f— me gently with a chainsaw.
I just lost a couple of thoughtful paras about Marcus and Aila, and how I need to improve me descriptions of their friendship, etc., and how that might improve the end of the book. And then I linked to eBumperStickies, with the intent of posting one.
and then I got a &*#&Q@# explorer error “I’m sorry…we can’t write software for s—. Would you like to try again, or run away crying?”
I hate Microsoft.
“It was in that same rainy season when Marcus left for the first time; he’d been assigned to another survey, this time in the archipelago on the far side of the planet. He told me as soon as he knew, approaching me cautiously and apologetically.
“‘You’ll be all right?’ he asked, sitting across from me at our midday meal. I nodded, although there was this little knot of anxiety building in the pit of my stomach. I think I even asked, in a burst of youthful optimism, whether I could go with him.
“‘Does’t work that way, dear.’ (He had taken to using a nickname I had taught him, an affectionate term for a child or younger sibling, which roughly translates to dear.) The wry smile told me a little more; over those first few months, seeing him interact with the bureaucrats and military folk, I knew his disdain for them, and for what he obviously saw as useless rules. And that smile was an acknowledgement of that uselessness, and, I think, of his own powerlessness to subvert the rules.
“Over the long years since Marcus first spotted me, crouched in the sand, grasses, and driftwood of the beach at Tanu, I’ve often wondered why he fought so hard for me to go with them, and later fought for me in other ways as well. Most of the time, his wry smile was the best answer I had — at least, for the reason why he’d brought me there in the first place. It was something which could not be done, ought not to be done, and in his mind, in this case, not to do it was far more horrid than to do it. That’s one explanation, anyway. Others may bubble up over the course of this story, for as I said, I often wonder about Marcus’ motives, and more so as I grow older.
[but I digress…]
“Then, one day, I woke to the sound of rain on the roof of the tent — gently at first, but enough so that it woke me in the quiet hours before dawn. By the time I normally got up, it had swelled to a steady beat, and I dashed across the short stretch of ground between the tent and Marcus’ house.
“‘How long does it rain?’ I asked, and he chuckled.
“‘147 days, give or take.’
“Which was, more or less, the truth of it. Not much changed, except that all was done in the rain, or with the sound of rain as a backdrop. Some people wore rainsuits, hats, and the like, but I’d never had weather-proof clothing, and had lived in a far cooler climate, so I simply got soaked. Marcus took to keeping a towel at the front door so I could dry off before I went into the booth. (Even there, I could hear the rain padding against the walls and roof, though much fainter.)
what does it mean to be addicted to your job? not the employment (with all its concomitant meetings, bureacracy, etc.) but what you actually do. I think I’m overly dependent on the Internet. I spend all day working on web pages, reading web pages, strategizing towards better web pages, and then I come home and do the same thing all evening. in fact…where are we? yep, that’s the Internet. damn. and then, fuck.
I gotta get a life.