Wednesday, April 02, 2003
The dogwood flower is still lying on my desk. It's dried out, mummified, shrunken down to half its original size. An even poorer cross than before.
I think I will, from this day forth, refrain from any mention of the war in this journal. You can read about it elsewhere. It's not my war, and I'm sick of it. Hell, sometimes I'm pretty sure this isn't even my planet.
There's no khaki on my planet, nary a stitch, and pastels were banned a century ago.
Last night, at midnight (ET/PT), the Sci-Fi Channel began rerunning Farscape from episode one. If you are, like me, an insomniac, here's a chance for you to catch the entire series, start to, um, "finish." The episodes will air four per week, Mondays through Thursdays (which means Season One alone should last eleven weeks).
Yesterday I wrote afterwords for "Spindleshanks (New Orleans, 1956)" and "Standing Water," but I don't think I did a very good job with either one. Rewrites will be required. I made a couple of pages of notes (typed, single-spaced) on Murder of Angels. I've discovered an important element both of plot and structure, which has profound implications for the novel. Spyder Baxter's diary, and her psychologist, Dr. Meredith Lynxweiler, mentioned only once in Silk. Dr. Lynxweiler's aborted study of the diary and of the peculiar events in the old house at the dead end of Cullom Street will be central to the story. Well, at least marginal to the story. I see many long hours in the Emory library ahead of me.
Jean Cocteau wrote, "Listen carefully to first criticisms of your work. Note just what it is about your work the critics don't like--then cultivate it. That's the part of your work that's individual and worth keeping." He was probably correct, but the weight of negative criticism sometimes defies subsequent cultivation. Not that I've had a bad time with the critics over the years; quite the opposite really - I just kinda liked the quote. Jesus, where am I going with this. Never mind.
I found a large dead spider on the window sill. A dead spider or only a discarded spider skin. I wish I could shed this tight restricting skin right now, tear it open and slip out of myself, leave the husk shriveled like neoprene or latex on the floor, find something of myself that is purer, lighter, more complete.
These mutterings are even more random than yesterday's.
Check out the Cat Crutches Auction (née Cat Dentures Auction) and spend some money, please and thank you. Else, I may have to bungee Sophie to a skateboard and tie a string around her neck.
|
|
