I’m dodging writing a little bit today. Just not feeling the finger burn and am rolling about in this fog-laden state of waiting for something to happen. Not that anything is expected to (no novel news, other things aren’t due immediately either), just that fortune cookie sensation of “good news comes to those who are patient” is hovering. So, I decided that I would really rather be reading Vandermeer than the latest piece of shit thriller that I still request from the library out of some vague habit that I haven’t quite purged; I mowed the lawn; did the virtual equivalent of re-arranging my sock drawer; got caught up on all my blogs and LJ reading (easy to do since everyone is out enjoying their local sunshine); planned to go to Frye’s with the Dude after his nap but, since he’s still napping, that’s on hold; and well, yes, I guess I will finally get to line editing that story that has been half-finished for two weeks now.
Anyway, here’s a snippet of it. Something entertaining in an otherwise unexciting post.
“The dog-faced thing in the corner of the room gibbers and slobbers, wet spasm that are waves breaking against the hull of her boat. Lashed to the wood, white angel starless staring, she listens to the waves and the wind of the dog-faced thing. She waits for the moon.
The crescent slit is a stone-frozen celestial image, a false window through which there is no watchful face, no light, no course to set one’s compass by. Here, in the third darkness, there is no eye in the sky, no suggestion to tug at her groin. There is only the dog-faced thing that waits at the foot of the bed and laps at the river between her legs.
The river is but a course to the sea, and the sea is but a course to the moon. Lost daughter, the draught missing from the wheel. False son, vanished among the reeds.”