February 12th, 2004


cloneless in seattle

Work is draining this week. I am so very tired and I am taking tomorrow off. Hope to relax and maybe get some writing done.

I dreamed this morning of a restaurant with forthright menus: "Infinite Refills on Drinks (Because You Are a Pain in the Ass) -- $1.99." Later I dreamed that I was teaching a class on forensic pathology. We started the class off by having a cocktail.

Didn't watch Angel last night, still haven't caught up yet. Up until last night I had still been watching Smallville every week. But last week's was so boring that I think I may be ready to give up. The dullness of Lana just grinds out all my joy like the glow being crushed out of a cigarette butt and the current creative team for the show just doesn't reach very high. With few exceptions they don't aspire to greatness. They aspire to adequacy. They want to keep their viewing numbers and their formula. I'm feeling the same way about the current season of Stargate.

S3 Angel will probably be at the mailbox when I get home, and S3 Queer as Folk will be following soon. Which will be cool.

Last night on the bus home I read chapter four of Reorganization, the current story in progress from the Career Change/Advancement series. A new romantic direction the story is taking was confirmed in this chapter and made me incredibly happy. (I'm not sure I changed facial expression, but I was incredibly happy for a good fifteen minutes.)

I must must must write this weekend. I'm getting to where I'm not even pretending to try, as opposed to the weekly "I will I will I will...oh, crap" cycle I usually go through, and it's making me feel dull. Apparently I also have an iron deficiency. Doctor's follow-up Monday.

In my fantasies, I killed off Spike's boyfriend along with Anya and gave Spike and Xander a year to hook up. Spike, blind and amiable, wears Armani and holds Xander's daughter Annie on his lap, making approving noises as she shows him her drawings. She's added glitter and glued on some cat hair so that he can "see" it with his fingers. Later I sent him to a party at Steven Spielberg's.

The gulf between my unwritten fantasies and written stories is wide and strange.

let the choir sing

I have decided that every crappy feeling dragging me down right now is from the iron deficiency and that when I'm all ironic again I'll be completely better. I'll weigh 120 pounds and have a clear-eyed love for the world and baristas will give me free coffee, compelled by my abundance of joy.

Meanwhile I am unreasonably cold and my right arm has a fatigued tremble. Also, my fantasies are boring and other people's problems are far worse than mine. The boring fantasies are closer to home. I keep pushing the restart button on my inner world and the godlike zap gets weaker each time. My head is littered with false starts, dead ends, and played-out scenes, too many of them set to Madonna's "Like a Prayer," such as the one of Spike sweeping down the Hyperion staircase resplendent in black and wearing chic blind-boy shades, flanked by his personal assistant and bodyguard, all of them fresh from the corporate helicopter that just landed on the roof, while Buffy and Angel gawp in amazement from the lobby, trying to assimilate the implications of his grand entrance but feeling confused, understandably so, since they've just lost four years while trapped in an alternate universe only to return and to discover that, left to carry on the mission, Spike has armored himself in nobility and soul and founded a white-hatted global empire to battle evil, in alliance with the watcher's council and the U.S. Army, and is now a leader of men, beloved by intimates, respected by generals and watchers and kings, and of course he picked up that keen knighthood along the way, which is why Orlando Bloom addresses him as Sir William.

I am twelve.

Also tired. Must go lie on couch, drive sheep from head, stare at television screen.