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THe short story is about the end of the world. And about zoos, and food, and I think about captive breeding. But I think it's mostly about Shanawdithit -- "last of the Red Indians (Beothuk)" -- and Truganini, "last of the Tasmanians." Something that's been haunting me for a while. I think Zura the gorilla has started me up again. I have this idea for plot, but plotting a short is so much harder than plotting a novel: the thing has to have a punch, you know? You can't just weave and weave and weave till you have a dense jacquard.
Meanwhile, it rains and it rains and it rains and it rains.
I made a ceanothus, a lupine, and a mimulus for the Sims, but I have to work on them a bunch more before they're usable.
The vacations are over tomorrow and I will have les distractions, though I do have to find a job, damn it.
At least I found a better kludge for my eyes: last year's glasses, which are a little annoying in the middle distance and the close distance but not nearly as annoying as layering plastic glasses on my nose and having to change up the combination for every purpose and having the lenses always greasy because I can't keep plastic clean.
Meanwhile, it rains and it rains and it rains and it rains.
I made a ceanothus, a lupine, and a mimulus for the Sims, but I have to work on them a bunch more before they're usable.
The vacations are over tomorrow and I will have les distractions, though I do have to find a job, damn it.
At least I found a better kludge for my eyes: last year's glasses, which are a little annoying in the middle distance and the close distance but not nearly as annoying as layering plastic glasses on my nose and having to change up the combination for every purpose and having the lenses always greasy because I can't keep plastic clean.