Woke up with the Decemberist’s Yankee Bayonet playing in my head. It’s on the Gallow & Ragged soundtrack, but the sea-shanty aspects of it also always make me think of HOOD. It’s the sort of song Alastair Crenn and Jeremy would hum while on the rails, and Alladal would play with for a performance in one of Sharud’s many kultur-dives. I think Ged would know it, certainly, and might even think of it while dreaming of resting in Marah’s arms.
Some songs make lateral connections between stories for me, a type of musical connective tissue. And there’s no doubt it’s a catchy tune.
It’s the first day of December, so holiday stuff is in full swing. Which means I’ll be hiding at home for the foreseeable future unless absolutely forced to go somewhere. The amount of unhappiness and tension swirling around scrapes against all my nerve endings, mixing with childhood trauma. When I was young, this time of year was always mounting, deadly anticipation of the worst until the inevitable explosion, and I still can’t fully relax.
There are bright spots. I’ll be busy, head-down in a revision I’d rather not do but it’s paid work so that’s fortunate. The Jolene, Jolene story may–may–have found a home, we’ll see. If I bring all my engines to bear I might also get the second season of Hell’s Acre to at least zero draft status by New Year’s, which will give me comfortable running room to prepare the next serial. And I have a really fun sale planned for you guys, going until Boxing Day–but more about that tomorrow, I’m slightly behind myself this morning. (Or ahead. Not sure.)
The forecast is muttering about snow, but that’s probably just up in the hills. Here we only get wintry mix, as a rule, and I should’ve named Boxnoggin “Bartleby” instead, because he would really prefer not to, especially while it’s raining. While he’s inside he cannot wait for walkies, but once we actually get outside he is incensed that I would force him “to do such a thing, Mother, how dare!” Then, when we arrive home, he goes to one of his (several, cushioned, very comfortable) beds (including my own) and curls up, giving me super reproachful glances every time I walk by. For the rest of the day getting him to go outside for loo breaks is a Grand Production of Preferring Not To, Mother, Thanks Very Much, and I am clearly the worst pet owner in the world for forcing him to unload outside and return to a nice warm house. By tomorrow morning the entire experience will have left his empty but surprisingly thick skull wholesale and the cycle will begin anew.
This dog, I swear. I will never lack for laughter while he’s around.
In any case, Boxnoggin Bartleby complained all during his first loo break of the day but has since forgotten it and visited my office twice now, eager to move me toward breakfast and walkies. He’ll realize his mistake as soon as we step outside, I’m sure. Right now he is ensconced at my office door, gazing intently at me. I can feel the weight of his expectations against my shoulder, not to mention the side of my head.
Off we go then, upon the merry-go-round of canine amnesia. There are even several leaf blowers hard at work in the neighborhood–the music of autumn’s ending, indeed. Most of the leaves are down, except for that one willow tree…
…but that’s (say it with me) another blog post.
See you around.