greygirlbeast (greygirlbeast) wrote,

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Caution — Do not exceed feet of total cable distance...

There are idiotic days. It seems, increasingly, there are idiotic days. Days that squat in a corner and drool and gibber and shit themselves. Yesterday was that sort of a day. And because it was that sort of a day, I've still not finished with The Dry Salvages. Or answered several important e-mails. Or signed the Daughter of Hounds contracts. And so on, and so forth.

Those of us damned to make our living by the word (and, inevitably, die by the word), need our own Church, our own Father Confessors, our own rituals and Stations of the Cross. Because sometimes we are lost beyond all comprehension, and there is no godlight or demon or Virgil to guide us home again. Only the material waste of our immaterial imaginations. We need a Church.

The sign, I see it/Tell me, am I true?/All I need from you is/All I see

Our agents would get a cut, of course, a fair percentage on every sin.

Jesus, I'm so fucking full of shit.

Yes, well. That seems to be the point. I sincerely hope you don't think they give you that money for your good looks and winning personlity.

I am at rest and cannot seem to do more than remain at rest. Just a little thrust would be sufficient to carry me clear of my own gravity. But I can't seem to find the spark.

It was a blessedly rainy day here yesterday. I haven't noticed the weather today.

I'm unsure whether or not it has noticed me.

Spooky and I have been talking about the photo shoot we're going to do to get the author's photo for To Charles Fort, With Love. It's going to be cool. I'll talk about it more later on. I don't know why more authors don't have more fun with author's photos. They ought to.

I've got to stop spending so much time with the television. It sucks me in and tells me it's okay to lie on the floor for hours at a time staring at its screen. Last night, for instance, there was a really good special on the Science Channel about the Cassini probe and then another, on M theory. The first almost made me cry, and the second just left me keenly aware that I'll never be half as intelligent as I want to be. And if I'd stopped there, it wouldn't have been so bad. But then I played three hours of Morrowind (only seven to go!). It went like this: I ascend to third-level fighter. I finally find Caius Cosades and give him the damned package I've been carrying since Seyda Neen. So, at least I have a place to sleep in Balmora. I've been sleeping in alleys and in the woods. I go back to the Fighter's Guild on the west side of town and accept orders to clear rats out of Drarayne Thelas' house (and realize that sexual fantasies involving these waxworks is all that's keeping me playing). I am a truly incompetent exterminator, and the bitch pisses me off so much I steal a pillow. New orders: stop poachers at the Shulk egg mine. I do it. New orders: fullfil a contract with the Caldera Ebony Mining Company to kill four Telvanni agents responsible for trouble at the Caldera Mine. Yippee. I get lost, end up in the Morrowind equivalent of southern Mississippi. I finally find Caldera, but break my long sword fighting a nix hound. Fine. I find a smith, but I don't have enough gold. I find a pawnbroker and sell him most of the crap I've been carrying around. But then I accidentally draw a dagger on him. A guard grabs me and hauls me off to some prison north of Caldera. I serve out my sentence, then head back to Caldera and find the mines. And decide I'm too tired to play anymore. So, I watch most of Night and the City (the original, not the remake) on FMC instead of going to bed.

Stop watching the goddamned television.

At least I mute the commercials.

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