Write, that is. Did okay for a day or so, but once that habit is gone, you're fighting inertia to get it back. I do, however, have plenty of reading material, so that's okay. Somehow, though, getting out of one good habit has led to challenges in others. Instead of finishing up my filing, I'm reading the a fascinating Firefly novel by Steven Brust (free from his website), compiled lectures from Joseph Campbell (blame EVERYTHING on Oedipus), and maybe a few other novels tucked in just for interest. One book is tempting me to raise geckos by telling about the author's struggles to raise ravens. I assume that geckos live on something other than roadkill and that they would adhere instead to a mutually beneficial de-bugging diet. I could crochet little leashes from embroidery thread and name them after cars (Chrysler, Mercedes, Cooper).
Why geckos? First, they already know how to get in the house. I think they are living under or around the stove, which no longer functions all that well and whose digital readout is going blank one glowing link at a time. I expect that it will eventually go completely blank, at which time I will realize that I can see through the plastic and that I'm staring at the Gecko Central. Perhaps then the entire gas range will blast off for kitchens unknown, crewed by largly translucent and completely silent sticky-fingered lizards who have grown tired of dealing with doors hidden by dog fur and large loud bipeds who slam plastic cones over them and toss them out into the humid darkness.
I imagine the entire sordid routine will be illustrated by the National Enquirer by way of Aardman Studios.
Sigh. And I still have writer's block that chimes to the clicking of the Eskie's toenails as he paces his room in confusion. Good night.
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