"I am not a number! I am a temperature!"
Apr. 10th, 2013 05:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
desperanceI've just remembered why I got up and went through into the main body of the house.
Eighty-three degrees, they said, this afternoon. It's cooling off now, but I was going to open some windows anyway, for Karen's benefit when she gets home.
Instead of which, I came back with a cold beer. Which seems fair enough to me.
All afternoon, I have actually been wanting to write this post, concluding with "So I'm going out into the garden with a cold beer and a book on Kipling, which is work by any measure" - but I still haven't done that, so I can't. I have the beer, but I also have a tonload of work to do and I am inching my way through other bits of it. I still don't understand why dealing with my early work is so hard for me. By now, I should have most of it available in one form or another, and there's hardly any. I just... I dunno. It's not only The Garden [I'm on page 16! Honest! And fascinated by the artefacts of scanning. I've never done this before, and - well, full stops exchanged for commas are no surprise, but dashes appear and disappear unexpectedly, and the font changes without warning, and sometimes I wonder if helpful software has tried to correct my English for me, and like that...] - I'm supposed to be skimming through the Outremer books to find descriptions of places for Mark to work cover-art magic with, and I haven't even dug copies out to sit in an accusatory fashion on my desk here. And every time I think I ought to, well: there's always something else to do. And things to start, and things to finish, above all things to finish; and shopping to do, and dinner to cook, and yeah. Can I just, y'know, read a book, maybe?
Eighty-three degrees. I should take advantage, I really should. It's going to drop way off tomorrow, all the way down into the seventies. Brr! It might even rain again before the summer.
Eighty-three degrees, they said, this afternoon. It's cooling off now, but I was going to open some windows anyway, for Karen's benefit when she gets home.
Instead of which, I came back with a cold beer. Which seems fair enough to me.
All afternoon, I have actually been wanting to write this post, concluding with "So I'm going out into the garden with a cold beer and a book on Kipling, which is work by any measure" - but I still haven't done that, so I can't. I have the beer, but I also have a tonload of work to do and I am inching my way through other bits of it. I still don't understand why dealing with my early work is so hard for me. By now, I should have most of it available in one form or another, and there's hardly any. I just... I dunno. It's not only The Garden [I'm on page 16! Honest! And fascinated by the artefacts of scanning. I've never done this before, and - well, full stops exchanged for commas are no surprise, but dashes appear and disappear unexpectedly, and the font changes without warning, and sometimes I wonder if helpful software has tried to correct my English for me, and like that...] - I'm supposed to be skimming through the Outremer books to find descriptions of places for Mark to work cover-art magic with, and I haven't even dug copies out to sit in an accusatory fashion on my desk here. And every time I think I ought to, well: there's always something else to do. And things to start, and things to finish, above all things to finish; and shopping to do, and dinner to cook, and yeah. Can I just, y'know, read a book, maybe?
Eighty-three degrees. I should take advantage, I really should. It's going to drop way off tomorrow, all the way down into the seventies. Brr! It might even rain again before the summer.