Wednesday, October 22, 2003
Tonight I should be reading at ManRay in Cambridge. It's been almost one week since I whacked my knee. The bruise looks like something Hubble would photograph: a halo of claret and puce, surrounding a dull sort of ocher expanse which, in places, is punctuated by darker splotches. My knee could be a supernova. I think it's healing, though. It only popped twice last night.
The next story is still looking for itself inside my head somewhere. It may concern Lake Vostok in Antarctica, which I've been wanting to write about for a long time now.
Note to self: it's time to stop putting off the living will. No, really. After all, the way things are going, King Dubya might decide appoint his idiot brother Jeb the Grand Exalted Emperor of Dixie or some shit, and I might crack my skull running to the bathroom one night and wind up a vegetable in a hospital bed, breathing and eating and pissing through machines for ten or fifteen years. Why is it that so many of the people who claim most fervently to believe in an eternal afterlife are also the ones who cling most tenaciously to this life, and force others to do the same, even beyond all reason and at the cost of all dignity? Terri Schiavo has become the latest comtose poster woman in a witless and cruel campaign to force life upon the "breathing" dead. May I ever be spared such kindness.
Watch it, Kiernan. You might say something worth saying, if you're not careful.
Ah, well.
Last night, Spooky and I read "Halo" by Charles Stross. I watched Titan A.E. for about the twenty-fourth time, trying to get sleepy.
See. That's ever so much better. Now we're back on solid ground.
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