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Richard Milhouse Sagan

Okay. Here I am on the far side of house-guest visitation. One peril of existing just slightly outside any actual temporal continuum is that everything is always over before it's really even begun, or it's just begun before it's hardly even over, or rather, that is my perception of events. Anyway, yes, Jada is on her way back to Little Rock, and Jennifer McGinty (née Garland) is safely back in Birmingham (well, as safe as anyone can be in Birmingham). And here is my odd little life again, the return to day-to-day, humdrum, business as usual. Everything in its place.

I won't bore you with too many of the details. Dinner Friday night at the Corner Tavern. We sat up talking about stuff that happened too long ago to be clearly recalled. I've known Jada since 1977, and Jennifer since 1988. I was helping Jen unload her car, and she said, "Hey, I've known you for twenty years." I stopped and counted and was relieved that she's only known me for nineteen. I've only known Spooky for eight years, so it was all pretty dull for her, listening to our reminiscences about previous lifetimes successfully survived and escaped and only dimly recollected. Jennifer wanted a bedtime story, so I read "In the Dreamtime of Lady Resurrection."

Yesterday, we wandered about the scabby wasteland of L5P, then met Byron for dinner at our favourite Thai restaurant, then we headed back to L5P for the They Might Be Giants show at the Variety Playhouse. It was wonderful, of course. We picked up a copy of the new CD, The Else (the bonus disc version), signed by the band. I know there was other stuff, but it's all a blur. Oh, but one of the Johns had the most apt observation about Little Five Points, that a part of Atlanta that was once very much like Harvard Square has now become little more now than a Southern version of St. Mark's Place.

I managed to go two full days and spend no more than twenty minutes on Second Life, which is amazing, and proves I have not yet entirely lost sight of the Prime Actuality.

And there is still no evidence that El Chupacabra is anything but a mangy coyote.

And now, nothing stands between me and finally sitting down to begin Joey Lafaye. I'm trying to get the prologue to crystallize in my head. But I'm having some difficulty deciding whether the prologue occurs in late Victorian England or the 1970s or last week, which I will admit is sort of a problem. But I must start this novel, today or tomorrow. No more time to waste, as of two months ago.

Er...there must now be coffee.