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desperanceMy new duty, after the delivery of breakfast: make sure that the living-room curtains are properly drawn back. For lo:
the sun in its season is just high enough for its light to fall directly on Barry's head while he's digesting in his new bed, at least until some dangerous clown goes and moves it (he's fairly sure I'm responsible for that; I get Looks).
In other news, it's odd how reluctant I am to reread my work of long-ago. It's not like listening to my own voice recorded, I don't flinch (I'm surprised actually how familiar the text is after twenty-four years [which is incidentally the age of the protagonist: it is a sort of function of this re-engagement that I can sit here and think "Aww, she was just a baby when I was writing this..."]), but even so. I've read eight pages in an afternoon, and I'm snatching every chance to do anything else. Including but not limited to writing a blog post. I have also paused to make bread, and paused to make bacon, and paused to wash dishes, and paused to read LJ, and...
I don't know. I'm not like this with work that's fresh or unpublished. Maybe it's publication that makes the difference, that leaves me reluctant to re-engage with something that's finished, that I've moved on from? Like going back to an old lover: familiarity mixed with change on both sides, the irreconcilable in pursuit of the irrecoverable, snatching for lost time, trying to step back into an old photograph, something? I said, I don't know. But I don't like this at all, without in any way disliking the book; I just don't want to be here. Apparently.
*twitches*
*emphasise at will
the sun in its season is just high enough for its light to fall directly on Barry's head while he's digesting in his new bed, at least until some dangerous clown goes and moves it (he's fairly sure I'm responsible for that; I get Looks).
In other news, it's odd how reluctant I am to reread my work of long-ago. It's not like listening to my own voice recorded, I don't flinch (I'm surprised actually how familiar the text is after twenty-four years [which is incidentally the age of the protagonist: it is a sort of function of this re-engagement that I can sit here and think "Aww, she was just a baby when I was writing this..."]), but even so. I've read eight pages in an afternoon, and I'm snatching every chance to do anything else. Including but not limited to writing a blog post. I have also paused to make bread, and paused to make bacon, and paused to wash dishes, and paused to read LJ, and...
I don't know. I'm not like this with work that's fresh or unpublished. Maybe it's publication that makes the difference, that leaves me reluctant to re-engage with something that's finished, that I've moved on from? Like going back to an old lover: familiarity mixed with change on both sides, the irreconcilable in pursuit of the irrecoverable, snatching for lost time, trying to step back into an old photograph, something? I said, I don't know. But I don't like this at all, without in any way disliking the book; I just don't want to be here. Apparently.
*twitches*
*emphasise at will