the mourning after
Intellectual rush the other day, but difficult to distinguish between the useful & the futile...
...but first, there's brecchie/coffee with Trish, as usual. Followed shortly with a bath; I didn't want to be Smelly Bear for the doctor. With that task completed, I wasted some time in Cyberia, then resumed work on "Bio-Aesthetics", which certainly goes beyond God & Sisyphus -- the only thing beyond God is Sisyphus. Made some solid headway, then called the Invisible Taxi for my Medicaid Transport ride up to the Clinic, to see the foot doctor.
They hadn't received a fax.
I called Medicaid Transport as a last minute, emergency thing, got put on hold, followed by an answering machine. So I rescheduled -- immediately following which, Mr. Taxi called to say that he'd cleared it. I then returned to my attempt to create a new mythology for the space age.
Trish came home around 2:30, so I turned off the computer to talk with her.
She became terribly upset that I hadn't seen the doctor yet, that with her generalized anxiety disorder she'd been worried about the appointment all the time she'd been at work.
We also talked about sex the other nigh & the reasons I couldn't become excited, even with the Viagra:
She got mad at all my fantasies.
I realize that constant reliance on K. Fantasy is no good for the Dick, but others... even the porno-vid didn't add to my drive, as at the key moments, there'd be a negative reaction.
I'm sure a lot of this revolves around the girl in Oreo-gon, what'll happen when she's home, & how to integrate it into her/our experience(s). Trish has seemed to be going thru a powerful mood-swing starting a month ago; someone she hated so assiduously has become an object of desire, & I'm in the middle of it all, becoming confused.
When I related some of this to Trish, she went out of her funk. She napped for awhile while I played my own arrangement of Crystal Ship (the streets are force-fields that never die: Phoenix Enthralled). For supper, I fixed a box of Chicken Helper that I think the food bank gave us.
Then I called Ted on "Trinities". He's already trying to find formulas in books on plot (36? 25? can't he just make up his own?) &, if I do anything other than let him be a junior partner in my own work, he'll do what he did with "Quantum Amplifier", which didn't turn out to be what I wanted, bounced at Analog with a form, & has since remained unsalable (except possibly to amateur Australian markets that insult what they don't like/understand (& where did this guy get his "science" from? comic books?)).
The best of my own stories never came out of a "book on writing," they were created to please literary critics, & were not plotted in advance: they were written on the Invisible TV, a means of creation shared with Dick: it seems like there's a little TV hovering about 6 inches above my machine, & I just write down whatever I see -- spontaneity, not rigorous formula writing. True, I write "against formula", but Stan Schmidt really seems to enjoy it. I split up with Ted over the issue of a sex-scene in TC, at this point, I don't want to go back to letting him write the story as he sees fit, so starting this afternoon, it's time to switch on the Invisible TV -- but will I need to go on a nutmeg binge/reefer madness to create the thing?
At the risk of repeating myself, even though Analog day is over, I really need to start to work on the project soon, before Ted rushes into something. Fortunately, he's not going to be able to work on the novel for another 2 months, which gives me the opportunity to:
--TV on!
--Cloak on! the Hog shouts, but I'm still waiting for Fearless Taco to mail me the drivers for my all-in-one. Until then, it's all email subs.
--Cyber on!
Soft Machine feeling for a point of intersection...
...but first, there's brecchie/coffee with Trish, as usual. Followed shortly with a bath; I didn't want to be Smelly Bear for the doctor. With that task completed, I wasted some time in Cyberia, then resumed work on "Bio-Aesthetics", which certainly goes beyond God & Sisyphus -- the only thing beyond God is Sisyphus. Made some solid headway, then called the Invisible Taxi for my Medicaid Transport ride up to the Clinic, to see the foot doctor.
They hadn't received a fax.
I called Medicaid Transport as a last minute, emergency thing, got put on hold, followed by an answering machine. So I rescheduled -- immediately following which, Mr. Taxi called to say that he'd cleared it. I then returned to my attempt to create a new mythology for the space age.
Trish came home around 2:30, so I turned off the computer to talk with her.
She became terribly upset that I hadn't seen the doctor yet, that with her generalized anxiety disorder she'd been worried about the appointment all the time she'd been at work.
We also talked about sex the other nigh & the reasons I couldn't become excited, even with the Viagra:
She got mad at all my fantasies.
I realize that constant reliance on K. Fantasy is no good for the Dick, but others... even the porno-vid didn't add to my drive, as at the key moments, there'd be a negative reaction.
I'm sure a lot of this revolves around the girl in Oreo-gon, what'll happen when she's home, & how to integrate it into her/our experience(s). Trish has seemed to be going thru a powerful mood-swing starting a month ago; someone she hated so assiduously has become an object of desire, & I'm in the middle of it all, becoming confused.
When I related some of this to Trish, she went out of her funk. She napped for awhile while I played my own arrangement of Crystal Ship (the streets are force-fields that never die: Phoenix Enthralled). For supper, I fixed a box of Chicken Helper that I think the food bank gave us.
Then I called Ted on "Trinities". He's already trying to find formulas in books on plot (36? 25? can't he just make up his own?) &, if I do anything other than let him be a junior partner in my own work, he'll do what he did with "Quantum Amplifier", which didn't turn out to be what I wanted, bounced at Analog with a form, & has since remained unsalable (except possibly to amateur Australian markets that insult what they don't like/understand (& where did this guy get his "science" from? comic books?)).
The best of my own stories never came out of a "book on writing," they were created to please literary critics, & were not plotted in advance: they were written on the Invisible TV, a means of creation shared with Dick: it seems like there's a little TV hovering about 6 inches above my machine, & I just write down whatever I see -- spontaneity, not rigorous formula writing. True, I write "against formula", but Stan Schmidt really seems to enjoy it. I split up with Ted over the issue of a sex-scene in TC, at this point, I don't want to go back to letting him write the story as he sees fit, so starting this afternoon, it's time to switch on the Invisible TV -- but will I need to go on a nutmeg binge/reefer madness to create the thing?
At the risk of repeating myself, even though Analog day is over, I really need to start to work on the project soon, before Ted rushes into something. Fortunately, he's not going to be able to work on the novel for another 2 months, which gives me the opportunity to:
--TV on!
--Cloak on! the Hog shouts, but I'm still waiting for Fearless Taco to mail me the drivers for my all-in-one. Until then, it's all email subs.
--Cyber on!
Soft Machine feeling for a point of intersection...
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