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The Girl Genius comic for Wednesday, October 08, 2025 has been posted.
We’re easily hovering around -15.
I ‘knew ‘ by which I mean I thought it would be hard, but turns out I was somewhat sanguine. Her quality of life is abysmal, her illness unchecked and therefore her terrors rampant, the morning a disaster. She threw me out telling me I was a liar working for ‘the people persecuting’ her.
Bro has been shocked but supportive.
A surreal moment; I opened her carry case to see if I could find documents. She carries this around all the time, supposedly it has dad’s head in it.* Turns out she has been carrying my brother’s old Doctor Who and Marvel comics everywhere . She said this was recent, because people had come in and stolen some of his valuable comics . No one has ‘come in’. Bro says there’s a back story to that, and recounted how, back in the last century, he had a mint condition Dr Who first issue comic, and she gave it to one of our cousins to colour in. Bro hit the roof at the time. She never understood why but somehow got it into her head that these things need protecting. So she takes them everywhere, crumpled and half destroyed in her carry case.
I want to go visit Aunty’s grave up at the cemetery, impossible with mum as she fears death so much , but it is 30 minutes walk in the heat and I am sat at a bar waiting for food. Maybe I will go today, maybe I will find Sephora and buy some new make up. Nearby musicians have summoned ‘Volare’ presumably to terrify us all into generosity. I’ll give them some change cos why not? The sun is shining after all.
This is a horrible trip and was always going to be.I just never get the degrees right.
*Fam joke there
I ‘knew ‘ by which I mean I thought it would be hard, but turns out I was somewhat sanguine. Her quality of life is abysmal, her illness unchecked and therefore her terrors rampant, the morning a disaster. She threw me out telling me I was a liar working for ‘the people persecuting’ her.
Bro has been shocked but supportive.
A surreal moment; I opened her carry case to see if I could find documents. She carries this around all the time, supposedly it has dad’s head in it.* Turns out she has been carrying my brother’s old Doctor Who and Marvel comics everywhere . She said this was recent, because people had come in and stolen some of his valuable comics . No one has ‘come in’. Bro says there’s a back story to that, and recounted how, back in the last century, he had a mint condition Dr Who first issue comic, and she gave it to one of our cousins to colour in. Bro hit the roof at the time. She never understood why but somehow got it into her head that these things need protecting. So she takes them everywhere, crumpled and half destroyed in her carry case.
I want to go visit Aunty’s grave up at the cemetery, impossible with mum as she fears death so much , but it is 30 minutes walk in the heat and I am sat at a bar waiting for food. Maybe I will go today, maybe I will find Sephora and buy some new make up. Nearby musicians have summoned ‘Volare’ presumably to terrify us all into generosity. I’ll give them some change cos why not? The sun is shining after all.
This is a horrible trip and was always going to be.I just never get the degrees right.
*Fam joke there
Well, this has been a long day’s travel and tomorrow I anticipate hard conversations. But tonight I am in the Bib-Rambla, and it feels like I have been away a very long time. I am having beer and paella.Tomorrow can worry about itself.
The Girl Genius comic for Monday, October 06, 2025 has been posted.
Welp, I don't know what I am doing with Substack. All I wanted to do was post the poem for Dad somewhere, and suddenly I'm in a world of buttons. Is it a newsletter, is it just posting, have I created two separate pages? Plus I am suddenly pursued by frankly implausible amounts of paperwork, mostly in Spanish on a very hard deadline. My Spanish is minimal, a testament to the fact that over 900 days on Duolingo amounts to very little if it's only one lesson a day.
I am very stressed and tired, but the good news is, if I get even more tired, I won't have enough energy to fret about my visit to Spain next week. Mum has started sending me messages again, but I am going to try not to answer because there is no room in my head for her babble about new disease X and why I should stay at home.
So I must think about other things this weekend. Great night with mates yesterday while Storm Amy raged outside, lots of laughter. Diet ruined.
I am very stressed and tired, but the good news is, if I get even more tired, I won't have enough energy to fret about my visit to Spain next week. Mum has started sending me messages again, but I am going to try not to answer because there is no room in my head for her babble about new disease X and why I should stay at home.
So I must think about other things this weekend. Great night with mates yesterday while Storm Amy raged outside, lots of laughter. Diet ruined.
The Girl Genius comic for Friday, October 03, 2025 has been posted.
Ten years ago today Dad died.
We learned about it two days later. He died in hospital after being admitted for God knows what. Then he seemed OK so they were going to discharge him, then he died asleep in a hospital bed. Because of the anomaly (if he was well enough to discharge, why did he die?) they had to do an autopsy, and there it was; lung malignancy, COPD, hypertension. He was in his early 70s.
Do I miss him? Not the real him, I don't think. I mythologised him perhaps, aware of the dangers of doing so and yet... there was a magical aspect to him too. I wrote this poem and it became his. I post it here something like every year. Bro wept when I read it out loud and said Dad wasn't worth it. That's true too. And here's the thing; if Mum or Bro die before me, there won't be a single poetic line I can write about them, because they are too stark, too close to the root of me, too real. I get the privileged position I am in, to see all these intersections between worlds and dreams, people trying to get by and the same people as, I don't know, other at the core, but it's a stupid gift really. Doesn't actually do anything.
Anyway, Dad's Song. It's his Scottishness, his Irishness, his anger, his wandering, his imagination. I don't know if it's his homecoming.
DAD'S SONG
At Lughnasadh
I burned them all, my foes
once dancing with the dead
Went up in sparks of faded ire that rose
where once I scratched the doorways of my head
now sunward led
‘Where is the one beloved, the poet’s gold
Where are the songs of all my ancestors
Severed from me, and lost in sea and mire?'
They answered, ‘We are on the hills unknown
And in the bone
left from the funeral pyre
The winds we shake and you
And you we wake
hare-fleet and falcon-eyed beyond the tower
Behold, old Lughnasadh! Your people’s fire!'
None by the white maned sea could track me then
A wanderer by watchtowers unseen
Nor could the sages of the woven lands
unpick the fairy roads by lantern’s gleam
Their tapestries undone by end of day
The changeling way, as in a fever dream.
Marsh bitterns picked my steps through coldling fens
and called me by their piping;
flickering worm
And frostbit moon forlorn
showed me old Grendel
Riding through the dawn
Riddled me silver, never to forget
a stranger’s promise:
‘Home for Lughnasadh
Where your own people light the fires yet!’
I've put this on substack, I don't know why. Playing with it I guessm not sure I'm doing it right but I've really got to get on with dire paperwork. If you want to visit the substack and tell me if it's workingTM here's the link.
https://open.substack.com/pub/smokingboot/p/home-before-lughnasadh?r=1r9jj7&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true
We learned about it two days later. He died in hospital after being admitted for God knows what. Then he seemed OK so they were going to discharge him, then he died asleep in a hospital bed. Because of the anomaly (if he was well enough to discharge, why did he die?) they had to do an autopsy, and there it was; lung malignancy, COPD, hypertension. He was in his early 70s.
Do I miss him? Not the real him, I don't think. I mythologised him perhaps, aware of the dangers of doing so and yet... there was a magical aspect to him too. I wrote this poem and it became his. I post it here something like every year. Bro wept when I read it out loud and said Dad wasn't worth it. That's true too. And here's the thing; if Mum or Bro die before me, there won't be a single poetic line I can write about them, because they are too stark, too close to the root of me, too real. I get the privileged position I am in, to see all these intersections between worlds and dreams, people trying to get by and the same people as, I don't know, other at the core, but it's a stupid gift really. Doesn't actually do anything.
Anyway, Dad's Song. It's his Scottishness, his Irishness, his anger, his wandering, his imagination. I don't know if it's his homecoming.
DAD'S SONG
At Lughnasadh
I burned them all, my foes
once dancing with the dead
Went up in sparks of faded ire that rose
where once I scratched the doorways of my head
now sunward led
‘Where is the one beloved, the poet’s gold
Where are the songs of all my ancestors
Severed from me, and lost in sea and mire?'
They answered, ‘We are on the hills unknown
And in the bone
left from the funeral pyre
The winds we shake and you
And you we wake
hare-fleet and falcon-eyed beyond the tower
Behold, old Lughnasadh! Your people’s fire!'
None by the white maned sea could track me then
A wanderer by watchtowers unseen
Nor could the sages of the woven lands
unpick the fairy roads by lantern’s gleam
Their tapestries undone by end of day
The changeling way, as in a fever dream.
Marsh bitterns picked my steps through coldling fens
and called me by their piping;
flickering worm
And frostbit moon forlorn
showed me old Grendel
Riding through the dawn
Riddled me silver, never to forget
a stranger’s promise:
‘Home for Lughnasadh
Where your own people light the fires yet!’
I've put this on substack, I don't know why. Playing with it I guessm not sure I'm doing it right but I've really got to get on with dire paperwork. If you want to visit the substack and tell me if it's workingTM here's the link.
https://open.substack.com/pub/smokingboot/p/home-before-lughnasadh?r=1r9jj7&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true
Ugh.
Well that was terrible. I must - what's the DW equivalent of Vaguebook? - Anyway that. But yesterday was bad. Tomorrow will be a bit strange too, the tenth anniversary of my father's death.
So I cut some of the bread I had made and covered it in the jam I had made. And it was lovely.
Strange waking dreams, saw a great standing stone. Later, caught sight of Franz Von Stuck's Luzifer.
Not sure what's going on with his right hand, just beneath it there looks like a pocket as part of the wing(?) whatever. Maybe he keeps his popcorn there. He turned to me and spoke some language I didn't know but somehow understood. What he said was;
'You're really hurt, huh Ging?'
To which the answer was I'm not really ging [and then following on via dream logic] I'm not really hurt.
But what I meant was, I am really hurt, just not harmed. I hate it when Mum loses the plot especially when she impersonates me like a spiteful nine year old. I know she's very ill but she can calm the hell down, and I'm going to leave her to do just that for a few days. Next week I have to go see her. She can either be helpful or not, but I am not thinking of this anymore today, or until I have to get on the plane if I can help it.
And back to him; but he wasn't really back to me. He was looking at something intently. From beside him I could see it was like staring out through the horizontal slits in a bird hide. Beyond was a big avenue full of people, sky scrapers on either side of the road. He beckoned me closer to have a look, but I was very wary of getting near enough to touch him.
Then I woke and here I am, giving myself more time before getting to grips with dull stuff.
Well that was terrible. I must - what's the DW equivalent of Vaguebook? - Anyway that. But yesterday was bad. Tomorrow will be a bit strange too, the tenth anniversary of my father's death.
So I cut some of the bread I had made and covered it in the jam I had made. And it was lovely.
Strange waking dreams, saw a great standing stone. Later, caught sight of Franz Von Stuck's Luzifer.
Not sure what's going on with his right hand, just beneath it there looks like a pocket as part of the wing(?) whatever. Maybe he keeps his popcorn there. He turned to me and spoke some language I didn't know but somehow understood. What he said was;
'You're really hurt, huh Ging?'
To which the answer was I'm not really ging [and then following on via dream logic] I'm not really hurt.
But what I meant was, I am really hurt, just not harmed. I hate it when Mum loses the plot especially when she impersonates me like a spiteful nine year old. I know she's very ill but she can calm the hell down, and I'm going to leave her to do just that for a few days. Next week I have to go see her. She can either be helpful or not, but I am not thinking of this anymore today, or until I have to get on the plane if I can help it.
And back to him; but he wasn't really back to me. He was looking at something intently. From beside him I could see it was like staring out through the horizontal slits in a bird hide. Beyond was a big avenue full of people, sky scrapers on either side of the road. He beckoned me closer to have a look, but I was very wary of getting near enough to touch him.
Then I woke and here I am, giving myself more time before getting to grips with dull stuff.
The Girl Genius comic for Wednesday, October 01, 2025 has been posted.
Well the day turned pretty bad pretty fast. I need to go somewhere and scream, start again tomorrow.
Scroll on if you don't want spoilers re Alien Earth:
1) I accept that once your breakout star is an eyeball, all bets are off.
2) Certainly when you have created a synthetic human with volition and agency, you absolutely link it into your entire network. What could possibly go wrong?
3)Every elevator needs its own built in self-destruct. With countdown. Why wouldn't you?
4) You learn that a rival company has bribed a crew member to assist in stealing your property. You passionately care about this, and have video proof which you can download. Later, the rival company claims innocence and the right to claim said stuff which crashed onto their territory with the help of bought minion to the tune of beellions and aggravation of your employer. Why would you not share the video?
In short, some brilliant ideas/concepts that are so thoroughly wasted, I won't be back for Season 2. It's like Disney forgot how to write actual plots. What's going on with the House of Mouse?
1) I accept that once your breakout star is an eyeball, all bets are off.
2) Certainly when you have created a synthetic human with volition and agency, you absolutely link it into your entire network. What could possibly go wrong?
3)Every elevator needs its own built in self-destruct. With countdown. Why wouldn't you?
4) You learn that a rival company has bribed a crew member to assist in stealing your property. You passionately care about this, and have video proof which you can download. Later, the rival company claims innocence and the right to claim said stuff which crashed onto their territory with the help of bought minion to the tune of beellions and aggravation of your employer. Why would you not share the video?
In short, some brilliant ideas/concepts that are so thoroughly wasted, I won't be back for Season 2. It's like Disney forgot how to write actual plots. What's going on with the House of Mouse?
Out we went to North Berwick to have that conversation we always have whenever we go to North Berwick.
'Should we have moved here?'
We'd have paid easily 20% more on a smaller newbuild for a North Berwick postcode on account of its pretty & posh combo, plus the connections in and out of Edinburgh and Glasgow are rubbish. Nights out at the Fringe would have been difficult if not impossible. On the other hand those newbuilds gained value very fast because of said postcode. On the third hand, you could barely make out the sea from them, and what I wanted would be on the coast or in the old town. On the fourth hand, those sea-facing houses leak heat badly in Winter. A woman who lived there described it to us as chucking five pound notes out through her front door. So having used up four hands at least, we always return to the same decision; better to visit as and when. Yesterday was definitely the when.
Back to the roar of the sea and its white horses riding, little boats in the harbour and the sun so warm and bright as the afternoon came in under that perfect blue sky. We wandered the streets- OK, street, there's basically only one for shopping - bought a little here and there. Then down to the water, and we just walked, not even far.
The sun grew even brighter on the way home past hills and fields. It was a very beautiful day.
By night my dreams were a little strange. I was at a raucous party full of friends, people I half remembered, and others who were perfect strangers. I was talking with someone I barely knew when I noticed that the person next to them, who almost but not quite had their back to me, was Nuclear Man! He was hovering there like a shark in the water. I used the time honoured method of dashing to the loo to wait for friends and share this discovery so we could gossip at the horror of it. Someone came in and we started talking and away floated that dream... then suddenly I saw my brother, much younger, his image in sharp relief. I sent him what I can best describe as a psychic hug, green light and my arms around him.
'Should we have moved here?'
We'd have paid easily 20% more on a smaller newbuild for a North Berwick postcode on account of its pretty & posh combo, plus the connections in and out of Edinburgh and Glasgow are rubbish. Nights out at the Fringe would have been difficult if not impossible. On the other hand those newbuilds gained value very fast because of said postcode. On the third hand, you could barely make out the sea from them, and what I wanted would be on the coast or in the old town. On the fourth hand, those sea-facing houses leak heat badly in Winter. A woman who lived there described it to us as chucking five pound notes out through her front door. So having used up four hands at least, we always return to the same decision; better to visit as and when. Yesterday was definitely the when.
Back to the roar of the sea and its white horses riding, little boats in the harbour and the sun so warm and bright as the afternoon came in under that perfect blue sky. We wandered the streets- OK, street, there's basically only one for shopping - bought a little here and there. Then down to the water, and we just walked, not even far.
The sun grew even brighter on the way home past hills and fields. It was a very beautiful day.
By night my dreams were a little strange. I was at a raucous party full of friends, people I half remembered, and others who were perfect strangers. I was talking with someone I barely knew when I noticed that the person next to them, who almost but not quite had their back to me, was Nuclear Man! He was hovering there like a shark in the water. I used the time honoured method of dashing to the loo to wait for friends and share this discovery so we could gossip at the horror of it. Someone came in and we started talking and away floated that dream... then suddenly I saw my brother, much younger, his image in sharp relief. I sent him what I can best describe as a psychic hug, green light and my arms around him.
Tags:
The Girl Genius comic for Monday, September 29, 2025 has been posted.
Even though it's suddenly cold and the the equinox seems to have reminded the trees to get fruitin' or get nekkid, the nights are not clear. I see one or two maybe three stars at a time. Last night it was Vega's turn, shining big and blue and friendly. I could just about see Altair and Deneb too, the Summer Triangle pointing south like an arrow.
I need more starlight.
Meanwhile, a place for some potted research, and another triangle.
The Wold Newton, named after the village at its centre has, at its eastern side the North Sea, running the length of the A165 coast road from Gristhorpe and Filey Brigg along to Flamborough and Bridlington. The southern side runs parallel to the old Woldgate Roman road, which heads out from Bridlington and across towards Stamford Bridge and York. This place has all sorts of paranormal/fairy stories associated with it, but it's the werewolves that capture everyone's imagination.
There's a 1960s story about a lorry driver on his way through some remote part of the triangle, glimpsing a pair of red eyes just before a “wolf-like creature” tried to smash its way through the windscreen. This story had several iterations in the area, often but not always focused on the Flixton-Bridlington Road where people would talk about seeing what looked like the headlights of a car in front, only to reveal itself as the red eyes of a wolf.
But of course, wolf eyes do not glow red in the dark. They are reflective but red? The infamous 'Old Stinker' was seen back in 2016, standing 8 feet tall with a dog in its mouth at Barmston Drain, which I don't think is near the Wold Newton Triangle, but what do I know? The moment I get to Yorkshire I keep travelling north til I reach Whitby in order to swan around in gothic lace and jet jewellery.
I need more starlight.
Meanwhile, a place for some potted research, and another triangle.
The Wold Newton, named after the village at its centre has, at its eastern side the North Sea, running the length of the A165 coast road from Gristhorpe and Filey Brigg along to Flamborough and Bridlington. The southern side runs parallel to the old Woldgate Roman road, which heads out from Bridlington and across towards Stamford Bridge and York. This place has all sorts of paranormal/fairy stories associated with it, but it's the werewolves that capture everyone's imagination.
There's a 1960s story about a lorry driver on his way through some remote part of the triangle, glimpsing a pair of red eyes just before a “wolf-like creature” tried to smash its way through the windscreen. This story had several iterations in the area, often but not always focused on the Flixton-Bridlington Road where people would talk about seeing what looked like the headlights of a car in front, only to reveal itself as the red eyes of a wolf.
But of course, wolf eyes do not glow red in the dark. They are reflective but red? The infamous 'Old Stinker' was seen back in 2016, standing 8 feet tall with a dog in its mouth at Barmston Drain, which I don't think is near the Wold Newton Triangle, but what do I know? The moment I get to Yorkshire I keep travelling north til I reach Whitby in order to swan around in gothic lace and jet jewellery.
The Girl Genius comic for Friday, September 26, 2025 has been posted.
La Flaca came to fetch the musician. She stepped over the threshold and he knew her straight away for her cheeks were hollow and her eye sockets were empty.
'Come in, skinny girl,' he said. 'Make yourself at home, for I am not leaving til I finish my work. Help yourself to food if you like.'
La Flaca looked around her in wonder. The whole shack was full of music manuscripts in rolled and crumpled sheaves piled from floor to ceiling or crammed against the windows.
'If you had food,' she observed, 'I would not be here.' He shrugged and La Flaca sat down. 'Your family will be waiting,' she said.
At that, he paused playing and flexed his hands.
'I never had a family,' he said, 'no father, no mother, no sweetheart, no children. All that I ever had was this,' he began playing again, 'and no-one really wanted it.'
With that the keys took his melody into the air and La Flaca sat back prepared to be patient. But the musician, who had never known another audience in all his life, did not stop. She wondered if perhaps he could not.
So she called up all who had loved him and the notes themselves came. Among them flowed the elegant, the witty, the whimsical, the loving, the tragic, each of them singular, dancing to its own creation. There was such a throng that the musician could not ignore them. His fingers stilled aghast at their beauty, and in that moment, like the rustle of rain turning into thunder, came their applause. Maestro! They cried, cheering, bravissimo! Maestro!
Among them stood one older and sweeter than even his music, gazing at him like no other.
Well done, came the words, I am so proud of you.
With that, the musician stood up, bowed to them all and walked into the sunlight. The crowd followed him.
A long time later he saw La Flaca again, though this time she was far from skinny. Her cheeks were full, her eyes sparkled, and her body was round with a promise he could barely believe.
'Who would have thought it?' He laughed, gesturing at her happy belly.
'It is time,' she agreed, 'but not if you are still tired. Are you ready to try again?'
It took him a moment but he nodded, flexing his hands once more.
'Yes,' he said, 'this time I am going to learn to paint.'
'Come in, skinny girl,' he said. 'Make yourself at home, for I am not leaving til I finish my work. Help yourself to food if you like.'
La Flaca looked around her in wonder. The whole shack was full of music manuscripts in rolled and crumpled sheaves piled from floor to ceiling or crammed against the windows.
'If you had food,' she observed, 'I would not be here.' He shrugged and La Flaca sat down. 'Your family will be waiting,' she said.
At that, he paused playing and flexed his hands.
'I never had a family,' he said, 'no father, no mother, no sweetheart, no children. All that I ever had was this,' he began playing again, 'and no-one really wanted it.'
With that the keys took his melody into the air and La Flaca sat back prepared to be patient. But the musician, who had never known another audience in all his life, did not stop. She wondered if perhaps he could not.
So she called up all who had loved him and the notes themselves came. Among them flowed the elegant, the witty, the whimsical, the loving, the tragic, each of them singular, dancing to its own creation. There was such a throng that the musician could not ignore them. His fingers stilled aghast at their beauty, and in that moment, like the rustle of rain turning into thunder, came their applause. Maestro! They cried, cheering, bravissimo! Maestro!
Among them stood one older and sweeter than even his music, gazing at him like no other.
Well done, came the words, I am so proud of you.
With that, the musician stood up, bowed to them all and walked into the sunlight. The crowd followed him.
A long time later he saw La Flaca again, though this time she was far from skinny. Her cheeks were full, her eyes sparkled, and her body was round with a promise he could barely believe.
'Who would have thought it?' He laughed, gesturing at her happy belly.
'It is time,' she agreed, 'but not if you are still tired. Are you ready to try again?'
It took him a moment but he nodded, flexing his hands once more.
'Yes,' he said, 'this time I am going to learn to paint.'
I'm up here at my sister's, not quite a hundred miles north of home, while the new floors are put in. It's all SoCal, and yet a completely different microclimate. I woke to the tut-tut-tut of some bird we don't ever hear at home, and other chirps and twitters equally unfamiliar. Over that, though, the very familiar caw of crows.
As I did the morning walk with the little dog, and listened to the local crows up in the eucalyptus and pines, I wondered if the crows that follow me at home were watching for me to come. Now that the sun is lowering a bit, we're back to increasing numbers, so I might have thirty or so swirling around me when I throw unsalted peanuts out. so exhilarating to watch them!
Here they don't know me, of course, so the calls can't be to let me know they are there. I'm sure the lives of humans are ignorable, except as annoyances that send them into the trees. I wondered about that sky civilization as I trod the path to the dog park. So much going on at the tops of the trees, that we barely notice!
It's such a relief not to be toiling with packing, though of course unpacking lies in wait to pounce when I get back. Then I'll only have three or four days before I take off for my October east trip, so most of my share of the unloading will await me on my return. The big job (and the fun one) is the library.
Speaking of, since it's Wednesday, let's see, what have I been reading? The Military Philosophers by Anthony Powell, which is part of a book discussion that I've been following since the start of the year. One book a month in Powell's A Dance to the Music of Time series. The discussion happens at the start of each month over Zoom, and what interests me is how folks from either side of the Atlantic read the work. Also, non-genre reading. This time I'll be on the train when the discussion rolls around, so I hope I have connectivity, but if not I'll listen to the recording. At least that way I can skip ahead if the fellow who leads it gets prolix over an obvious point as he has a tendency to do. The academic curse; students above a certain age level are too polite to say 'Zip it! We got the idea already." (High schoolers had no such restraint, and middle schoolers invariably signalled boredom by more physical means.)
Anyway I had the leisure, for the first time in a couple of months, to make chocolate chip cookies. So I can have those and tea and do some reading. Heigh ho, I will go do that now.
As I did the morning walk with the little dog, and listened to the local crows up in the eucalyptus and pines, I wondered if the crows that follow me at home were watching for me to come. Now that the sun is lowering a bit, we're back to increasing numbers, so I might have thirty or so swirling around me when I throw unsalted peanuts out. so exhilarating to watch them!
Here they don't know me, of course, so the calls can't be to let me know they are there. I'm sure the lives of humans are ignorable, except as annoyances that send them into the trees. I wondered about that sky civilization as I trod the path to the dog park. So much going on at the tops of the trees, that we barely notice!
It's such a relief not to be toiling with packing, though of course unpacking lies in wait to pounce when I get back. Then I'll only have three or four days before I take off for my October east trip, so most of my share of the unloading will await me on my return. The big job (and the fun one) is the library.
Speaking of, since it's Wednesday, let's see, what have I been reading? The Military Philosophers by Anthony Powell, which is part of a book discussion that I've been following since the start of the year. One book a month in Powell's A Dance to the Music of Time series. The discussion happens at the start of each month over Zoom, and what interests me is how folks from either side of the Atlantic read the work. Also, non-genre reading. This time I'll be on the train when the discussion rolls around, so I hope I have connectivity, but if not I'll listen to the recording. At least that way I can skip ahead if the fellow who leads it gets prolix over an obvious point as he has a tendency to do. The academic curse; students above a certain age level are too polite to say 'Zip it! We got the idea already." (High schoolers had no such restraint, and middle schoolers invariably signalled boredom by more physical means.)
Anyway I had the leisure, for the first time in a couple of months, to make chocolate chip cookies. So I can have those and tea and do some reading. Heigh ho, I will go do that now.
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