I didn't have much practical 'fo." followed soon after by the helpful observation that "It is technically illegal to be a vampire."

The second amalgam reason is all of the myriad small ways it breaks from form. Vampires are monsters. They aren't charming or misunderstood. They don't live off blood substitute or speak woefully about their tragic histories. "[The smell of vampires] is not attractive or disgusting, although it does make your heart race. That's in the genes, I suppose. Your body knows it's prey [...]" Sunshine does meet and interact with one vampire who differs slightly from the rest, but the crawling wrongness never entirely goes away. And perhaps growing out of that, this really isn't a love story. There are romance elements, but more than anything, it's a story about Sunshine and survival and quiet strength. So if what turns you off the form is the concept of a vampire romance, or if you're simply tired of those tropes, you shouldn't let that deter you.

Finally, and really the main reason I recommend this book and reread it year after year, is the heart. Have you ever sat in the gold of a slanting afternoon sunbeam and appreciated the quiet? This book captures that feeling better than anything else I've ever read. Sunshine, the character, is a gift. She spends her time making her signature Cinnamon Rolls as Big as Your Head and inventing new desserts to feed to people. She buys herself flowers to cheer herself up. She reads ridiculous pulp novels and befriends everyone. She's curious and stubbornly determined and braver than she thinks. We should all be Sunshine. And in her hands the dichotomy between sunshine and family matters on the one side and shadowy darkness filled with magic and monsters feels as natural as the transition from night to day. The story begins with her desire (familiar to most of us, some days) to be somewhere "so exquisitely far from the rest of [her] life", and she ends up somewhere both distant and familiar.

I won't say more for fear of spoilers, but I will add one warning before I go: There is no sequel. If you read this book, you will want there to be a sequel, but according to the author that will probably never happen. The story is complete. There's no actual cliffhanger, but the world and the characters are so vast that you'll be left wanting to know more. More about what Sunshine does next. More about the questions left unanswered. I would trade in every last one of my P. N. Elrod books for a sequel to Sunshine, but as it stands the book's world exists for me in the haze of a fading summer day, and that's enough.

Poetry of the Week: Wooded Ways

This week you get a themed poetry collection, with minimal introduction. You know at least two of these authors, and if you haven't read any from the third I'm happy to start to remedy that. (Though honestly of the three I've mostly read Byron. So much Byron. Expect him to be a common name here.) As for the theme, these are some of the handful of poems that inspired the title of this blog, though all in different ways.

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods - Lord Byron There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.

The Path That Leads Nowhere - Corinne Roosevelt Robinson There's a path that leads to Nowhere
In a meadow that I know,
Where an inland island rises
And the stream is still and slow;
There it wanders under willows,
And beneath the silver green
Of the birches' silent shadows
Where the early violets lean.

Other pathways lead to Somewhere,
But the one I love so well
Has no end and no beginning—
Just the beauty of the dell,
Just the wind-flowers and the lilies
Yellow-striped as adder's tongue,
Seem to satisfy my pathway
As it winds their scents among.

There I go to meet the Springtime,
When the meadow is aglow,
Marigolds amid the marshes,—
And the stream is still and slow.
There I find my fair oasis,
And with care-free feet I tread
For the pathway leads to Nowhere,
And the blue is overhead!

All the ways that lead to Somewhere
Echo with the hurrying feet
Of the Struggling and the Striving,
But the way I find so sweet
Bids me dream and bids me linger,
Joy and Beauty are its goal,—
On the path that leads to Nowhere
I have sometimes found my soul!

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening - Robert Frost Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Poetry of the Day: Stephen Crane and Hearts

There's too much poetry in the world and I'm too impatient to stick with a once a week schedule, so instead let's try this: Every Wednesday will include a Poetry of the Week post like clockwork, but sporadically throughout the week I may drop in with a Poetry of the Day that feels particularly relevant at the time. For today, Stephen Crane and poems about hearts.

You may or may not know Stephen Crane as the author of the Red Badge of Courage. I'd honestly forgotten that particular tie, but it's relevant and certainly his most well known title. It turns out that in addition to prose, he wrote a great deal of fairly short, freeform poetry. Most of the poems I'm drawn to involve some amount of rhythm or rhyme, singing when you read them aloud, but Crane's poetry appeals to me for its stark discord and, shall we say, complete lack of chill. He's bitter and sarcastic and cutting and has no room for romanticism, particularly about death or war or humanity's higher virtues. His poem "War is Kind" feigns consolation for the women and children left behind by detailing the grisly circumstances of their loved ones' deaths. "Fast Rode the Knight" reads like a typical knightly rescue, until the end focuses on the poor horse the knight rode to death to get there. "Charity Thou Art a Lie" goes...about as you'd expect. If you'd like to read more of his works, I recommend looking up his poetry collection, The Black Riders and Other Lines, and for added interest, go look up comments both he and his critics made about it.

But for today a pair of poems a little closer to home:

In The Desert In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, “Is it good, friend?”
“It is bitter—bitter,” he answered;

“But I like it
“Because it is bitter,
“And because it is my heart.”

Many Red Devils Many red devils ran from my heart
And out upon the page,
They were so tiny
The pen could mash them.
And many struggled in the ink.
It was strange
To write in this red muck
Of things from my heart.

I don't want to analyze the poetry I share with you, because I want it to be yours, but "In The Desert" and I have a strange relationship. It at once feels to me like a half-finished thought and a perfect summation. Self-acceptance and -degradation in one concise package. My flaws and bitterness are my own, and I love them for it. But that is simply me, and maybe you don't identify with the lone bestial creature. You should make of it what you will.

And now I'm off to continue channeling negative emotions and the dreadfulness of February into a much needed resurrection of my writing habits. Be warm and well.

Poetry of the Week: The Old Astronomer

I've spent much of this past week thinking about dreams, ambition, and the legacies we leave behind, (before I listened to the Hamilton soundtrack, even), and so I thought I'd share a favorite poem along those lines. "The Old Astronomer"* is best known for the middle line "I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.", but the full context seems regretfully lost in most cases. The rhythm and the message get it stuck in my head for days, and so it seemed a fitting start to this poetry of the week idea.

But I wanted to give you some context for the author as well, and so I looked, and here's what I found: Sarah Williams was born in London in December 1837. She died at age 30, due to a surgery meant to treat the illness that would have killed her more slowly. Knowing this was a risk, she left her loved ones a poem praying for their comfort after her passing. (Not the poem we're discussing today.) Her final book of work, Twilight Hours: A Legacy of Verse, was published posthumously, "The Old Astronomer" included.

I have fewer words about that than I'd hoped, but I expect I'll be reading the rest of her poetry and writing now, and I suggest you do the same. So far it's all beautiful, and light even in sorrow. I may share some of it in later weeks. But for the moment, read "The Old Astronomer" and spend a few moments on your love and passions today.


The Old Astronomer

Reach me down my Tycho Brahé, – I would know him when we meet,
When I share my later science, sitting humbly at his feet;
He may know the law of all things, yet be ignorant of how
We are working to completion, working on from then to now.

Pray remember that I leave you all my theory complete,
Lacking only certain data for your adding, as is meet,
And remember men will scorn it, ‘tis original and true,
And the obloquy of newness may fall bitterly on you.

But, my pupil, as my pupil you have learned the worth of scorn,
You have laughed with me at pity, we have joyed to be forlorn,
What for us are all distractions of men’s fellowship and wiles;
What for us the Goddess Pleasure with her meretricious smiles.

You may tell that German College that their honor comes too late,
But they must not waste repentance on the grizzly savant’s fate.
Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light;
I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.

What, my boy, you are not weeping? You should save your eyes for sight;
You will need them, mine observer, yet for many another night.
I leave none but you, my pupil, unto whom my plans are known.
You “have none but me,” you murmur, and I “leave you quite alone”?

Well then, kiss me, – since my mother left her blessing on my brow,
There has been a something wanting in my nature until now;
I can dimly comprehend it, – that I might have been more kind,
Might have cherished you more wisely, as the one I leave behind.

I “have never failed in kindness”? No, we lived too high for strife,–
Calmest coldness was the error which has crept into our life;
But your spirit is untainted, I can dedicate you still
To the service of our science: you will further it? you will!

There are certain calculations I should like to make with you,
To be sure that your deductions will be logical and true;
And remember, “Patience, Patience,” is the watchword of a sage,
Not to-day nor yet to-morrow can complete a perfect age.

I have sown, like Tycho Brahé, that a greater man may reap;
But if none should do my reaping, 'twill disturb me in my sleep
So be careful and be faithful, though, like me, you leave no name;
See, my boy, that nothing turn you to the mere pursuit of fame.

I must say Good-bye, my pupil, for I cannot longer speak;
Draw the curtain back for Venus, ere my vision grows too weak:
It is strange the pearly planet should look red as fiery Mars,–
God will mercifully guide me on my way amongst the stars.


* Some sources refer to this poem as "The Old Astronomer To His Pupil" or variants, but the only copy of the original publication I've seen has "The Old Astronomer" alone as the title, so I've kept that here throughout.

Starting Out

Welcome! 

I'm Nicholas, and I run this place. This blog exists primarily as a reminder to me to continue researching and talking about the things that matter to me, which is a sufficiently diverse and unfocused list that I can't yet make any promises as to content. You'll likely encounter book reviews, particularly of the fantasy or horror genres, discussions of themes and stories, and random research I've stumbled across. Swords and tea might crop up from time to time.

Wednesdays are poetry recommendation days, so you can expect the first real entry tomorrow, and if nothing else we'll have that to look forward to every week. My focus tends toward the Romantics and one or two steps removed from same, so expect a fair amount of that to start.

I'm going to be fiddling with blog format and what types of posts I want to make for the near future, but once things have settled down I'll see about an updated "about this blog" entry and maybe even an "about the author" area, should that seem helpful.

Thank you for joining me! It'll be interesting to see where this goes.