greygirlbeast (greygirlbeast) wrote,

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Okay. Kelpies first.

This morning it isn't Leonard Cohen. This morning, it's Johnny Cash. It's not even morning anymore. What am I saying? Up too late last night, only five or six hours sleep, and Spooky got even less than me. I need more coffee.

But yesterday went well. That's two good days in succession. Now I need a third. Yesterday, after I did the journal entry, Spooky and I took a long walk through Freedom Park. I'm trying to get as much outside time as possible before it gets cold again. Surely it will get cold again. It thinks it's early spring out there, when it's supposed to be midwinter. Spooky found a big chunk of calcite or gypsum, I'm not sure which. There weren't as many dog-walking yuppies as there'd been on Saturday, which was nice. Back home, we read through the 61 typescript pages of the prologue of Daughter of Hounds, and I was very much relieved to find that I like it a great deal. This book is so different. When I'm done, it'll have taken me most of two years to write — much of that time wasted on depression and distraction and silly, hateful RL drama — but I think they'll be two years well spent in the service of this novel. After dinner, I read through "On the Road to Jefferson," then added it to Alabaster as the afterword and sent the new file to subpress. Work officially ended at ten p.m. Then I read "New information on Segisaurus halli, a small theropod dinosaur from the Early Jurassic of Arizona" in the new JVP, and then I read Angela Carter's "The Tyger's Bride" aloud to Spooky. Gods, what a sexy story. It is all beauty, every word, every thought, the way each word connects to the words before and after, each image, and her disregard for the "proper" use of commas seduces me entirely. If anyone has ever known how to have utterly glorious and brazen sex with her language, it was Angela Carter. And after "The Tyger's Bride," Spooky read me three more chapters of Harry Potter.

The world seems to be rushing by me, and I can't look up from this keyboard long enough to fully comprehend what terrible new convolutions it has assumed. That's the way it feels.

Keep breathing.

For a house that's seventy years old, this place seems oddly devoid of "ghosts." More than a year now and nothing much worth mentioning. I find myself missing the Kirkwood oddities, which came almost as regular as clockwork. I don't know why this just occurred to me, but there you go.

Anyway, here are a few photos from Saturday's walk, some evidence of this peculiar weather, and other things, as well (behind the cut):

Dogwood buds, at least a month ahead of schedule.

One of my favourite trees in the neighborhood.

A pretty lousy photo, but you get the gist.

You don't see much bedrock around here.

This exposure in Freedom Park seems to be a deeply weathered granite crosscut with veins of calcite.

Looking west towards downtown from Freedom Park.
Tags: dancy, dogwoods, doh, orbital velocity, writing

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