Yesterday I wrote one script page for Alabaster: The Good, the Bad, and the Bird, then finally allowed myself to accept what had been obvious for perhaps two weeks, perhaps as far back as the day I completed #3: there's a crisis, and I have to find a solution, and it will have to be a rather radical solution. So I emailed my editor at Dark Horse, Daniel Chabon, and we're talking tomorrow (I'm having to learn to deal with Skype, as we have no phone reception out here, because Sprint sucks), and hopefully we can arrive at a fix that doesn't result in my scrapping everything that's been written so far and starting over again. That would mean I wouldn't, probably, finish the series until February, and it would throw my schedule into more disarray than it's in already, and I just want this to be over. Period.
Is anyone still reading this blog? Have I gone full circle to see this journal return to the sacrosanct privacy that was, for millennia, the function of the journal, the diary?
Yesterday was the last time that most humans now living will experience a sequential date: 12/13/14. No one ever gets more than twelve.
Late in the day yesterday, when I'd finally had enough and could no longer stare at this screen, we drove out to Cooper Lake. It was close to twilight and cold as fuck. I stood on the rocky shore strewn with what appear to be boulders of some hematitic sandstone, possibly Devonian in age, and I shivered and stared up at the snow-covered peaks to the north. I don't know their names, and I don't feel like looking them up at the moment. Lofty worn teeth of the Catskills. I stood there shivering as the lake lapped at the shore, and I thought about the ice sheets that covered those mountains during the Wisconsin glaciation, a mere 11,000 years ago. Then my thoughts wandered all the way back to the Devonian and the Acadian Orogeny, the mountain-building event birthed these mountains, beginning some 375 million years ago and last 50 million years. It is on beyond humbling, and comforting, gazing up into history, the bones of the world holding up the sky.
There are some photos from yesterday, and one from the day before:
Later, after dinner, we joined Neil and another house guest of his, Dr. Dan Johnson from Wisconsin, who once saved Neil from meningitis. Neil signed signature sheets for his forthcoming collection, Trigger Warning, while Dr. Johnson read over the galleys for the book. The fire in the hearth crackled and blazed, and we talked about the relationship between Hanna-Barbera cartoons and American sitcoms, about Sgt. Bilko, about Hollywood and John Belushi, about the Ilse of Sky - the Donalds and the MacCleods, Caisteal Uisdein (Hugh's Castle, circa 1530) and the tale of the fall of the giant Hugh MacDonald - about books (obviously), and conventions we've survived, and Spooky's migraine, sleep aids and my insomnia (I actually slept and amazing 7+ hours last night), the degradation of our respective signatures, and so on and so forth, and then Kathryn and I wandered back to the cabin and stared through the skylight in the bedroom, looking for Geminids (I saw two).
And now, I must get dressed and go out. There's still no sun, those lying meteorologists.