kiya

There were 470 more words written on the last thud day. That plus the 750 I wrote today finishes 3.23 at 1220 words. I also wrote 39 words on 3.24, but didn't get further; at least I won't have Blank Page Problem to come to next I work on it.

1262 words this week, which is 3.21.

keshwyn++ for helping me unstuck.

I feel so much better now.

- made soup
- put some of said soup in a tub for meranthi
- washed sheets
- did dance vid
- created order out of miscellaneous stuff not previously in boxes
- did handweights
- ordered furniture -- when eyebrowsmcgee said this place shipped efficiently, I wasn't expecting "Ship Date: In Stock - Expects To Ship 04/24/06".
- discovered that I possess inordinate and slightly alarming levels of understanding of oneironaut's sexual fantasies
- found the Ozzy CD I've been looking for for ~three years.
- 1092 words, which is 3.16 in its entirety, and gets this post the writing icon for lack of a better one

916 words finishes 3.14.
189 words done on 3.15.
1105 total.

Take that, writer's block.

Have also done a load of laundry, made attempt two at fixing a stopper onto the foot of my cane so I can use it on smooth surfaces safely (because my hip hurts and I need to catch the train tomorrow to meet queenofhalves for lunch), cleaned catbox, emptied miscellaneous trash cans, done the stretching section of the dance vid (as teinedreugan suggested it would be a good idea, even if I'm not feeling sound enough to do my usual sections), did my handweights, though only ten-sets on the three-pounder (last time I did a ten and a fifteen on the different exercises).

Pills. Shower. Sleep.

1117 words. Chapter 3.13 done.

Minioned some for arawen. May have become slightly less crazy.

Watched some of The Muppet Show with whispercricket and teinedreugan, commented on one of the acts, "Not as surreal as Mummenschanz". At which point whispercricket said, ".... they're on the end of this disc." So then we watched that episode. (teinedreugan didn't know what they were. I said, "Surrealist mimes." I still can't think of a better description.)

"Arena" is still stalking me.

Even larger blue balls machine. Still worksafe. I think also still musical.

Conversation with teinedreugan:

"You need to sleep."
"Yeah."
"And I need to eat."
"Yeah."
"And I'll be in Scotland before you."
"You take the high road and I take the low road? No, other way around."
"Yeah. Low road is the spirit way."
"Because of being dead."
"Yeah. Dead has its problems, but at least travel is faster."
"50% faster!"
"Only if you're an elf, dear."
"True."
"We are such geeks."

241 words.

( To-do for tomorrow, just so I don't forget things. )

445 words. That's about half the chapter, and I'd write more but my brain has shut down because, for some reason unknown to me, I am not sleeping well. But finally. Progress.

In other accomplishments, have done some laundry, though I still need to do more laundry, because laundry is infinite and unbounded by space and time. Have also racked mead (with the obvious testing that comes of working the siphon) and ordered a gift for someone. Have finished Sunken Temple with Samh, though I need to finish turning in quests. Have shared entertaining scheming with suzimoses, who is greatly amused. Have sorted mice into bags.

Have, in short, had almost the day I wanted to have last week but didn't because of external factors. Say, half of it; the first half was irritatingly ineffectual. On! On!

On practicing with the drum:

Brooks [brooksmoses] unidles, reads scroll. Whitney, you need practice so you can remember which hand is tek and which is ka, and then you can reember left and right if you can reemmber whether tek goes with left or right. Which you can probably do with a suitable Red Sox reference, if you're lucky (though he's probably a leftie, and tek is your right hand, isn't it. Sigh....)
Whitney says, "He's a switch hitter."
Whitney says, "And thus No Help At All."
Brooks says, "Well, that at least matches your _current_ state of remembering which is which. :p"

Remembered to try to find information on Algonquin and/or Iroquois symbology; failed to succeed.

340 words this weekend. Very busy and feeling unwell.

( Silly D&D character class quizzy thing which amuses the heck out of me. )

The WIE:

"Let me comb your hair." When she spoke, her preoccupation became a taste, thick and metallic, rather than just a noise at the edges of my attention.

The backburnered thing:

They say she came into the village on a Sunday, smelling of the sea, with kelp tangled into her hair. She sat on a rock at the edge of the commons combing it out with her fingers and dropping it onto the ground, while the truants from services gathered at the other end and pointed at her and stared. The priest came out, and the acolytes with the censer and candles, and they tried holy water and prayer on her, but she did not vanish in a puff of brimstone.

The thing for which I have only fragments and I'm not sure about the order, but this is the first bit I wrote of it even though I know it's not the first part:

It was only a few years before he died that I finally realised that my father was a dragon.

Actually, the first bit may be this, now that I think of it:

I met her at a party, one of those pointless social dances intended primarily for the display of plumage. The host was a tiresome old troll of a woman with a craggy face that suggested one sunbeam too many. She was tedious; her associates were tedious; her conversation was tedious. I cannot for the life of me remember why I thought it a good idea to attend in the first place; it was a long time ago, and I was much younger then.

The gargoyle thing:

"It'll have to wear gloves."

The thing that's probably wrong and needs to be ripped out and started over:

The worst thing about coming home was the dust. The paths were clay, the same clay that made the pottery in the carts that had pounded those same paths flat and dead on their outward journeys. It had been a hot day, and the impossible sun had baked the road for the caravan's special benefit. As a result, the wagons traveled in a perpetual cloud of billowing dust, which swirled in patterns like bad omens in the lantern-light.

The WIP:

The track wound crookedly through the trees, trodden to pounded dirt and roots by the passage of many hooves. Now and again a branch rustled or a bush protested with a soft crackle as the horse followed that trail, moving at a walk that occasionally danced into a trot; she was eager to move, and her ears angled forward almost like arrows.

Most everything else is notes, dead, or finished.

Thud: 209 words (I think) finishes 3.2. 131 on 3.3, not sure how I need to manage some of the tensions here.

Actually, I don't. I don't even have an upright. Sad.

Need something to prop up my mortal remains, though. So tired. The way illness drains the hell out of me is utterly unamusing. I am, however, terrifically full of chicken soup with lots of garlic. I float away on ginger brewed to soothe my stomach. And all that good stuff.

Thud, though: 962 words, bringing 3.1 to 1003 and finishing it.

Given, however, that about 925 words in I typed 'smug' as 'sumb', I think I'm going to take that as a sign and go to sleep.