Thursday, April 03, 2003
I'm beginning to think that someone fiddled with gravity in the night. Wait. Not external gravity, but the internal kind. My soul (if that's what that thing in there actually is) feels pulled, down, weighted twice as heavy as it was just before I fell asleep. It seems to be dragging behind me a few feet, attached by tenuous, stringy, invisible membranes. I have a conflicting inner heaviness and emptiness. I can't imagine even trying to write today.
I sat in the office for several hours yesterday and stared at the computer, read my e-mail, played pool at the Altoids website, checked how my books are selling on Amazon, ego-surfed on Google, started trying to teach myself Dreamweaver, used Google to search for all uses of the phrase "hole in the sky" on the web, checked my e-mail about a dozen more times, read my phorum, read Poppy's phorum, played with Dreamweaver some more. I'm not sure how much time passed. Hours. Just trying to make myself stay put in this chair in hopes the words would finally start coming again. They didn't. Finally, Spooky came in and we talked a bit about Murder of Angels. I rambled on about the plot, trying to make it a plot, a plot which, trapped inside my skull, grows ever more complex and opaque. It's still only a jumble of images, events, whispers, airline tickets.
Oh, you ought to read this. It's good for a laugh. And maybe a few tears. It's a testament to how idiotic television can become. No, how idiotic television is. This is business as usual. The good stuff is only little eddies in the vast sea of crap. I tried watching Enterprise again last night. I kept thinking things like if only that Vulcan chick would go on a murderous rampage, the result of some breach in her slavish devotion to logic, some violent philosophical retrogression, and before she can be restrained she kills half the crew. Captian Archer, who's secretly in love with her, tries to cover it all up by making a false report to Starfleet. Some of the surviving crew knows what's really going on. Some don't. Archer's report blames some innocent and rather backward species or another with which the ship's just made first contact. The Vulcan has locked herself in her cabin with a small thermonuclear device. And, I'd think, there, that's the barest beginnings of an interesting storyline. Then I'd stare a little more at the dullest sci-fi show yet spawned by the Star Trek "franchise" (god, I hate that word, hate, loathe, despise). At some point I did start thinking (not for the first time) about the homonymic relationship between Scott Bakula's name and the plural of the Latin name for the bone that most male mammals possess in their penises (bacula).
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