…we know nothing about Sappho. Or worse: everything we know is wrong. Even the most basic “facts” are simply not so, or in need of a stringent critical reexamination. A single example. We are told over and over again that Sappho “was married to Kerkylas of Andros, who is never mentioned in any of the extant fragments of her poetry” (Snyder 1989:3). Not surprising, since it’s a joke name: he’s Dick Allcock from the Isle of MAN. It’s been over 139 years since William Mure pointed this out… yet one finds this piece of information repeated without question from book to book, usually omitting the dubious source, usually omitting any reference at all.
Holt Parker, ‘Sappho Schoolmistress’, Transactions of the American Philological Association 123 (1993)

Summer Sewing List #4: Vintage Loungewear

I lounge a lot, and therefore am a big fan of dedicated loungewear. (Especially if it allows me to pretend I’m Phryne Fisher). The bralette and tap pants are from Colette Pattern’s Nutmeg, and I winged it with the kimono-style top. The bralette is largely decorative but cute, and the tap pants are quite comfortable with a bit of give. This was the first time trying out some new-to-me techniques, so I used a drapey, but still sturdy, vintage fabric already in my stash rather than attacking all this bias sewing with a slippery silk. But it was simple enough that I’ll definitely try this pattern again! I’d love to do the French knickers in a whole rainbow of silk.

I treated myself to some new summer bed linens. It’s the same general stripes + floral theme of my last set, but these have the massive advantage of not having been the sheets I shared with my ex-girlfriend. Of course, all those sedate colors are a bit soft for me, so I had to make the most obnoxious pillow to go with them. The only problem is that they look best a little bit rumpled, which means the bed is constantly inviting me to lounge and luxuriate and just take a tiny little nap all the time.


Reblog if you’d pay to see a movie about the Suffragettes.




I need to know for reasons. Thanks!

Actual non-matinee money, even.

I find myself reaching for my wallet even now.


Suffragette (2015) — written by Abi Morgan (of The Hour), directed by Sarah Gavron, starring Meryl Streep, Carey Mulligan, Helena Bonham Carter, Romola Garai, Anne-Marie Duff, Ben Whishaw, and Brendan Gleeson. 

Which, if you ask me, sounds pretty much perfect

(There’s also Iron Jawed Angels if you’re looking for the American side of things)

I’ve been rolling this story over in my head since I read it yesterday morning, especially as it came on the tail of a conversation with peninsulamamoenam about buying books, owning books, and (in my case) moving books. Books are objects in many senses: stories to read, beautiful, tactile things to look at and hold, aides de memoire, promises of the future. I buy them for many reasons, not only to read, and in all of my many moves I’ve carried at least some of them with me, lugging their physical heft because of their emotional weight.

I’ve inherited a lot of things from my family: my dad’s constant assertion that books, above all objects, are always worth buying; a tradition of sharing books and valuing the ability to make a good book recommendation to someone you love; my mom’s love of a bargain which sends us both into the dark corners of used book shops. However, I may also claim from them some not-terribly-responsible budgeting habits and the belief that anything has to potential to, eventually, be useful and therefore should not be thrown away. 

My mom’s a hoarder. It wasn’t so bad when I was younger — fun, sometimes, even, because there’s always something interesting tucked away in a corner — but it’s now at levels which are troubling and scary. And that specter hangs over me: every new book (or pair of shoes, or dress, or or or) gives me the rush, the pleasure, the promise, but also the lurking uncertainty. At what point do your possessions go from being cozy, comforting, impressive to being invasive, overwhelming, oppressive? How many books? 1000? 2000? Does it matter how many you’ve read (conquered, devoured, challenged) or how many linger as promises or threats? 

I haven’t come up with any answers. I have discovered about myself that I seek, by filling my space with objects familiar and loved, to create a sense of permanence in the transitory. With each move (11 in 10 years; 5 cities; 3 states; 3 countries; 4 universities) I add to my belongings and thus to my sense of self. I’ve started over in brand-new cities, places where I didn’t know a single soul, four times now, and the only way that’s tenable for me is to carry with me my little shell-home of things, to nestle in and fill my walls and my shelves, to extend myself as far as the borders of my little apartment (or dorm room, or bedsit) and thus claim and declare my presence.



Ireland, 1920. There’s a war on, but no one seems to be playing by the rules. John Watson, injured and unemployed after his time at the Front, joins up with the special forces sent over to keep the peace, but when he meets Sherlock Holmes, the second son of the local lord, he begins to lose track of which side he is on.

Historical AU — John/Sherlock — Explicit — 4,900 words (this chapter) — 126,000 words (estimated total)

Author: lbmisscharlie


Chapter 3 - To Ireland

Sherlock shrugs, narrow coat-hanger shoulders jerking. “Explosions,” he says, “Gothic architecture. Something. I wasn’t listening.”

“You blew up Oxford?”

“Only a bit,” Sherlock says, eyes sliding over to John. He takes a long drag and taps off the too-long ash, eyes fluttering closed with pleasure. John watches him for a long moment, feeling an unexpected warmth behind his ears, before Sherlock’s words and languid tone catch up to him, and he begins to laugh, then guffaw. Sherlock’s lip twitches up and he chuckles, once, too.

Timezones, etc