We were planning on a trip to WV this weekend, which has now been postponed due to lingering illnesses, and seeing as we're sort of booked all month, it's unlikely to happen until June. I think that's probably the longest stretch so far between visits home. Nothing to be done, though. Such is the price of being a couple of in-demand kinda people.
Stacy is home once again today, and about time, too. As she points out, this is partially because I was a bastard at her until she relented, for which I make no apologies. I remember the last time full-on peeneumonia set in, and how much fun that was. I remain unconvinced that anything work-related is that important. (To be fair, I remain unconvinced that anything work-related is very important ever, but that's a whole other set of issues.) And besides, anyone who looks and sounds as rough as my sweet wife does today should be quarantined at home, because a) there's no sense spreading that kind of love around, and b) no one wants to see that shit. So there.
Couple of nights ago I had the pleasure of a Walpurgisnacht dinner with Paul and his girlfriend Melissa, which was actually pretty nice, and a better experience than the last couple of times I hung out with Paul. But I remain in some sense skeptical about the future of my friendship with Paul, if only because he seemed almost resolute in refusing to take a hint about how much better I liked New Happy Paul than Classic Paul with Snarky Commentary. (Melissa, OTOH, is very nice and smart and funny, and I hope for his sake not too good for him. Because all he needs is another reason to get all-out mean from feeling sorry for himself all over again. But I digress.) It's a bit sad that things ended up taking this turn, because I've always liked Paul, usually in spite of himself. But given a choice between being around someone who seems to think of the things I'm into as a number of conversational bullseyes (when any interest is shown at all), and people who make me feel wonderful about myself... well, guess which one I'm going to pick.
(And it's sort of a measure of how things are that I post all this here without fear of consequences, because Paul is much too aloof and cool to do anything like read my weblog, or care much that I have one, except possibly to let me know how nerdy and passe blogging is or some such elitist crap. Which, if you've spent ten minutes with Paul, is the absolute nadir of irony.)
Anyway, I also spent two nights beating my head against the keyboard until 700 words or so of "The Pagurus Game" arranged themselves in a shape I could live with, which is not exactly the kind of pace I wanted to be keeping, but that's the hand I drew this week. Sometimes you gets the bear and sometimes the bear gets you. I think I need another project to decompress into when the main one isn't working for me, just to keep the proper number of balls in the air to satisfy my obsessive and neurotic muse. You wanna know what kind of dork I am? I'm seriously considering writing Exalted fanfic. So that kind of dork. (Yeah, I know. Shaddap.)
This is the morning of the year
A rainy green smile
After a long gloomy
Pale winter night
The shouting of the child
Melts into rustling
When the heavy rain
Rushes from on high
When the May rain comes
All of this shall be washed away
When the May rain comes...
Oh, yeah - happy Beltane, slightly belated.
Something I should've linked days ago here is Maija's Elfwood Gallery, which all and sundry should visit and leave nice comments on so she'll put more stuff up on't. And shame on those asshats who run the site for being tiny-brained about what constitutes "fantasy"; let's all be thankful nobody told Ellen Kushner that shit, or the field would be even more woefully short of effete dandies and salon intrigue than it already is. And besides, I'm convinced it's terribly bad form to try and tell a Finn what fantasy is - those guys practically speak Elvish. That's just asking to be tied to a chair and beaten with the Kalevala until some sense gets in.
Wooch. Okay, I feel better now. Back on my head, then.