And since it's Sunday morning, from my office I can hear the Xtians waiting through loudspeakers from some point not too far away. It sounds like someone's hurting them. Religion pollution.
Yesterday, we read over "Salammbô," which, near as I can recall, was written sometime in 1996, maybe early 1997, ten or eleven years ago. It needed to be proofed for the new edition of Tales of Pain and Wonder, and I needed to hear myself reading it aloud before I begin the new story. It will be set somewhere in 2007, and that means that Salammbô Desvernine will be 51 years old (or -11, to speak more kindly). I have to somehow fill in the blank space between the postcard that Salmagundi received from Los Angeles in 1973 and now, all those 34 years that have elapsed, and in my head, Salammbô was always the one who got away, but now I begin to suspect she didn't truly get away, after all.
Each in herhisits respective world, authors are Nature or the gods or demons or the sleeping mind set loose to perceive, and, as such, writers can be the most merciless bastards in the whole universe.
The heat continues, though we did get clouds and a little rain yesterday. At 3 a.m., the temperature had fallen to 81F. If I were a saner beast, I would spend the day, hardly moving, in a cold bath with colder bottles of beer, or glasses of iced coffee and shots of absinthe. Not so far to the south, Hurricane Dean spins, a cat. 4 already, roaring across the Caribbean.