There is much to write about since I last posted over a month ago: I've completed the first two sections of the current draft of Prescience; I completed three pieces for the upcoming issue of UPPERCASE Magazine, which is looking fantastic; and I did a road-trip with Janine and Finley to San Francisco and back up the Oregon coast. I'll be doing some updates over the next week to bring the blog up to speed.
And it was a relief when the latter became the norm and we lapsed back to our old selves, as our grandmother’s presence in the house made it small in more ways than simply five people pushing against one another in a scarcity of rooms. Some days, I pretended that she had died in the night and the speechless, empty-eyed woman who’s steps made no sound was a ghost. Or if a ghost is the essence of a person moved on from their body, I was more inclined to pretend that she was the opposite - a husk. Waking dead was a phrase that Finley used once, and I latched onto as my own way of thinking of her on those days she was at her worst.
Today I began working on a story-line and motif that I've been planning for years and written excerpts of but which I hadn't begun to implement with the main narrative.
We were not far from the cairn, and he and I were indians, hiding from the others, pretending we were one with the trees and the earth. We lay on the ground, bare-chested, necks raised to look through the brush. Our mothers would later wonder over their laundry: why did our white shirts stay so clean while our trousers so stained that they must have buried in the top soil.
At the end of a very busy day, I had a few minutes at an Indigo Bookstore coffee shop. And while I wasn't sure I'd have the energy to write, seeing my book on the shelves there got my creative juices flowing. Ended up being a productive session, as I started on the second part of the book.
Always a welcome sight
Montana circled around behind us then loped in front, trying to get the game to continue, and Claire flung her arms wide and stepped toward him, and he thrilled to the gesture of a chase, darting back and tearing around us. This continued all the way to the bridge, at which point he left us and trotted back to his porch. Perhaps he watched us all the way up the long path to the church, and saw where we disappeared into the brush. Perhaps he took note of the location and longed to go hunt for the stick. But he rarely crossed over the creek.
I'm finishing up a few last parts of the first section, including the long sequence that I had started working on yesterday. My research today was on vintage cigarettes, and particular the early 20th century trendy Egyptian Deities.
