I get very heartbroken when I see the lobsters in tanks in the grocery store, and the trailers of livestock that I assume are speeding away to the slaughterhouse. I see their doom, and even if they don’t know it, I know that their lives are destined to be very short from here on out, and probably painful. I want them to have a fighting chance, even though I’m sure an animal Battle Royale would probably be even more terrifying for them than just getting zapped in the head. But it wouldn’t be worse than getting boiled alive!

At any rate, we have no door screen, and flies seem to be attracted to the flaking paint on our door for some reason. So there are swarms–SWARMS I TELL YOU!–all over our house. And let me just say, I’m getting to the point where I’m about to start murdering some of these assholes in cold blood.

20 years ago, I wrote a book and a half of a trilogy. It was stilted because I tried to write it in a generally non-time-specific way, and I don’t like how that worked out. The plot, as well, has many many many many issues. Most of the characters are not fleshed out, which is beside the point because even the fleshed out ones were not allowed to live fully because I was not ready to bring all of myself to write a book. It’s totally embarrassing and cringe-inducing, and I hope nobody ever sees it. Ever. EVER.

Lots has happened in these 20 years. But that first draft is a Treasure, because I know who these people are now. And because I haven’t had anything to narrate for two months, I started noodling around with them.

I’m on Chapter 10. Which isn’t saying much. Some of the chapters are shorter than this post. And the story hasn’t even begun yet.

We’ll see what happens. If anything at all. But I definitely wouldn’t be playing around with this if I were still working full-time at a school.

(How many epic sagas* are we missing out on because we don’t have Universal Basic Income? Just idly wondering.)

 

 

*Not that mine’s an epic saga. It wanted to be, 20 years ago. But now it’s kind of laying around in its old age, looking at its bellybutton and wondering what’s inside. So am I, for that matter.**

**Wondering what’s inside the story’s bellybutton, that is; not looking at my own.***

***Well, of course NOW I am.

Underwater, nobody can hear you scream.

 

And I mean that in the best possible way.

There is a very…advanced kid in one of the classes where I teach music.

On Monday (and many other days this summer), everyone is outside all the time because, well, they can be. So I end up just playing music outside, basically whatever comes into my head, for a couple of hours, and people come to listen, or they play in the sprinkler, or the sandbox, whatever. I’m there if they’re interested.

So in the natural progression of things, I start playing “Let It Go” from Frozen. With no preamble, no “Here’s a little ditty for someone special out there,” just playing it. Someone had an Elsa dress or something.

And the advanced kid walks over to me and says, “Actually, that’s from Frozen.”

And I was duly impressed. That was one of the clearest mansplains I’d ever heard, from someone who probably just turned three.

Out of the mouths of babes. Just another symptom of the apocalypse, I guess.