I am finding it rather hard to write these days. Torn between a level of grief I have never before exsperienced, and the unimagiable stress of this year's end, I can barely write three snetences in a sitting. I want deeply to tell my story, but right now I am hobbled.
So I have returned to my love affair of Diane Duane, an author who...
Sorry, I'm far too tangental to write coherant sentences right now. Just, I love Diane Duane.
My itunes just shifted from It Seems To Me, a very poignant song of my father's about his divorce from my mother and his attempt to retain the trinity that is parents and child, even though the family has broken apart.... anyways, it just shifted It's A HArd Knock Life, from Annie. My brain is reeling.
I'm to bed, even though the rubber laytex fumes have rendered me sick to my stomach. Bloody props.
In alphabetical order, my top three authors:
Lois McMAster Bujold
Diane Duane
Terry Pratchett
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2 comments:
Hey boy child, I didn't know you had "Seems to Me" on your I-podalism factor 12.
You've got to find a way to gird your loins as it were, as face all this death grief. You paralyse too easily, death is a wake up call, not a call to excoriating ache. (First time I've ever used excoriating in a sentence.)
and face
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