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Jacquelyn and Ethan fell asleep while we were watching Braveheart. Ethan had never seen it before and Jacqui hadn't seen it since she was fourteen or so. I am pleased to report it is just as good as ever and damn, that crazy Irishman is hilarious.
"My island."
Don't let their sleepiness mislead you. We've all had a long week and are very tired. I'm half around the bend towards spouting pure nonsense into this here keyboard, but I'm holding on for some coherence for at least a paragraph or two.
Jacquelyn is leaving on Wednesday for Vermont. She'll be gone for a week and a half, and as soon as she gets back, she leaves for a research trip to Indiana. She'll be gone for about three weeks. She may even have something else going on right after that, so she could very well be gone for a month.
We were just friends when she left last summer. A month goes by, she comes back and we're suddenly a couple. I'm worried she'll come back this time and find out we're married. Ok, so I'm not really worried, but a month is a long time.
During the interim, I will be writing as much as I can. I have an idea for a novel and I want to see how much of it I can do before she gets back. John and I wrote Complex Psyche in sixty days, not including weekends, averaging about a chapter a day. It's possible I can get quite a bit done, at least enough to keep up the momentum to get it finished.
Want some weird news? I thought so...
It's late and I feel drained. I want to write a poem, so simple and profound that the structure of the universe could be glimpsed between its phrases and syllables. I want to look at the world with the right kind of eyes. But I find the motivation lacking and my vocabulary failing, falling like a stone in a beautiful arc from my hand to the ocean. In a ripple the stone will have vanished like the sun, driven below the surface by the day's amber gravity. We sleep in solace, in our knowledge that the light of lights will return at dawn, but we're never absolutely sure.
One day it could be gone.
"My island."
"You mean Ireland?""Yeah, it's mine."
Don't let their sleepiness mislead you. We've all had a long week and are very tired. I'm half around the bend towards spouting pure nonsense into this here keyboard, but I'm holding on for some coherence for at least a paragraph or two.
Jacquelyn is leaving on Wednesday for Vermont. She'll be gone for a week and a half, and as soon as she gets back, she leaves for a research trip to Indiana. She'll be gone for about three weeks. She may even have something else going on right after that, so she could very well be gone for a month.
We were just friends when she left last summer. A month goes by, she comes back and we're suddenly a couple. I'm worried she'll come back this time and find out we're married. Ok, so I'm not really worried, but a month is a long time.
During the interim, I will be writing as much as I can. I have an idea for a novel and I want to see how much of it I can do before she gets back. John and I wrote Complex Psyche in sixty days, not including weekends, averaging about a chapter a day. It's possible I can get quite a bit done, at least enough to keep up the momentum to get it finished.
Want some weird news? I thought so...
In April, noted surgeon Sir Magdi Yacoub and a team at Ormond Hospital in London re-started the original heart of a 12-year-old girl after it had lain dormant in her body for 10 years while she lived with a donated heart. Because the donated heart was finally showing signs of rejection, Dr. Yacoub decided that the original, which had experienced acute inflammation, might have repaired itself enough to work again.Yeah. Weird.
It's late and I feel drained. I want to write a poem, so simple and profound that the structure of the universe could be glimpsed between its phrases and syllables. I want to look at the world with the right kind of eyes. But I find the motivation lacking and my vocabulary failing, falling like a stone in a beautiful arc from my hand to the ocean. In a ripple the stone will have vanished like the sun, driven below the surface by the day's amber gravity. We sleep in solace, in our knowledge that the light of lights will return at dawn, but we're never absolutely sure.
One day it could be gone.
