*dreams of oblivion*
Mar. 1st, 2007 03:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
desperanceThat SF story I've been working on, that I've been so delighted by, excited by, this last ten days?
Today I hate it. I can't look at it, I can't go near it. So it goes.
Today's World Book Day. Happy World Book Day. It ought to be auspicious, so I've started a new book. I may post wordcounts; I may set myself absurd ambitious targets. I'll let you know.
Meantime, World Book Day: it's an appropriate day to discover this. That jacket that I bought last year? Does not have a pocket big enough to hold a book. Not even the slim volume of poetry I asked of it. How can this be?
Also, I have made a Chinese beef-and-ginger stew that is not quite too hot for me to eat. Thing is, I have this container full of dried chillies from two years ago; I dry my chillies on wooden skewers, and I can't quite remember which is which. Don't know what variety it was that went into the stew, a whole skewerful, but it wasn't the disappointingly mild one. It's very nice, but - oof.
Also, although I cannot now attend my friend Peter's birthday party, I seem nevertheless to be writing him a poem. (For those of you new to this, to me, I do not write poetry; I am an ex-poet. A prizewinning ex-poet, to be sure, but I gave it up.)
It's all draft, it changes by the hour, but this morning's first verse is:
*
The barbarians are at the gates. The bloody gates are down.
There's the whisper of a rumour of a slaughter out of town.
We've got nothing left to fight for. We've got nothing. So it goes
When you've been sold all down the river for a makeshift suit of clothes.
What with telephone elbow and texter's thumb
Is it any bloody wonder we're in Kingdom Come?
*
Etc. They tell me that anger is one stage of grief; I seem to have achieved it.
Today I hate it. I can't look at it, I can't go near it. So it goes.
Today's World Book Day. Happy World Book Day. It ought to be auspicious, so I've started a new book. I may post wordcounts; I may set myself absurd ambitious targets. I'll let you know.
Meantime, World Book Day: it's an appropriate day to discover this. That jacket that I bought last year? Does not have a pocket big enough to hold a book. Not even the slim volume of poetry I asked of it. How can this be?
Also, I have made a Chinese beef-and-ginger stew that is not quite too hot for me to eat. Thing is, I have this container full of dried chillies from two years ago; I dry my chillies on wooden skewers, and I can't quite remember which is which. Don't know what variety it was that went into the stew, a whole skewerful, but it wasn't the disappointingly mild one. It's very nice, but - oof.
Also, although I cannot now attend my friend Peter's birthday party, I seem nevertheless to be writing him a poem. (For those of you new to this, to me, I do not write poetry; I am an ex-poet. A prizewinning ex-poet, to be sure, but I gave it up.)
It's all draft, it changes by the hour, but this morning's first verse is:
*
The barbarians are at the gates. The bloody gates are down.
There's the whisper of a rumour of a slaughter out of town.
We've got nothing left to fight for. We've got nothing. So it goes
When you've been sold all down the river for a makeshift suit of clothes.
What with telephone elbow and texter's thumb
Is it any bloody wonder we're in Kingdom Come?
*
Etc. They tell me that anger is one stage of grief; I seem to have achieved it.