new day of work yesterday...
...but it's an old day now...
...so not much went into Trish's opening day of work. Becky is gone -- Trish knew that from before -- Vanessa is less good about things like free salads (even Car-girl gets the blues); Say Bra is still there, saying "Bra", & Trish got kicked out of the dishroom yesterday, the drivers only had a few pizzas; took over on the sprayer -- so Julie in the sky with Lemons gave the Bumble Bee Girl a ride home.
Fred also stopped by, while I was writing, about moving the old a/c down to Sally Ann's. A lot of my inspiration for "Galaxies", which occurred this past weekend, has seemed to disappear. It's getting to be a chore to write; when that happens, it's best to develop a different project (bio-esthetics?) or switch to a different hemisphere -- art & music. (Does that clown at Andromeda Spaceways really not know the hemispheres are connected to opposite sides of the body? Does that shit head know anything about science at all? Apparently not; Stan Schmidt liked the idea -- got to get to Jill Bolte-Taylor about the actual physiology, as speculated by her -- I'm not convinced by her functional localization theories, but in science fiction, "We all know there's a speech center in the left hemisphere" -- when a few years ago they discovered that Broca's area (the "speech center") is highly active in artists while painting. Well, duh! I verbalize interiorly heavily when I paint.)
So I tormented my typewriter all afternoon, changing POV & other things, rearranging, moving clumps of material around. I did get it under 7,5oo words; it's now about 6,200, so I can build up the characterization on my crusading bitch whose husband only married her 'cause she's a femme-bot -- though I also threw out the dope in the sex scene, but put a mention of legal herb in later on.
Then Trish came home.
We relaxed for awhile while I waited for Karen -- she'd planned to meet me at 2:30; 4:00 came by, still no Karen, about 1/2 an hour later, I started cooking.
We'd taken out some frozen chicken breast; I fried it & mixed it in with a cheesy alfredo No-Bake, stove-top directions.
Trish cleaned up in the kitchen, I called Keith -- he's upset over Bonnie sleeping all day -- then went down in the basement, so we could turn off the a/c in the bedroom. After watching Battlestar Galactica, the mini-series, we left the fan on the a/c on all nite. I switched it off; when Trish woke up to take her pill, she demanded it on again.
Now I have 15 minutes to waste before waking Trish up. Maybe, if Andy Morlock is right, I'll be famous. (Stay tuned for future installments of Andy Morlock, or why I want to go on a nutmeg binge & torment my typewriter.)
...so not much went into Trish's opening day of work. Becky is gone -- Trish knew that from before -- Vanessa is less good about things like free salads (even Car-girl gets the blues); Say Bra is still there, saying "Bra", & Trish got kicked out of the dishroom yesterday, the drivers only had a few pizzas; took over on the sprayer -- so Julie in the sky with Lemons gave the Bumble Bee Girl a ride home.
Fred also stopped by, while I was writing, about moving the old a/c down to Sally Ann's. A lot of my inspiration for "Galaxies", which occurred this past weekend, has seemed to disappear. It's getting to be a chore to write; when that happens, it's best to develop a different project (bio-esthetics?) or switch to a different hemisphere -- art & music. (Does that clown at Andromeda Spaceways really not know the hemispheres are connected to opposite sides of the body? Does that shit head know anything about science at all? Apparently not; Stan Schmidt liked the idea -- got to get to Jill Bolte-Taylor about the actual physiology, as speculated by her -- I'm not convinced by her functional localization theories, but in science fiction, "We all know there's a speech center in the left hemisphere" -- when a few years ago they discovered that Broca's area (the "speech center") is highly active in artists while painting. Well, duh! I verbalize interiorly heavily when I paint.)
So I tormented my typewriter all afternoon, changing POV & other things, rearranging, moving clumps of material around. I did get it under 7,5oo words; it's now about 6,200, so I can build up the characterization on my crusading bitch whose husband only married her 'cause she's a femme-bot -- though I also threw out the dope in the sex scene, but put a mention of legal herb in later on.
Then Trish came home.
We relaxed for awhile while I waited for Karen -- she'd planned to meet me at 2:30; 4:00 came by, still no Karen, about 1/2 an hour later, I started cooking.
We'd taken out some frozen chicken breast; I fried it & mixed it in with a cheesy alfredo No-Bake, stove-top directions.
Trish cleaned up in the kitchen, I called Keith -- he's upset over Bonnie sleeping all day -- then went down in the basement, so we could turn off the a/c in the bedroom. After watching Battlestar Galactica, the mini-series, we left the fan on the a/c on all nite. I switched it off; when Trish woke up to take her pill, she demanded it on again.
Now I have 15 minutes to waste before waking Trish up. Maybe, if Andy Morlock is right, I'll be famous. (Stay tuned for future installments of Andy Morlock, or why I want to go on a nutmeg binge & torment my typewriter.)
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