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elingregoryIt's such a bitch. I can't fathom why I thought, at the time, it was okay to use the word 'and' so many times. Must be a nervous twitch. So out they come - some of them. I'm aiming for 40%. The thing is that if I can edit them out afterwards I'm quite happy to scatter them like confetti over the story. The last thing I need is to get self conscious about word choice and come to a grinding halt twice a sentence. Spew out the story and mop up the mistakes later is going to be my aim from now on.
So here's another bit of spewage, all hairy and unwaxed.
Showing Hilarion around the yard, Philon was struck immediately by the differences in his approach and his uncle’s. Ariston had been voluble about the beauty of the items he had been inspecting. He prided himself on his taste, having visited Athens and Delphi, thus having, he said, a yard stick to measure it by. Hilarion touched as well as looked. His hands ran over the surfaces of the carvings, both finished and unfinished and he spoke of the strength of the stone, the skill of the work, the quality of light on the texture. "How do you do this?" he asked fingers slipping behind the high relief carving of a goddess's thigh. His fingers ran down into the hollow behind her knee. "Is it all chipped or do you drill it out?"
"Nikon prefers to chip," Philon said, watching the play of Hilarion's fingers with quiet pleasure. He knew what they would be feeling - the thumb smoothing over the glossy polished face of the limb, fingers tips catching on the rougher concealed surface where it was impossible to achieve perfection. Hilarion nodded and touched a fold of the cloth covering Aphrodite's breasts. "Lovely," he said. "But I came to see your work. So - where's my mare?"
Philon led him across to the place where the remaining panels were standing. He lifted away the coverings and stood aside, knowing that Hilarion would need no direction from him. But to his surprise Hilarion did not go straight to the part-finished Dioscuri. Instead he took his time over admiring the centaurs, nodding approval as he edged along the line of stands.Philon wondered if he was putting off looking, anticipating disappointment. He could understand that, but although he tried to be modest about his work - too much pride came before a fall - he knew that his horses were good and the mare, even unpolished, was almost leaping from the stone.
Hilarion turned to the final panel and took a step back to take in the whole picture before reaching out to touch the carving of the mare.
“Ah,” he breathed. He smoothed down the arched neck almost to the roughly cut thigh of the rider, much as Philon had done on the beach. “That’s my girl,” Hilarion said. “I like the way you put her hocks under her, there aren't many mares strong enough to hold that pose for long."
"She's not posing." Philon raised his hands to demonstrate. "She's bounding, or meant to be. Just about to break into a canter - I thought." He stopped apologising as Hilarion's hand squeezed his shoulder.
"I was teasing," Hilarion said. "She's perfect. It pleases me greatly to think that Ariston’s house will have my mare on his wall forever and ages hence when we’re long gone, men will look at her and say ‘now, that, my friend, is a well bred horse’.”
Philon didn't know what to say, so said nothing and touched the flank of the other, unfinished horse, for the reassurance of feeling the stone under his fingers. He knew where he was with stone. With Hilarion he felt as though the earth was moving under his feet.
“Which horse will you use for Pollux - it that Pollux? - Castor’s mount?” Hilarion asked. “Not the Thessalian bay?”
“No,” Philon said. Hilarion had not moved his hand. It felt warm and strong against Philon’s shoulder, the fingers gripping lightly. “The mount of a god would not fight the bit. I thought, perhaps, your other friend’s horse - the grey. They both have kind eyes.”
“A good choice,” Hilarion said. “Linus is, they are, both kind.” His fingers tightened a little then he withdrew his hand. “As are you."
So here's another bit of spewage, all hairy and unwaxed.
Showing Hilarion around the yard, Philon was struck immediately by the differences in his approach and his uncle’s. Ariston had been voluble about the beauty of the items he had been inspecting. He prided himself on his taste, having visited Athens and Delphi, thus having, he said, a yard stick to measure it by. Hilarion touched as well as looked. His hands ran over the surfaces of the carvings, both finished and unfinished and he spoke of the strength of the stone, the skill of the work, the quality of light on the texture. "How do you do this?" he asked fingers slipping behind the high relief carving of a goddess's thigh. His fingers ran down into the hollow behind her knee. "Is it all chipped or do you drill it out?"
"Nikon prefers to chip," Philon said, watching the play of Hilarion's fingers with quiet pleasure. He knew what they would be feeling - the thumb smoothing over the glossy polished face of the limb, fingers tips catching on the rougher concealed surface where it was impossible to achieve perfection. Hilarion nodded and touched a fold of the cloth covering Aphrodite's breasts. "Lovely," he said. "But I came to see your work. So - where's my mare?"
Philon led him across to the place where the remaining panels were standing. He lifted away the coverings and stood aside, knowing that Hilarion would need no direction from him. But to his surprise Hilarion did not go straight to the part-finished Dioscuri. Instead he took his time over admiring the centaurs, nodding approval as he edged along the line of stands.Philon wondered if he was putting off looking, anticipating disappointment. He could understand that, but although he tried to be modest about his work - too much pride came before a fall - he knew that his horses were good and the mare, even unpolished, was almost leaping from the stone.
Hilarion turned to the final panel and took a step back to take in the whole picture before reaching out to touch the carving of the mare.
“Ah,” he breathed. He smoothed down the arched neck almost to the roughly cut thigh of the rider, much as Philon had done on the beach. “That’s my girl,” Hilarion said. “I like the way you put her hocks under her, there aren't many mares strong enough to hold that pose for long."
"She's not posing." Philon raised his hands to demonstrate. "She's bounding, or meant to be. Just about to break into a canter - I thought." He stopped apologising as Hilarion's hand squeezed his shoulder.
"I was teasing," Hilarion said. "She's perfect. It pleases me greatly to think that Ariston’s house will have my mare on his wall forever and ages hence when we’re long gone, men will look at her and say ‘now, that, my friend, is a well bred horse’.”
Philon didn't know what to say, so said nothing and touched the flank of the other, unfinished horse, for the reassurance of feeling the stone under his fingers. He knew where he was with stone. With Hilarion he felt as though the earth was moving under his feet.
“Which horse will you use for Pollux - it that Pollux? - Castor’s mount?” Hilarion asked. “Not the Thessalian bay?”
“No,” Philon said. Hilarion had not moved his hand. It felt warm and strong against Philon’s shoulder, the fingers gripping lightly. “The mount of a god would not fight the bit. I thought, perhaps, your other friend’s horse - the grey. They both have kind eyes.”
“A good choice,” Hilarion said. “Linus is, they are, both kind.” His fingers tightened a little then he withdrew his hand. “As are you."
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no subject
Date: 2011-06-05 12:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-17 07:28 am (UTC)