Kage Baker hated weather like this. So do I. Nothing is getting done today … everything I write is dreck, and if I go back over what I’ve done lately I will discover it too has miraculously turned into crap. So I don’t dare look at it, y’see. Kage taught me that.
“I’m not bored,” Kage would say on days like this, leaning back in her chair and and tying knots in the end her braid. “There’s just nothing to do. Think of something for me to do.”
“You could edit that manuscript on the kitchen table.”
“No. It’s at the hateful stage. I’ll want to burn it.”
“We could play Scrabble.”
“No. You can’t spell, and Harry steals the tiles.” (Both, alas, true.)
“We could play Monopoly. You can be the top hat.”
“ Noooo …” in a long whine. And she would fall to fretfully shooting rubber bands at me, or teasing the parrot, or monologuing about a recipe she no longer had for zuppa inglese.
Today in Los Angeles, it’s dim and chilly and without distinguishing marks of any interest. At all. Whatsoever. The sky is covered with thin grey clouds that won’t rain. They’re not thick enough to provide any pretty colours or patterns, only vague beige sunlight here and there. It looks like the sun is dimming out, but it’s not scary – just depressing.
I am depressed. I would rather be in agony, in tears, than this numb and enervated state … it’s like the worst part of being 14 again. The insane passion part of that age is great (not when you’re in it, but afterwards – wow, the memories!) but the endless stage of “what-ever” is just horrid. And I am in a serious state of what-ever, without even the uncontrollable energy of adolescence to fuel me. I’d eat a lot of sugar, but … I ate it all last week. And now I’m too old and sensible to keep a stash in my desk for emergencies.
I keep letting my coffee go cold. I’m out of cream. I’ve burnt 4 pieces of toast. I had 23 pieces of junk mail this morning. The news is dreadful, and the commentary on the news is even worse. (Pardon me – I just had to go turn Judge Judy off. Self-righteous prig.) The cable stations are all showing marathons of horrible old shows like “The Green Hornet” and thrilling documentaries like “The History of Granite.” And I have almost run out of Jeff Bridges’ movies on Amazon Video On Demand.
I am going to go drink Earl Grey tea and see if I can remember where I hid the emergency Almond Roca. Then I am going to sit on the couch and read – maybe Steven King novels; ol’ Stevie always cheers me up, because nothing that bad ever happens to me. Our basement may have a slight raccoon problem, but at least there are no vampires in it.
Tomorrow: what do Channel swimmers use to grease up? In 1848?