Sometimes I look out on the grass and see the way the wind blows each blade over in rows, emulating ocean waves. If only an encryption technique could be invented to take advantage of such nonsensical randomness. What would someone do with such privacy? Encrypt their love letters? Hide their insider trading? Secrets are dangerous things to keep and too much time is spent making sure the ones we have remain buried deep. Think of what we could have accomplished if we didn't spend so much of our hiding our past! I'm talking about other people now, I've kept my nose clean and can only dream of secrets never to be told...
In a sense moles, I'm talking spies here, are an encrypted little secret, waiting years or more to be activated. I wonder sometimes if someone under deep cover starts questioning if they really are a spy or if they only imagined it? Then one day, out of the blue a call comes and the speaker utters that non-sense phrase, waits a moment for a response, repeats it and you give them the co-sign as you were instructed so long ago. Everything comes back to you and you laugh about how you doubted what you had lived through and how now, once again, everything is right with the world.
It's spring, grass is on my mind. How much do we spend mowing our bloody lawns when instead we should just get a goat and stake them out? Then we could all meet in the town square in the fall for the annual goat roast with our fat little be-speckled dinners. Gas, oil, parts, machines, a lot of money goes into cutting plants down and for what, exactly? So it looks short? I mean we don't eat the clippings, heck I just let them lay there and get re-absorbed by the 'lawn'. We cut the green stuff because if we don't it grows too high. Too high for what? Yeah, see, I don't think everyone else has these sorts of logic problems floating around in their head. Until now...welcome to the infection!
Writing is going marginally better, I had a great week, then a poor week and this week is decent. I got a few chapters of Cayo done, another one of Contender and, of course there was the tongue in cheek, 'Sherman tanks taking out the Bismark' story War of the Dead. You'd think that little hack job would have left my system, but like the lawn mowing I find it still circling my brainpan. Why are the Britons weak? How did the druids fend off the vampires from the mainland? Is there any chance for humanity? Of course I already have the whole story...in my head. Whether it comes out or not remains to be seen. Starting down that path means I don't get to travel down the others until later, so, regrettably, I've set a quota, I won't indulge myself in these fantasies until I see some word count on the other stories. If everything goes well and I'm diligent, then I can write a little War of the Dead. The thing is, well, there's the muse. The muse sometimes travels down one path when I would rather be taking a journey down another. So far I've stayed on top of the bastard, but I can't guarantee I will always be able to. <shrug> I have learned not to fight it.
I keep thinking I'm 'finished' with Cayo, but every chapter I write just leads to another one. I'm 25,000 words beyond where I was aiming and I've made my peace with that too; it ends where it ends, when it ends. Hopefully it ends in April though, I need to move on to other things... You hear me zombie muse?