Scarlett Letters

It must be convention hangover and the weather. I don't want to see anyone or do anything. And Roger Ebert has died, which dims the world's light in general.

I'm having a hard time right now expressing myself about much of anything--which is annoying because I actually have a number of things I want to write about. (That plus the fact that I wrote two thirds of a long LJ entry that appears to have been lost in email, about which I'm mightily frustrated.) I'm pretty sure it's because the weather has turned gray, cloudy, and rainy. I kind of hate bus commuting in the rain. And I need some time under a full-spectrum light. Or the sun. Whichever comes first.

Part of it, I think, is that last night Zeke knocked over a pile of stuff that included copies of the program I created for markbourne's life celebration. It's the first time I've looked at it in a year. It's full of everyone else's writing, not mine, mainly because I couldn't find words to express anything I was feeling about Mark's death. I still can't--no words, just tears still. But I put it together. I chose the content. I did what I do best in honor of him: I edited. I guess that's something anyway.

I'm blue. So it seems like nothing that I want will ever happen. I know I'm being myopic. It's just how I'm feeling tonight. I'll feel better tomorrow, I'm sure. But, for example, if my Green Man story (now on submission at one of your finer fantasy periodicals) ever sees print, you should know that the trees in these photographs were its inspiration. I hope someone buys that story. I really love it far more than I should. ( Limbs behind the cut )

Also:

Dear New Neighbor:

You seemed like a perfectly nice fellow when we met this afternoon. But if you plan on banging around and shaking the building all night long, my good opinion of you is going to be tarnished. Severely. You've made more noise in one evening than the previous owners did in the 6 years they were here.

Knock it off.

Me