A decent night’s sleep, after a day spent slumped in front of sitcoms and old Tarrentino movies. Up around nine and I battered straight into dreich noir, which I’ve left untouched since november’s nano.

Because dreich noir started out as an exercise in writing a narrator as unlike me as possible, getting started can feel a lot like hard work. Slotting myself into the skull of someone with whom I have so little in common.

I’ve basically lain fallow this last month since I finished the first draft of the idiots’ graveyard. Relaxed. Caught some early nights and one or two long lies.

So, i’m feeling all new-year-ish. Like we’ve survived another one. Beaten off the mayans, fundamentalists of every stripe and their idiot wars on everything but themselves.

A year ago yesterday, I was the same age in days as my father was the day he died. A week ago yesterday was the date the mayans had circled in red on their calendar. It’s over six months since harold camping’s latest promise of milk ‘n’ honey for evermore.

Looks like we’re going to be stuck with each other for the forseeable future. Each staring back at the other with up to sixty cold dead eyes.

 

 

 

Enjoying this?

Why not check out my novel, 1919 (inside) available from smashwords?

Doing for interpersonal relationships what gary glitter does for creches.

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