Monday, March 08, 2004
There are painters outside my office window, scraping and painting the windowframe. They're making a terrible racket and clinging to the side of the building like giant insects in white overalls. About ten minutes ago, I balled up my bean-bag Gorey bat and hurled it at the windowpane. And I haven't even had any absinthe today.
This week I have a little breathing room and think that I'm going to try to do a few pages of the screenplay that I've been putting off starting since I stepped away from the whole thing with the Threshold screenplay. It's a little bit of In the Garden of Poisonous Flowers, a little bit of Waycross, a little bit of "Alabaster." It's Dancy and monsters and summer in the deep South. It's not nearly half so daunting as making a two-hour movie of the complexities of Threshold. I'd like to get some pages off to my agent in LA, to waylay (rhymes with "LA") any suspicions that I'm just sitting around here with my thumb up my eema.
The bugs at the window have grown quiet. That can't be a good sign.
It's a little cooler outside than it was yesterday, and the last few days before that. The cold front arrived with on a ferocious wind last night, like the trees had all gone mad and meant to pull themselves free of the earth. I love that sound. But everything's starting to bloom. The tulip trees, for example, and so I know that winter's most likely done it's worst. Every spring for an age I've had the same thought: "I lived through another winter." It always comes as a bit of a surprise. Hemingway said that a writer should always include the weather, and that's good enough for me.
Last night, Spooky and I gorged on fun television stuff, just because. Invader Zim, Home Movies, and two episodes of Farscape ("Crackers Don't Matter" and "Out of Their Minds"), and then we played Beyond Good and Evil until three o'clock. Jennifer's home this week, deep in the next agonizing round of dissertating.
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