Well I've just stepped in a big puddle of dog piss.
I felt a little oddly dispirited all day and I suppose this was the perfect capper. I think Hershey the Dog is sick--he's usually so good about keeping himself under control.
He now lays, head down, near the front door, looking distinctly ashamed.
To-day I did, as planned, go to a coffee place with the intention of writing but the place was so fucking crowded. Absolutely no seats. So I took my writing and my coffee home.
Oh, and as you might have noticed, some of my writing is now available for perusal--click on the link marked Fiction in the little box on the right.
Comments would be appreciated if any of you have the time . . .
...
I've decided to read H.P. Lovecraft's The Dream Quest of the Unknown Kadath, and I'm about eight pages into it.
Although it is full of ominous, disturbing, and classically alien imagery word crafting, I'm finding it oddly comforting this evening. That, and Tori Amos's From the Choirgirl Hotel are very peculiarly lifting my spirits.
Choirgirl is perhaps my favourite Tori album (although I wouldn't stake my life on it as very often Pele and Under the Pink are my favourites). I was a little dismayed that Tori mysteriously chose not to play a single song off the album on either of the last two occasions she played here in San Diego.
I guess she probably has her reasons though . . .
Now I'd better go make myself feel useful.
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