The warm air is coming back. We got low eighties yesterday, and currently it's 84˚F, and supposedly it feels like 91˚F out there. I'm going to guess the humidity must be very high.
I didn't write yesterday. I didn't write the day before. I'm wasting time like I'm foolish enough to think maybe I have a lot of the stuff to waste. Toady, I'm going to try to get back to work on "The Cats of River Street (1925)." Great opening scene, then a wall. I suspect my fears of losing our short summer is helping to impede progress on this story.
I'm sleeping too much. I feel like I never truly wake up until nine or ten p.m. This is what happens when we have to mix our Seroquel, Lamictal, and Gabapentin. Toss in continuing depression and the other miscellaneous insanity happy time that slips past the drugs, and a lot of time all I want to do is sleep. Sometimes, this seems a vastly preferable option to my chronic insomnia, but other times it doesn't, such as when I'm too groggy to think and therefore too groggy to write well.
This morning, I dreamt I was in the Philadelphia Academy of Natural Sciences (I see someone has renamed the Academy of Natural Sciences of Drexel University, which sucks), which I've not visited since October 1986, when I did work on mosasaurs in the collection there*. In my dream, the decor was far more Victorian than it is today. The only light came from within the display cases. And all the taxidermied animals were alive. It was beautiful and deeply unsettling.
Fuck, I'm not awake. Bonjour, Monsieur Taureau Rouge!
I'm also watching too much television, but at least some of it's good. We blew through three seasons of Ink Masters in about a week (and I'm sad to watch it's rapid decline into trashy, ratings-grabbing drama). This season of Defiance is really excellent, even better than Season One. I am in love with Doc Yewll! And last night we saw the first two episodes of The Strain. It feels a bit like early del Toro, circa 1993, and also a bit like Fringe. I think we caught a nod to the latter, a character named Peter Bishop who met a sudden, unpleasant, messy demise (and the first episode strongly echoes the first episode of Fringe). But I'm liking it quite a lot, and I was afraid I wouldn't. It has just the right sort of gruesome campiness, coupled with some genuinely horrific moments (the end of the second episode, for instance).
Okay. I'm gonna go try to write now.
* Kiernan, C. R. 1992. Clidastes Cope, 1868 (Reptilia, Sauria): proposed designation of Clidastes propython Cope, 1869 as the type species. Bulletin of Zoological Nomenclature 49:137–139.