I forgot to mention: Wildlove

The past few weeks have brought both Amelia and I closer to the interesting wildlife in Prospect Park. There are a few specific birds and fish that seem to show up for us on a regular basis.

First, Amelia, being part Toller and having those flashy white spots, will of course attract curious water birds (since that's what Tollers are bred to do). She has a devoted duck couple and a few geese who come watch when she's chasing the ball. I always see the duck couple at the same spot in the evenings, and when they see us pass (Amelia always ignores them on her way in - she's too intent on the ball) they swim over to the spot we like to use. The geese are more inclined to hang out and watch in the morning, from the reeds; I've only seen one in the evening. The geese will follow us from place to place in the morning. The duck couple might be inclined to do that, but I don't like to go too deep on the Peninsula at night.

For me, there's this one immense white sucker fish that looks like an albino koi from the side, with the fluttery fins and all, and this fish eats in one particular spot. The angle of my view and the water's distortion makes this fish look to be as big as my forearm, and the size of the fins make them look distinctly like tiny wings. A white faerie-fish, indeed. Then there's the Black-crowned Night-heron - it just stands either of the edge of the lake or in this one tree, and watches us as we play. I can get rather close to him, as long as Amelia is far enough away. When I talk to him, he opens and closes his beak as if he's mocking me ;)

There are tons of other amazing birds and plants I've seen at this end of the park - vastly more than the western side. However, these four deserved note, since they seem to be particular regulars on our walks. ;)

"Planning" when ill

The phrase "Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans" comes from a song John Lennon wrote to his son. It's become a bit of a cliche in a short period of time, which speaks a lot to the power of the statement. In this world I inhabit, it has become strikingly true. I was supposed to have moved everything by now - being sick starting early April and continuing until now prevented that. I was supposed to be in Florida this weekend, seeing dear friends renew their vows - being diagnosed with mono (again) required me to cancel. I'm supposed to have two new chapters on my book done - it's been near impossible to write with any effectiveness when I'm nodding off half the time.

So here I am, trying not to fall asleep too soon so I can sleep through the night. I've been so tired I can't even imagine trying to schedule anything, but there's so much to do in the next week and a half... I have to accept that some things won't be done. I just don't know what.

I Am Now Rather Abashed at My Choice Of Metaphor

Wow. Considering the flu I just went through, and the public health emergency just called, I probably should have been a little less... over the top. Though if my dr does say I have swine flu (seriously unlikely), it'd be more apt than otherwise.

Week Two of Plague's Gift

Here I sit, gorgeous Saturday morning, and I am still struggling with the same illness. I sound like Madeline Kahn singing "I'm So Tired." I'm randomly feverish enough that I see things moving that aren't moving. I shouldn't be writing or posting, but lying down just makes the sinuses vastly worse, and watching movies has been giving me motion sickness, so... a doctor's appointment is scheduled, and I shall see what they tell me.

In the meanwhile, the sickness has given me less sleep time, but some really incredible dreams. Complex, detailed, and of all things, deep. So of course they get added to the writing ideas file, which is now distressingly long. I don't know what I'm going to do with all these ideas - at this rate I'll be trying to catch up until I'm eighty.

So I also suppose there will be no dayglo lightsaber duel for me tonight, either. *sigh*

Death's Friend, Plague, Stopped By to Hitch A Ride

After the last post, Death didn't stay long. The chats were quick and spawned a ton of thought and weird side effects. (Tangent: In an interesting coincidence, I even got a random call from a medic relative of mine with whom I don't talk often. He mentioned his own multiple experiences with death.) So Death got ready to leave pretty quickly, but it turns out Plague had lost a horse and needed a ride, and so stopped by to hitch with Death.

Plague is not a good houseguest.

Plague is the type of person who leaves muddy handprints on the bathtowels.
Plague inadvertently steps on your dog's or cat's tail. Thrice.
Plague drinks all but the last quarter inch of your milk, straight out of the jug (or bag, if you're in some areas of Canada).

All this yammering just to say I got a killer upper respiratory bug on Wednesday, and 5 days later I'm still coughing, still have a lingering fever, and still sound like Kathleen Turner sometimes. Despite it all, I did have a terrific, albeit very tilted weekend. I managed to meet up with an old friend from college and her family, who stopped by Park Slope on their way to DC, and had a lovely time. (It helps when you don't have to go far.) I also achieved potting soil acquisition, which was one of the tasks I'd set for myself before this nasty illness hit. Therefore, I'm hoping that by this time next week, I'll have seedlings. :)

Now I'm off to go nap some more, which I suppose is the body's equivalent of cleaning up after a nasty houseguest... I still plan to talk about things not said, but it's more difficult to judge when you're feverish. ;)

Death Comes By To Have A Chat

A few people I used to know have died within the past week, and I found about about all of them Saturday or Sunday. None of them were people I was still in touch with, so there's no serious sense of loss involved. However, one in particular was someone to whom I had something left to say.

Those who know me best know that part of why I'm making the effort to write the novel I'm writing now is a direct result of me asking myself "what would you regret not doing if you died tomorrow?" Now I've got Death crashed out on the chaise lounge, and I have the lingering question of "what would you regret not SAYING?" This list is longer. Much longer. I had the massive hubris of thinking that as long as I'm alive, those who are the same age as me would still be accessible... And then Lee died. i'll never be able to tell him. Sarah's death doesn't haunt me, though she was closer to me... Lee's death does.

About a month and a half ago I'd written poems for a few people to whom I have something to say, and now I think that might be too cryptic, even for me. I regret too deeply, right now, to play around with people knowing what the poetry means. So in the next couple of days, expect a few odd posts as Death chats with me and makes me realize what words should not be wasted.

Mass Consumption

Sometimes one makes the most miraculous discoveries about oneself. I just noticed that when I'm not obsessing over movies and trying to get my Netflix queue down below 450, I read voraciously. I'd forgotten this while engaging my 2-dimensional self-portrait, titled Obsession With Moving Image.

Having taken a wee break from moviewatching over the past two months (an attempt to cut screen-watching time for the sake of my eyes), I've instead read 9 books within 45 days, and it would have been more except one of them was Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell. (800 pages ahoy! Multi-page footnotes, en garde!)

At first, part of my self-perception stretched delightedly and whispered "it's good to be back." However, given a bit of introspection, I think that's incorrect. It seems to be a habit based on whatever medium in which my stories decide to take shape. My appetite for plotlines and characters is immense and unchanged; my desire to consume crafted words overwhelming. My movie-lust isn't the antithesis to my reading, it's part and parcel. Movies and TV shows aren't spectacle to me; they're extensions of theater and as such, in order for me to find them satisfying they must remain internally consistent to established character and story arc. The moving image isn't for its own sake. It is an interpretation of characterization and an enhancement of thematic metaphor. Where I am now, it would seem I simply want to imagine their faces for myself and hear their internal monologue, rather than vice versa.

Therefore, I now have a pile of books and must choose the next. Do I read Dunsany's "The Charwoman's Shadow," "The Diary of Lady Murasaki," or Philip K. Dick's "Man in the High Castle" next?

Ye gods I love these kinds of dilemmas...