Rest

Just woke up from a relaxing nap, during which I dreamed of Providence.  I have a year to try and improve my health, to get used to exercise and such so that I will have ye requir'd stamina needed to walk ye hills of Providence, to visit the places that so enchanted me when I visited the city in October of 2007.  Haven't been feeling well at all for about a week, and this week-end has been very bad; but I think much of it is exhaustion & depression.  And ennui.  I'm not feeling up to writing, and yet I ache with ye desire to write.  I've sat looking at an unfinished paragraph of ye new story for days, and the paragraph does not get longer.  It just says there, thus:

"His language and his buzzing articulation slipped into my ears, and some weird element of it coiled to my brain, where fluent vision bloomed."

That's it--for days, honey; I can make no progress.  I just sit here and look at the screen for hours.  The window of this wee bedroom (this was my bedroom when pa first had the house built, when I was around five or six years old) is open because this is the room where I have ye one kitty litter box.  At times a faint breeze blows through and moves ye brass wind chime.  Light music in the air.  Trying to ignore the headache.  One of the guys who lives in our basement got a bottle of grape soda, and that stuff tastes better than ever.  I've been drinking too much of his, and so I went and got a pack of grape soda in cans.  I've already had two today--trying to resist can #3.

I finish'd my ear-trumpet tale, & I actually like it far more than I thought I wou'd.  Mike Davis will eventually publish it in ye Lovecraft eZine, and I'll probably put it into my Derleth-inspir'd collection in 2014.  I actually thought I'd have that book--Songs for the Comte d'Erlette--at least two-thirds completed before the end of this year, I've been writing things so quickly; but if this lethargy and such continue, it will be a while before I can return to steady concentration and ye flow of work.  Gawd, I love when the work flows! 
 
Oh oh--what did I do now.  How do I undo this?  Um, let's see if this works---- Yes!!!  Ha ha!  A pox on you, techno-hoodoo, I'm larning!

So, I guess I'll stare at that wee paragraph for another hour--maybe something will worm out of me skull.  Then I'll return to bed and read some more Derleth, so that I can get his tone for the prose of this new book.

Shalom, sweets chums.  If I am inactive here for a while, know that I am in bed,m resting and dreaming about cowboys.

Two hours later:  and I have added significantly to ye paragraph!  Oh, joyous evening.  

His language and his buzzing articulation slipped into my ears, and some weird element of it coiled to my brain, where fluent vision bloomed.  When I looked again at the daemon, it seemed that I saw him through a wall of mist and shadow.  I gazed at his eyes and saw that they had caught the amber glare of the single bulb above us that lighted the room.   Again, I heard the mocking wind at the window.  Stepping away from the daemon, I went to the door of his shop and pushed it open.  Storm contorted the world.  It bent trees and shook frail buildings; it swept litter along the lanes and dark clouds against the sky.  I watched a gull try to soar against the current of the wind.  Walking away from the building, I stood in the center of the vacant street as litter and particles of debris were tossed at my face and stung my eyes.  What did all of this remind me of?  I had known a recurring dream, of a different kind of storm and of the specks of desert sand that wind flung into my eyes.  In these visions I stood beneath a vaulted sky, alone in a city of antique pillars.  The scream of storm passed through the city, howling between its numbered columns as I shrieked in accompaniment.  My hands lifted so as to shield my eyes from sand, and in an instant I knew naught but darkness and impenetrable silence.  I awakened in my dark chill room, my flesh moist with sweat.  When I raised my hands so as to rub sleep out of my eyes, my fingers came away stains by particles of sand.

Ah--nice to have just a bit of flow.  Ideas for the tale begin to crystallize.   The dealer-daemon will assist ye bloke in using the weird wee book to find, through outre vision, the city of pillars.  There the daemon will take on a more monstrous form, and his/its voice will blend with the sound of strange and distant storm, that desert wind that, when it howls, sounds like the singing of one thousand insects.  Very Lovecraftian.  Okay, nigh to bed, cos I'm bloody exhausted.