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So when I got back from Prague it was of course spring here. After all, January was gone: so the almond trees were blooming, and the quince bush, and the wild grass at the dog park was up over my ankle.
By now, plum trees are blooming, the acacias are about done, and there's scabiosa, radish, (california) poppies and lupines blooming down by the river. As it's been raining and raining and raining we've been walking, Truffle and I, by the river a lot, because the leveee walk is elevated and therefore much much drier than any of the parks. The lupines, often my favorite flower, are filling me with grumpiness and vileness this year because, singit together now, "they're here and he's not." (Can you tell I'm bored with being sad? Can you tell you can't turn it off just because you don't like it?)
I made an attempt at being a real person yesterday and it didn't quite gel. I made an arrangement to volunteer at the Salmonid Habitat Restoration Conference in exchange for a discount at the Watershed Monitoring Workshop that was part of it. So I got there late for the workshop, things were so confusing I just paid full price anyway, and when I came home at the lunch break to check on the dog I found myself unable to return. But I was really glad to have gone: I learned a lot about fish and macroinvetrebrate toxicity and the most important (California) sources. The water column has largely been cleaned up in coastal streams, but the sediment is really very toxic now. When diazinon and DDTs were banned, they were replaced by pyrethroids, which because they come from flowers everybody thinks must be okay but they're toxic as hell and they stick to sediment which makes them very, very persistent. Also, DDT? still a big problem, thirty years later, because every time somebody grades a field or rebanks a road the steams fill up with sediment with pesticide residue which has been untouched in the meantime and may as well have come straight from the bottle in terms of how toxic it is.
Anyway, I'm still committed to 5 hours of volunteering today and five more tomorrow.
I have applied for a job I have a decent chance of getting, which would have its own benefits, a decent rate of pay, and to which I would not have to drive my car. If I lasted five years -- which I have done, once at least in my life -- I would have my own retirement benefits too.
The University has given itself a few extra weeks to decide my fate re Ted's retirement. This is either because it's really unimportant to them and they have bigger fish to fry or because it's really touchy for them and they're afraid to make a decision. Or both. Anyway, I'm not sure why they get to give themselves extra time like that when it says quite clearly in the paperwork that they have 60 days to reply to an appeal, and they didn't reply at all: the only reason we know anything is my brother in law called them up and hassled them.
I'm writing a lot, and they're sort of cogent bits, all linearily connected to other bits, but I seem to be writing six or seven stories at a time, of which I think five are this close to an end.
for my own record, what I'm writing and where I'm at with it:
A Suitable Lover -- two more chapters to go. One of those chapters written: that chapter was in fact finished off nicely, and I lost the polished version and have to revise it again. Don't talk to me about backing up: it is backed up, that's why I only have to revise it.
Prospect Road -- haven't touched since I got back from Prague: close to climax, still working out what that is
Sissy and Buddy and the Whole Nine Yards -- it's a stinking novella, and it's maybe three? chapters from the end
With the Band -- another stinking novella, haven't touched since before Prague, maybe three chapters from the end
Man of His Dreams -- a long novella or short novel, just added a chapter and it's maybe three-four chapters from the end: like Prospect Road, I'm still figuring out the set piece at the climax, though I do understand it better than I do the other one.
Need to Know -- sort of at abeginning state, but I think it's a stinking novella. It's a kind of YA parallel-universe-travelling thrillerish thing, I guess.
Something without a name with a background like old Prague involving an alchemist/advocate and a grand family that's been nearly expunged, and I have no idea why I'm writing it except for the line "where's your livery?"
Another thing I'm writing for a line: "This is awkward. I hadn't expected to meet you until we were both done with college."
I'm going to admit it now: I'm posting stories to FictionPress, because it's the opposite of professional writing and it doesn't make me feel like a failure. Now I have embraced an amateur orientation, and I'm just putting stories in a place where people I don't know can read them. That is all.
By now, plum trees are blooming, the acacias are about done, and there's scabiosa, radish, (california) poppies and lupines blooming down by the river. As it's been raining and raining and raining we've been walking, Truffle and I, by the river a lot, because the leveee walk is elevated and therefore much much drier than any of the parks. The lupines, often my favorite flower, are filling me with grumpiness and vileness this year because, singit together now, "they're here and he's not." (Can you tell I'm bored with being sad? Can you tell you can't turn it off just because you don't like it?)
I made an attempt at being a real person yesterday and it didn't quite gel. I made an arrangement to volunteer at the Salmonid Habitat Restoration Conference in exchange for a discount at the Watershed Monitoring Workshop that was part of it. So I got there late for the workshop, things were so confusing I just paid full price anyway, and when I came home at the lunch break to check on the dog I found myself unable to return. But I was really glad to have gone: I learned a lot about fish and macroinvetrebrate toxicity and the most important (California) sources. The water column has largely been cleaned up in coastal streams, but the sediment is really very toxic now. When diazinon and DDTs were banned, they were replaced by pyrethroids, which because they come from flowers everybody thinks must be okay but they're toxic as hell and they stick to sediment which makes them very, very persistent. Also, DDT? still a big problem, thirty years later, because every time somebody grades a field or rebanks a road the steams fill up with sediment with pesticide residue which has been untouched in the meantime and may as well have come straight from the bottle in terms of how toxic it is.
Anyway, I'm still committed to 5 hours of volunteering today and five more tomorrow.
I have applied for a job I have a decent chance of getting, which would have its own benefits, a decent rate of pay, and to which I would not have to drive my car. If I lasted five years -- which I have done, once at least in my life -- I would have my own retirement benefits too.
The University has given itself a few extra weeks to decide my fate re Ted's retirement. This is either because it's really unimportant to them and they have bigger fish to fry or because it's really touchy for them and they're afraid to make a decision. Or both. Anyway, I'm not sure why they get to give themselves extra time like that when it says quite clearly in the paperwork that they have 60 days to reply to an appeal, and they didn't reply at all: the only reason we know anything is my brother in law called them up and hassled them.
I'm writing a lot, and they're sort of cogent bits, all linearily connected to other bits, but I seem to be writing six or seven stories at a time, of which I think five are this close to an end.
for my own record, what I'm writing and where I'm at with it:
A Suitable Lover -- two more chapters to go. One of those chapters written: that chapter was in fact finished off nicely, and I lost the polished version and have to revise it again. Don't talk to me about backing up: it is backed up, that's why I only have to revise it.
Prospect Road -- haven't touched since I got back from Prague: close to climax, still working out what that is
Sissy and Buddy and the Whole Nine Yards -- it's a stinking novella, and it's maybe three? chapters from the end
With the Band -- another stinking novella, haven't touched since before Prague, maybe three chapters from the end
Man of His Dreams -- a long novella or short novel, just added a chapter and it's maybe three-four chapters from the end: like Prospect Road, I'm still figuring out the set piece at the climax, though I do understand it better than I do the other one.
Need to Know -- sort of at abeginning state, but I think it's a stinking novella. It's a kind of YA parallel-universe-travelling thrillerish thing, I guess.
Something without a name with a background like old Prague involving an alchemist/advocate and a grand family that's been nearly expunged, and I have no idea why I'm writing it except for the line "where's your livery?"
Another thing I'm writing for a line: "This is awkward. I hadn't expected to meet you until we were both done with college."
I'm going to admit it now: I'm posting stories to FictionPress, because it's the opposite of professional writing and it doesn't make me feel like a failure. Now I have embraced an amateur orientation, and I'm just putting stories in a place where people I don't know can read them. That is all.