It bodes ill. But at least I was apparently amusing as I wandered up and down the floor, barefooted, wild haired, smudged of eye and rumpled, looking for where I'd left my cup. Perfect Catch 22, commented a co-worker: need coffee to think, can't think where coffee cup is.
Happily, I found it, in the loo of all places. Oh well. Being this much of a spacecadet can only mean a few things: I'm unwell, I'm overtired, or my mind is thousands of miles away, in this case, Fort Peck Lake, Montana. Tee Hee.
Yup. Had scene A and scene B, couldn't work out how to get from A to B. Was thinking about ditching A, as much as I love it, as being impractical when suddenly, thanks to feeling reedy, cool damp weather, a few hours kip fer once, a panadol and a really good cup of tea, and I wrote a bridging scene that I'm really pleased with. It's only small, and will probably be brushed off or even skipped by folks, but I liked it. It speaks of road trips past. I had the most magical time writing it, even if it only is about a page or so.
Oof, didn't do much last night. Twelve hour days are rough on a girl with pneumonia so I sort of dragged myself home, up lane, through door, pausing only to feed wildlife, then crashed. Saw a bit of Angel and heartbroken Wes. Poor Wes.
Oh yes, the birds. It was Ang who had her eye struck out. What does it mean when one's familiar loses an eye? Nothing good I fear. Anyways she's not coping well and is clinging to me as much as she did as a fledgling, back in the summer of 99/00. In the years inbetween she only called upon me to help feed her children, but now she calls upon me every morning and night for food. I don't mind, I love that creature. She has a spirit, you can still see it brightly in her remaining eye, and a quick intelligence, hiding the grapes I gave her in such tricky spots, for later. Poor Ang. Poor, beautiful, Ang.
I really shouldn't attempt to write any POTC in conjunction with watching Blackadder, because everything I try to write Norrington, he comes out sounding like George (Hugh Laurie). Well, shag me rotton and call me Gracie!
Hmmm, that Norrington fic is still scratching at the door. As much as I love 'em, I think these last two or three JP3 fics will be my last. I'm losing momentum, as much as I try to keep peddling as fast as I can. The Jack/Daniel one has stalled too, though every time I start writing J/D I get slapped down again. I get slapped down in JP3 circles too, though there it's a wall of silence, and I've read that an organised shunning can be as hurtful, if not more so, than verbal abuse.
Sigh. If only I wasn't me, but alas I was cursed with forthright opinions and denied the good sense to know when to hold my tongue. Unfortunately I can trace these alarming traits back four generations on both sides of the family, so unhappily, all my best efforts, re-training and re-education and all the best intentions in the world still lead to a disgraceful amount of recidivism on my part. I just can't help putting my foot in it, and precious few people have the time and patience to overlook the stumbles of a socially clumsy idiot these days.
I mean, you have no idea how edited and censored these journals are. Truly, what you read is like what you get from the FOI office.
Speaking of which, we had an odd thought over Xmas: If I'm on Santa's naughty list, and I assume I must as I'm on every other naughty list (Miss Red Card 2003), then can I apply to see my file under the Freedom of Information Act?
A friend's mobile just went off. He says he has it set to vibrate, but it's a sad state of affairs that I actually had to inquire as to whether or not he had it set to sound like the last dying wail of a stray cat, which is what it sounds like, exactly.
In other news, I heard that Dawn (from BTVS) would be in Six Feet Under. Ack! That's it. No more Six Feet Under for me. I mean, it's been Melrose Placey of late, but a gal has her limits.
Finally, yes, I did replay my tape of the last ever episode of Dawson's Creek yesterday. It ended just as you'd expect it to: Joey ended up with Pacey, Dawson ended up with Steven Speilberg, Deputy Doug finally came out of the closet (very chastely) and the girl who actually had sex and enjoyed it died a horrible death because this is American television, after all.
I gotta say though, Jack was looking really fat and middleaged now that they've stopped trying to make him look like a teenager. Heh. Off to fat camp with you, my old son. Next they'll be making all us chubbies wear patches on our clothes and start herding us onto trains like cattle. Yikes. Maybe I can get my skinny relatives to hide me in the attic. Bad enough I'm doomed to a lonely, poorly paid existence and every misery that entails, then the Government thinks hey, we're not persecuting those fatties enough. Let's round 'em up. If I was an animal, people would at least speak on my behalf.
Oh, happiness! I've been welcomed into the 006 slash community with open arms. Well, nearasdammit, anyway. Happiness! Warmth! Acceptance! Such kind words (cue Cheers theme song). I really should finish/write more/write new stuff for dear old Alec. Now there's an excuse to buy the reissued dvd with the extras and plop myself on the couch if ever I thought one up. All in the name of research, you understand :)
Maybe dust off some of my Fleming books, too (cough, sneeze, snort). Ha, all those summer holidays spent hanging upside down on my bed reading 007 haven't been wasted, afterall.
And lastly, I don't mean to be alarmist, but anyone else notice I have all the symptoms of SARS? Had this damn cough now five weeks and it ain't shifting. It's really start to hack me off. Literally. I can't sleep so I can't write, and so it goes.
something for later: