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Sep. 18th, 2010 07:46 pmI'm well over the Fast but not well over the painzone yet. I'm about the same level I was during the Ditmars, actually. I hurt. Nothing helps. It will pass.
Anyhow, the same level of pain as the Ditmar day means I have that dumpy dwarven shape, too (you can tell how much pain I'm in by my general configuration - my face only shows it when life is dire). What this means, of course, is that the universe is telling me I need to write High Fantasy. Alas, for the universe, I'm ignoring its hints. I'll be glad when all this is sorted and I have my own shape back. In the meantime, I possibly could diminish the pain using the method my NZ friends taught me, at the parties after the Ditmars: alcohol, copious quantities thereof. The mead was especially good for this, but alas, is all gone.
In other news (run! hide! I'm doing the 'other news' thing again!) my TV is now black and white. It's the antenna, I think, because the actual television shows colour on request. Life is surprising cool in B&W, though I do get the occasional urge to create cheese hedgehogs and lettuce in aspic and put on a straight mini (I have a 60s dress, too, only it doesn't go with the dwarven figure) and practise my gogo dancing. I was an extraordinarily good gogo dancer when I was three. I lost the knack after that.
I can't fiddle with my antenna because I'm too short. This means I am doomed, dwarven to live in the sixties. I could watch DVDs, but the only ones I have on loan right now are black and white. The universe is trying to tell me something there, too. I have to write a High Fantasy novel set in the 60s, with gogo dancers and lettuce in aspic. Oh, and prawn cocktails. I shall call it "Children of Carnivale."
Or I can just be dutiful and write my SF novel, which is coming along nicely. I need to name the exotic matter and keep wanting to call one type 'unobtainium' and the other 'exotic red matter' but the curious reaction by my supervisor when I suggested that a good working title for the novel would be "In search of Zombie Ancestry" suggests that common sense ought to have the upper hand on this one.
I liked that last sentence. It nearly took over the whole blogpost. And on that illuminating thought, I shall take up work again, having negotiated the High Holy Days with less grace than usual, but having come out the other side anyhow.
Anyhow, the same level of pain as the Ditmar day means I have that dumpy dwarven shape, too (you can tell how much pain I'm in by my general configuration - my face only shows it when life is dire). What this means, of course, is that the universe is telling me I need to write High Fantasy. Alas, for the universe, I'm ignoring its hints. I'll be glad when all this is sorted and I have my own shape back. In the meantime, I possibly could diminish the pain using the method my NZ friends taught me, at the parties after the Ditmars: alcohol, copious quantities thereof. The mead was especially good for this, but alas, is all gone.
In other news (run! hide! I'm doing the 'other news' thing again!) my TV is now black and white. It's the antenna, I think, because the actual television shows colour on request. Life is surprising cool in B&W, though I do get the occasional urge to create cheese hedgehogs and lettuce in aspic and put on a straight mini (I have a 60s dress, too, only it doesn't go with the dwarven figure) and practise my gogo dancing. I was an extraordinarily good gogo dancer when I was three. I lost the knack after that.
I can't fiddle with my antenna because I'm too short. This means I am doomed, dwarven to live in the sixties. I could watch DVDs, but the only ones I have on loan right now are black and white. The universe is trying to tell me something there, too. I have to write a High Fantasy novel set in the 60s, with gogo dancers and lettuce in aspic. Oh, and prawn cocktails. I shall call it "Children of Carnivale."
Or I can just be dutiful and write my SF novel, which is coming along nicely. I need to name the exotic matter and keep wanting to call one type 'unobtainium' and the other 'exotic red matter' but the curious reaction by my supervisor when I suggested that a good working title for the novel would be "In search of Zombie Ancestry" suggests that common sense ought to have the upper hand on this one.
I liked that last sentence. It nearly took over the whole blogpost. And on that illuminating thought, I shall take up work again, having negotiated the High Holy Days with less grace than usual, but having come out the other side anyhow.