Someone got here yesterday by typing “If you had to name your own city what would you call it ?”
Here at the Ambiente Hotel’s retirement wing, we are all up to competition standard at naming our own city. I’d call it Vertebrast. Dunromin. Muntforby. BHX34. Ball Lock, Donkey Trot, Nostrick or Doakenero-Frote.
No, I’d call it Mast Ivia.
If I was you I’d drive around that unnamed city randomly recombining words I saw on the backs of trucks. Don’t think I haven’t, because I have.
One word of warning: using some kind of word generator you found on the web is not only cheap, it’s no fun.
I would add a word of warning about driving around and recombining words on the backs of trucks. I used to do that during a long daily commute, until the day I swerved halfway off the road and nearly gave myself a heart attack. A word generator may be lacking in fun but it is a hell of a lot safer.
I wouldn’t mind living in Mast Ivia
do black and white cats roam the streets there?
I made a city once–The City of Green Fire. It had a Patron Saint of Roses who would turn roses into fish that swam through the air…
I’ve no idea what the blog post was about- forgive the derailment. Truth be told, I’d never heard of you until 7 or 8 hours ago. But I went to a Borders book store earlier to pick up my online order of an obscure collection of non-fiction essays first published almost 90 years ago. I meandered about for a bit and bought “Light” on a whim- I suppose I was first attracted to it because its stark-white binding stood off on the shelf.
The essays remain in the bag. I’ve just read”Light,” start to finish, in one sitting. I can only recall that happening once before- it was John Crowley’s “Little, Big,” for those of you keeping score at home. I checked out your page on Wikipedia, and I’ll be back at Borders tomorrow morning, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, to grab “Nova Swing.” So there goes my weekend- so much for laundry.
It looks like the remainder of your recent canon involves non-fiction stories about people (including yourself) who’ve failed to fall off of mountains, albeit not for want of trying. I’ll get to it when I get to it. But I’m hooked for life.
Grade-A, USDA-approved mind candy, sir!
Hi Rabbit Scribe, many thanks for this.
I’m delighted you read Light in one sitting, & I hope Nova Swing goes down as well. It’s a little different but just as weird.
The only sf novel I can remember hoovering up like that is Alfred Bester’s The Stars My Destination. When I reached the last page I went straight back to the first & read it round again.
Bemrose, where pastry and paper-making are taboo; Quellock, whose inhabitants communicate by means of broken furniture; and Checklace, notable for its moss fountain and blind ballerinas’ hospice.
Hepter-Macaron, a city located behind the right eyeball of a Friesian cow near Carnoustie, has proved to be such a let-down that no one’s ever bothered to describe it.
I’m a denizen of The Array of Endless Boutiques.
I don’t have a car, and the language around here is terrifying.
I’d have to see the city first, before I named it. Funny; cities change over time. So do babies though and my friend named hers from a fuzzy sonogram, which she holds up and tells you looks just like the name she chose. I’ll take a stab at it: Dirlton, Mitz-Quomby, Nixberg.
Ever, I am keen on both Dirlton & Mitz-Quomby. The first sounds as if it’s somewhere near Huddersfield & the second is definitely weird.