I’ll wait here while you go read and laugh ’til your ears pop. Don’t be too kriffing long about it.
What about the other side of the coin? My mother still doesn’t know what she should have done with me as a kid who made up her own curse words. She says I drove her mad with it because she couldn’t figure out the right punishment for saying non-existent words. I didn’t have Holy Mother of Fruit, but I had some serious cussing to be done with non-existent-other-than-in-my-imagination words.
I still do it. Make up curse words, that is. In Jandzian. Hasvarani, too. Yes, those are languages from 2259 R.E. in the Regellian Empire. Still, I don’t think anyone confuses them for protestations of innocence or sweet words of love.
“Tangfot! What the kriff do you think you’re doing you kriffing bleryah?” “Juta! What the hika do you think you’re doing?”
My mother laughs at it now, though she doesn’t speak Jandzian or Hasvarani. Except a few curse words. Parents and children drive each other mad.
As a child in 1977 I stood in a line with my mother and brother. The line wrapped all the way around the National Gallery of Art in DC and then through miles of interior corridor to see the treasures of a boy king dead millenia ago. We spent almost twelve hours in that line.
Even though we got people to hold our places in line so we could eat, by the time we were at the actual entrance to the exhibit at around 8:00 p.m. I was so exhausted all I wanted to do is go home. It felt like we had waited since the birth of Tutankhamun. My feet hurt. I was hungry again. I did not care about seeing anything at that point. Even the darkness behind the velvet ropes punctuated by shafts of light did not seem to promise anything interesting. At the verge of despair, we were finally allowed in.
I was transported. I wandered around in the exhibit for well over two hours. I forgot I had feet, much less that they hurt. I read every placard. I walked circles around Tutankhamun’s glorious burial mask, ducking under taller people, straining on my tiptoes, peering at it from every angle, entranced with the faience and stones and gold. I stared so long and hard at Selkhet and pectorals, statues and alabaster canopic jars, everything there, that I am surprised the exhibit did not burst into flames. I never wanted to leave.
My mother had to drag me away. I do not think she brought all of me back with her. There is a part of me still circling, staring, dreaming.
Now I make jewelry and write stories of the desert in distant eons. I expect that the boy pharoah would believe it his due. Circles. Gazes. Dreams.
I am so done with this week. One cat diagnosed with cancer. Other cat with CHF throwing up all her meds. One of my teeth has gone south and needs a root canal by a specialist and a crown. Friend went wonky and now accusing people of things they didn’t do, which is sad.
I ordered some beads for my jewelry business. Ok. Great. When I got the package, I noticed a strange smell coming out of it.
OK, maybe it wasn’t anthrax.
“I sure as hell hope they didn’t mail me anthrax.”
Yeah. That was what came to mind. I don’t even know what anthrax smells like, but I imagine it smells like something in a package of beads that I’m not expecting.
As it turns out, the smell was a black tea bag. Tea bags in bead strands. That’s different. Why would you do that?
Imagination comes running again!
The bead seller is really a witch and smuggler. Not very good at either, apparently. She means to put the tea bag (along with a number of its compatriots) in packets of illicit drugs and Mystical things to disguise their odor with the scent of anthrax-laden-bead-scent-which-resembles-black-tea. Unfortunately she puts a tea bag (though where its compatriots went, I do not know) into my bead package, thus ensuring her imminent capture by the Legal Powers That Be. While she’s in jail, all her beads will be confiscated by an elderly Asian uncle she is in debt to, who discovers that many of the beads are not what they seem. In fact, some of the beads are made of the illicit substances she was arrested for. He makes a small fortune selling off the beads one by one and trades a few for a twisted dwarf slave. Others are made of… well, when the twisted dwarf slave peels one of them open, he’s in for the ride of his life and never has to worry about the elderly Asian uncle beating him again.
The moral of the story: Imagination is a wild beast that runs off and plays with dwarves and illicit secular and Mystical substances that may or may not smell like anthrax or black tea.
As soon as this head cold has abated enough to do it, I’m installing and training Dragon Naturally Speaking. I’m not that keen on the idea in some ways. I tend to be silent or sing, neither of which will work well for the Dragon. I am, however, exceptionally keen on keeping my hands functional for as long as possible. So Dragon it is.
My friend Mary has a Dragon named Puff. I was planning to call mine Smaug, but after disliking The Hobbit movie so much, I decided that was out. I found the perfect name, though: Figment! The purple Disney/Epcot dragon. I adore Figment. He was my bud when I went there in the 80s. And since I’ll be doing most of my fiction writing with the fellow, it’s perfect to have a Figment of my imagination to help.
Here’s Figment on my desk. Here’s to Figment showing up in my computer soon. ROWR!
It ain’t all serious business, this novel writing stuff. One of my muses, Dhamat “I-got-to-go-to-Pyvax-and-meet-Klerma’s-sister-she-is-crabby” is awesome Gangnam style. Or maybe I should call it Dhamat style.
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