Very little happened today, though somehow my alarm doesn’t go off, making me oversleep and feel more than a little disgruntled when I wake an hour late, due to the fact that I couldn’t really drop away again. Lots of dreams once more, a jumble of “That 70s Show” memories and movies that got so friggin intertwined that I can’t unravel them into a coherent story.
So I’m late, and I’m not liking it at all. I wonder if my fantasy yesterday, of smashing the alarm has somehow had an effect after all, earning me this lovely present of an extra hour.
I have most certainly become a creature of habit these days, since I am seriously out of sorts when I hurry down to the house and have a firm talk with myself about NEEDING to do my exercises today, whether I want to or not.
On the way down I almost have a heart attack at the sound of a pained screech that instantly draws my eyes down to the courtyard, where Sitabah (Weimeraner) is hanging upside down, with her right back paw stuck between the tines of the fence.
As usual she wanted to go into the courtyard with her habitual shortcut and yet somehow ended up getting her toes between caught within the fence.
While the other dogs rush towards her, I exclaim a scream and frantically try to figure out a way to reach her fast, without the rest of the dogs pouncing on her now that she’s unable to defend herself. Much to my relief, Sitabah does an impressive twist with her body and lands on all fours, only shaking a little from her fright.
Still muttering expletives under my breath, I usher the dogs into the courtyard and slam the gate shut behind me, throwing the dogs “the evil eye” all the way into the house where only a few dogs snooze the morning away.
I don’t want to, but in the end I do start my exercises, pushing myself through the routines and working up a good sweat using frustration, as much needed fuel. The boxing bag is a willing victim to my frequent punches and kicks, squeaking on its hook as it swings back and forth in a steady rhythm of channeled displeasure.
Forty minutes, and a shower later, I am still grouchy and literally growl at the dogs as I hang laundry muttering my irritation for no good reason. Poor dogs who have to endure this, but luckily they don’t care much one way or other and just lounge about as if nothing out of the ordinary is going on.
In the end, too late to check my messages, I can finally settle down behind my computer and go over last night’s writing for a good editing session. I feel considerably bolstered by the successful proofreading that have managed to somewhat lighten my spirits, but rather than being able to use this new frame of mind, dusk settles and we once again depart for the Vet hospital.
Clue has improved even more by the time we arrive and spent quite a while petting and greeting the dog that, for the first time since we have him, bounces up and down in excitement, as if demonstrating that he is truly ready to go home now.
Since he is still “wearing” the catheter, which the vet is planning to take out this evening, that won’t be possible. But, if the vet finds that no more pus is forming within the tunnel system, our Clue might very well be going home with us tomorrow evening.
With that bit of news I feel considerably better and after preparing a simple but tasty dinner of rice fried in cumin and pepper, with carrots in herbs on the side, I sit back down behind the computer and write three more pages for the vampire story.
Four or five more to go and then the story will be done, culminating to a powerful ending where life and death are barely separated. It always is a thrilling point to reach, I’ve learned, and I always look forward to it since completion does give a certain sense of satisfaction of a job well done. I’m thinking of celebrating it somehow, but I’m not sure yet how to go about that.
With the first couple of books I finished, way back when, I bought champagne, but over the years, upon completing story after story, I mostly just bounce around a little, chanting, “I’m finished. I’ve finished. Did you hear? It’s finished,” before sinking into a mild depression about finishing the story that has been an intricate part of my life for… as long as it took to write it.
Weird how that works: You work at a story incessantly, working towards that “climax” of completion so very hard and with lots of excitement, only to end up feeling disappointed that it’s over so fast… even when it took years to complete.
Sorta like sex. Hah. In the end it’s the journey that makes it interesting, I guess.
I had a particularly vibrant memory during the course of the afternoon today. It’s an old one. One I’d almost forgotten until something triggered my memory about it and brought the events back to the surface.
I was maybe five at the time. My big brother and I were visiting our father for the weekend and were wandering on the property of the company he worked at… even during the weekends when we were there… playing with one of the local kids when we stumbled upon the hidden stairs leading towards the attic.
Oh that was great place to find treasures for sure. It was filled with old posters, flyers, furniture, clothes and whatnot, when at some point we found a break in the fence that separated two parts of the attic right in the center. Being a curious lot, we of course crawled through it, finding several boxes filled with these hand-sized stickers that were simply too good to pass up on.
Stuffing our pockets full with handfuls of the stickers, we (three kids, all under the age of ten) crawled back out and snuck our way down from the attic in search of places where we could stick our newfound treasures. That entire day was spent moving stealthily all over the property, “decorating” everything from car rims to gutters and windows. We had such a blast, not truly aware that the stickers would be hell to get off again by those unfortunate enough to have received our gifts.
Good times. That place was horrible, and it deserved all the wreckage us rowdy kids could cause. Besides, it served my father right for letting us muddle through on our own while he was supposed to spend some precious time with us.
Usually, if not always, the first thing he did once we arrived at his place, was dump big brother and me at his neighbor’s house so he could get back to work.
Ah well. It did us no harm in the end, I guess. As memories go, we had quite a bit of fun that day, so for that I’ll just forget about “His” part (or lack thereof) in it, and enjoy myself.
Back to the day:
I don’t linger too much at the house tonight, and exchange a few words with the younger sibs before I head up to my cabin, the dogs racing ahead and through the door as soon as I open it. I see something flash past when I switch on the lights, rolling my eyes when the dogs dash after it full force. It is a rat, and for the next hour the more lively members of my pack try to locate the little critter that has gone into hiding somewhere. They’ll get him soon enough, so I’m not worried as I set up my computer and connect to the net.
Only a few messages to answer today, much to my surprise, and delight, since I promised myself to go to bed early for a change.
Now, if only I can post this blog in time…
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