Chess Soup

I oughta schedule a day where I just stare at space. I may be too impatient for it. To-day's chess tournament went all right, especially since there were enough players for me not to play and instead just concentrate on organising. I don't quite multitask fast enough for my satisfaction. Or maybe the software doesn't. Second Life still seems to crash for me two out of ten times whenever I upload an image. Otherwise, there were really no problems except the difficulty in communicating with the Russian players. Second Life has translation scripts but, while it's probably better than nothing, it's less than perfect.

I was streaming music, mostly Tom Waits, and one guy kept saying, "Maestro . . . this real music."

I said I loved Tom Waits and he said, "I love Chopin." I'm still not sure whether he was saying he liked the music or hated it. He ended up winning two out of five games but first place was a three way tie between three other people--Celia (co-owner of the Queen Alice Chess Club), my friend Rose (who sponsored the event with 3000 lindens in prize money, which is around twelve dollars), and someone I'd just met who I think was Russian. It just occurred to me I don't think there was a single person playing on the same continent as me. I think everyone was Dutch, Belgian, or Russian. I think this is a reflection of the greater popularity chess enjoys in continental Europe. It's also the reason I had to start the tournament no later than noon. I made some effort to get to bed early--it really is weird how things keep coming up that force me to be up early.

To-morrow it's back to drawing all day . . .

Twitter Sonnet #520

Citrus tartan saturation bends hair.
Tangled pipelines linger in legacies.
Simulated candy eyes the sweet pear.
Photo conduits clog the agencies.
Diabetic batmen melt over cake.
Colossal salad bar lawyers grow faint.
Graph paper pulps in Geometry Lake.
Pineapples plead with the cocoanut paint.
Golden cocoanut sprinkles the sought dough.
Celery vines break as they twine tightly.
Plaid portcullis imprisoned the hobo.
Lonely lapel lids are blinking nightly.
Platinum pretzel rods submerge in lead.
The talking confetti king's in your head.