Morning in Limbo

Due to a scheduling error on many parts, I find myself downtown before any sane human should be awake. I'm five pages into the cleanup on 'Triptyk', going in for my usual four-hour day after lunch, and goofing off at the Library as liberally as possible until then. Most of my time is taken up by a ghost-writing project I will not discuss here; some lights are best hid under a bushel. Trust me.

Latest read: Kage Baker's "Hellfire At Twilight." Also hesitantly starting The Red Tent at Blossom's behest. She thinks it'll be good for this new one I started about the blind belly-dancer, which as mentioned will probably be a collaboration unless it keeps writing itself.

There's never enough time to really catch the shape of mornings like this. I'd just as soon bag work and write all day, but it's nice to at least get paid for four hours of it. Different times call for different measures, and I have been bleeding the words from the weird rainy light of this unexpected free space at the start of the week.


I occasionally crack Blossom up with something or other I've said in my sleep. One of the latest was, "Everyone should just quit work and do what the hell they want. Then society would have to change."

It sucks waking up one day and realizing that you're 32 and everyone you know seems to have forgotten how to have fun. But then I remember where I am, and the fact that Art and Literature have no age, my play has become my work, and that the one I love has her boot on my finger, keeping it on the pulse it desperately needs to feel while the left hand leaves the rest alone.

Great things will happen this week. My joints announce their arrival in the rain.