Two Mornings
[I wrote part of an entry yesterday morning. I wrote part of an entry this morning. Together, they make something like a complete entry. Here you go.]
March 25
6:20 a.m.
Ye gods, why am I up at 6:20 a.m.? Actually, I've been up since 5:37 a.m., when my eyes popped open and my brain said "Done sleeping!" I could, of course, have gotten back to sleep, but my body doesn't need anymore and, in fact, more sleep would likely have the effect of making me groggy.
This is what happens when I go to bed at 11 p.m. and I'm not battling a cold. When I am battling a cold, my body just sucks down sleep like it's a slurpy. Presumably, as I feel so well-rested and alert, I am no longer fighting a cold. Why, then, have I sneezed fifteen times already this morning, and why does my head feel as if it's full of sodden cotton? Why, the wonder of allergies, of course!
As the oracle at Delphi said, if it's not one damn thing, it's another.
So what do people do at this hour? I don't need to leave for work until, oh, 8:50 or so. I already took a shower. I could read, I suppose. I know some of you early-riser types use this time to write fiction, but that doesn't seem likely this morning. I'm still a little written-out from yesterday, though I expect to be recharged by this evening. Guess I'll go read the new ish of Strange Horizons...
Well, that's done. Jed's article reminds me that I should read some Crowley. Hmm...
The temptation to go to Mama's Royal Café is strong, but I will resist. I've given myself a budget, of all things, and a nice meal at Mama's would pretty much blow my weekly allowance. And while I'm seldom one to delay gratification, I think I'll exercise restraint this time.
I've been catching up at Sci Fiction the past couple of weeks. I read "Over Yonder" at last, which I'd put off because I often dislike Lucius Shepard; too often his stories are pointlessly impenetrable and self-important. But I like black trains, so... it's a good story, too. He's written many things I like, actually; "White Trains", and "The All-Consuming", and even "Crocodile Rock", though the prose is a bit annoyingly lush in that one. But he also wrote Green Eyes, which I slogged through, and Life During Wartime, which is one-fifth good (the first fifth, published separately as "R&R") and four-fifths meandering bleah. So it's always a crap shoot, whether something of his will connect with me; "Over Yonder" did. Also read "In For A Penny" by Blaylock, which was nice, and "Struwwelpeter", which I liked very much, especially the refreshing straightforwardness of the last line. I read others, too, but those are the ones I liked the most.
Huh. 7:15, now. I'm going to go find something to eat.
March 26
9:26 a.m.
Sick day. Actually not because of my interminable cold, which I think has finally gone away entirely, but a combination of other factors. My allergies, which have been growing steadily more unpleasant, are at their worst today, and I've got a head full of ickiness trying to get out. I plan a trip to the drugstore today to get some allergy medication; over-the-counter stuff is usually enough for me, and I'll see if that does the trick before I go mucking about with doctors. If it were just the allergies I'd go to work -- I've been sneezing and so on for a week anyway -- but I've also contracted Heather's pinkeye. My eye was itching yesterday, but I decided it was psychosomatic, just sympathetic-pinkeye, and it probably was just that. This morning, though, my eye was itchy and leaky with that thicker-than-tears discharge, which I remember so well from my childhood experiences with the dread conjunctivitis. I had it bad when I was a kid, so bad that my eyelid gummed shut, and while this isn't that bad, it's a long way from pleasant. So, feeling lousy, I called in (actually e-mailed in, since I made the decision to stay home before the office opened). I'll get some allergy drugs, and I'll keep my eye clean, and by tomorrow I should be fine. Unless my eye gets radically worse, becomes a big gross red gummy thing, that is; and that shouldn't happen unless I spend the morning doing nothing more hygienic than sitting around in a pit of mud and festering, which isn't in my plans.
Hmm. Unrelated things. I finished Threshold, and I think I liked it. I know I liked the experience of reading the book, and I think I liked the ending. At first, it seems like the sort of cheat ending that would make an experienced sf reader fling the book across the room... but Kiernan is smarter than that, and the ending is arguably justified, and not as peachy-rosy-keen as it first seems to be.
Heather started Mockingbird last night, and asked me, half-joking, if my Mom ever says "Give me some sugar", and I said sure, everyone where I'm from says that, especially aunts. (Pronounced "ants", not "awnts", by the way) Heather was astonished; she was not aware people actually sincerely spoke that way. I told her "Give me some sugar" is right up there with "I'm serious as a heart attack" and "I'm gonna snatch you bald-headed", though somewhat more pleasant to hear...
I'm reading A Winter Haunting now, which is nice, very different from Summer of Night though definitely a sequel.
Didn't get much accomplished yesterday. Work was fairly productive, I did stuff for the issue. Then came home, took the train to the Y (which seems increasingly like a place that takes my money and my time and gives me nothing but sweat and the temporary use of musty towels in return; I am not a born exerciser), then came home. Heather made dinner; I went to the liquor store and bought bread (they actually had some wheat bread buried beneath the loaves of WonderBread) and chocolate sauce. You know. The staples. We ate and watched bad television. I answered some e-mail. My brain kept slipping out of gear, and my attempts to be productive/creative failed. We did manage to address envelopes for the chapbook orders we've received recently, so those are going out today. I went to bed sort of early... and that's all.
Words written since February 1, 2002: 39,300
Words written since last entry: 0
Send me some of them artificial eyes I'm always reading about in them sci-fi books, the ones where you stick a jack in the pupil for some reason.
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