The flight of the fruitbat

My mother is safe and well in Granada. Thank you Great Spirit/Goddess/God/Anyone up there who cares.

She sent me a beautiful postcard of the Alhambra at sunset. This, I take it, is meant to make up for the past few weeks of me tearing my hair out not knowing whether she's dead or alive.

Still, she sounds happy, and that's the important thing. After all, she has the right to enjoy sunsets anywhere she pleases. Beauty and freedom go together.

I have opened all the windows in the house; The wind rushing through is cool and good.

Long day

I haven't gone with larians to the HG. No sitting round a camp fire with chums singing rubbish. Just me, the kitties, the sunset and this pc. Editing, editing and more editing, and I am really weary of it.

Part of it is my inherent mistrust of anything I haven't checked myself. I use 'Find' and 'Replace,' for certain errors that turn up again and again, but don't trust the result unless I personally vet every change. Don't think the result is pristine grammar and punctuation. I don't really know what the result is; the voices of the protagonists as I hear them, I suppose.

Oh, I want something else to be in my head now, a different voice. A long bath, a good film, music...Dead can Dance perhaps. No, that stuff's too old now. But the trees are moving in the wind, the twilight is falling fast, Dead Can Dance might be just right.

Some time soon I am going to get this bastard thing right and done and dusted. On that night, I will not have dreams of fairies and madmen, poetry and the wild wild wood; I will go to a smoke-filled club, drink a lot of beer and dance like a freak.