Wednesday, July 28, 2010

Yeah, who am I kidding...

I did not look at Heritage Fields at all last night.

Not one page. Didn't even open the master file. I flopped on the couch, ate french fries and watched reruns of Avatar: the Last Airbender.

No sir, no rewrites last night.

Until I tried to fall asleep. That's when the brain kicked in with new fixes. Curse you, my subconscious. Curse you!

I did NOT go the computer and implement the changes though. That's both a mistake AND the best thing I could do.

I might forget the ideas I came up with last night, but I also need to make time for not working on the book.

Got to do stuff like exercise. I'm getting squishier. That needs to stop.

I also really have to make a decision on Halloween like NOW. Three months can vanish in a blink. I need to find a tour pronto and still don't know if I should go to Scotland or Ireland.

"Who is that black man roaming the haunted hills of the Celts on Samhain?" That would be me, but only if I get off my butt and book my accommodations.


Janifer said...

Actually I've been going through the entire catalog of airbender for the past few nights to wash away the bad taste in my mouth left by the movie.

I also had to wash it down by watching despicable me and sorcerer's apprentice, which I snuck into. Haven't done that since I was a teen. :-)

acereporter73 said...

At last check, the Airbender movie generated sales to match its production budget plus a little change.

Not enough to cover their marketing costs, but maybe enough to let the studio break even when it ends its run.

In the end I hope this learns Hollywood to not repeat such a fiasco... at least until Christmas

Flame and Bone

When I was made from fire
Poured into the tender vessel of caution
That keeps my smoke from rising
Quickly did I discover that apart from crisp drizzles or falling snow
The world chilled my touched
Walking the narrow cornered gap between girders and cut stone
One learns to tuck his shoulders in or risk
Jostling a neighbor passing by rapt with want
For a clear path without the distraction
Of another man's boiling eyes
The tip of a finger
That oldest of all weapons
Grown deadlier and pristine in its invention
Gathers a mote of a cinder on its bare flesh
And turns pondering how best to scratch the impious itch
Prying open the tender seam
Where the oil of thought dews
Offering a new wick to ignite
Squirming alive as a salamander of mischief
That yearns for a taste of air it is so ready to devour
The steam of breath betrays me
Before the glint of orange spreads
In popping bright waves
Eroding the fibers feeding it
Leaving naught but ash
As my shell of quietude falls away