Bad days, wrestling with the writing, and the amazingly shitty weather – barely managing sixties Fahrenheit in goddamn May, and do not even fucking dare to say, "I'll gladly trade our weather here in blah blah fuckity blah." Think it, if you can't help yourself. But do not say it. We only got the faintest glimpse of Saturday night's "super moon" as it rose above the rooftops before vanishing behind clouds. Today is sunny, but it won't last. So, the writing, the weather, the rabid freight train that is -08 racing towards me, anger, bad teeth, idiots who haven't the decency of respecting their betters, and, right on top, a fairly severe seizure (that's almost poetry, severe seizure).
It hit me on Saturday, one of the convulsive , flopping around on the floor like a dying fish sort. It left me ill and dazed and sore, and I bit the hell out of the back of my tongue. It was the first seizure since October. You begin to think there will never be another. You let your guard down. You think you're safe. Never let your guard down. Never believe you're safe.
Yesterday, I wrote 1,533 words on ""Hauptplatte/Gegenplatte," and finished the story. With luck, Sirenia Digest #77 will go out to subscribers on the tenth. After the writing, we went to the Met Cafe in Pawtucket (where's Mawtucket, anyway?) and saw Brown Bird. They were wonderful as usual, and maybe even a little more so.
Monsieur Insomnia came to visit this morning, and there was no sleep until sometime after five ayem. The sun was coming up (and no decent sun rises at 5:33 ayem). A few hours before I'd learned that something I've wanted since, fuck...since 2004...could actually be mine. That I can go back. Only, there's a catch. I can't go back. And if all the other little bees buzzing about inside my head were insufficient to keep me awake, that bit of knowledge did the trick. Yes, Virginia. I'm being cryptic. But in ten years, if the vagaries of technology and capitalism have permitted these words to survive, and if I have survived, I'll read them and know exactly what I meant.
I slept until noon, but I'm still tired. It's not the sort of tired that comes from not having slept. It's the sort of tired that comes from not having lived.
Postscript: Just in case you're the sort of dog needs a silver lining where there really isn't one, here's a bone: It's been more than six months since last I squandered a moment in Second Life. I've managed to steer clear of all those pathetic motherfuckers who cling to SL because they have no First Life. So, yeah. I'm still clean. Well, in that respect.