Goat Notes

Suddenly afflicted yesterday with either a significant irritation or a minor infection in my left eye, whereafter not much sitting at computer screens possible. Better today but not yet quite right, so communications may continue economical.

Killer-Kate and Luke Lackland: 280 words more of Kate's Speech. How vile is my disposition when the stories are not flowing, and how little I notice until the cloud lifts! I think I usually more or less fake homo sapience socially during lulls like the past week's, even to myself at the time; but the mood's aftertaste is not a lovely one; and as for the effect on the housework, I stepped out this morning to find the silverfish forming a picket line and waving little teeny placards demanding cleaner and tidier working conditions. Or perhaps there was just something in my eye, and I saw what I secretly expected to.

I dreamed a brand new fantasy world and have forgotten almost all of it, except for the map of the region I was in and its near environs. I was on the western side, which was a sort of combination of Dark Lord's Wasteland and 1970s Slump London - more lava lamps than Mount Doom - with various punky subcultures around the fringes. There were various impassable barriers to the happier and more diverse countries to the east, except that they weren't entirely impassable either on the magical barrier end or the big enormous mountain range end, and evil imperial invasion was being plotted going eastwards, as well as serious iffy eastern sorcerous plots whose details I don't remember leaking westwards onto my own side of the barriers. I was involved in some Arab Spring style of sedition against the Lava Lamp Imperials, and either I have forgotten all of the details of that too, or I was just engaging in my usual dream strategy of Victory Through It Seemed Like A Good Idea At The Time.

The little I do remember of its general feel makes me wish I retained enough of the setting to use it for something.  I wonder if it was influenced by thoughts of the late Diana Wynne Jones?  The register seems right.  Ah well, back to my work again!

There is a fly, and its bottom is blue.  I am presently emulating it.  Family stuff and house fixing-upping.  In response to much fwapping of my head by my Muse, I've resumed pushing the present chapter towards its conclusion. 

Between paperwork and visiting, 130 words.  The courante,  "clearly music on which hopes are built". 

Off on my rounds again.  Back presently.