Trees in the park are beginning to turn.
The last few days, there's been no work to speak of, not beyond little bits and details, emails, snippets of proofreading, and so forth. That has to change today, headache or no headache. There's no time to be lost, and yet I'm losing time. I "finished" editing Agents of Dreamland on Monday, and apparently I thought that entitled me to some sort of goddamn vacation. I mean, in a fair world it certainly would have, but there is nothing fair about this world.
There's is so little about the last four days worth mentioning that I'm having trouble even recalling them, dividing one from the other. On Tuesday we drove down to South County, which was exactly the wrong thing to do. The crushingly low sky, the stunted trees, the smell of brackish water, the flatness of the land – all of it came together as a perfect engine for anxiety and vertigo. A claustrophobia borne not of tight spaces, but of exposure. A fear of falling up. We made it almost as far as Narragansett before turning back for Providence. Spooky has no patience with me when I get like that. I don't blame her.
On this date a year ago, we were spending our last day in Leeds before boarding the train back to Providence. God, but I'm homesick.
A few notes from Facebook:
If you haven't yet seen Fear the Walking Dead, you very much need to change that. It's marvelous. Frank Dillane is great. (August 31)
~ and ~
And so ends Hannibal, with the single most artful hour of network television ever. Fucking brilliant. Quentin Tarantino must have cum when he saw that. I believe I almost did. Blood-soaked and passionate. I always knew it was a love story. (August 31)
~ and ~
I just saw someone on GoodsReads refer to "Interstate Love Song (Murder Ballad No. 8)" as "immoral." And it probably pleased me more than it should have. (September 1)
~ and ~
I do not write gay and trans characters (or, for that matter, straight and cis characters) from a need to appease someone else's political agenda. My characters are who they are because I am who I am. I create the characters I need to tell any given story. Period. (September 2)
~ and ~
Every day it seems a little more certain that I'll be stuck in Rhode Island for yet another winter, and I'm starting to panic. Which makes it harder to work. And my work schedule is the main reason that I'll likely be stuck in RI for another winter, because I don't have the month or two needed to arrange (and recover from) the move. Which means I'll likely be stuck here another winter. The thought of which makes it harder to work. Around and around and around. (September 2)
~ and, finally ~
I want a home with a small, small sky. (September 2)
Now, I need to at least try to be productive.