Monday, Monday

That's all I can say about today.

Okay, I have something else to say, but it may not be worth writing -- like that has stopped me in the past.

Got a very late start today because of a very late night watching all nearly six hours of Rose Red by Stephen King. It was really pretty good and quite scary in parts, but I felt energized and creatively activated to write some good old fashioned horror. I even watched the bonus feature about Ellen Rimbauer's diary, which was really fictional. Come on, folks. This is Stephen King we're talking about and not Ken Burns.

Anyway, I got up late at the tail end of a very strange dream about being invaded by a bunch of people bringing food and getting together to form a death watch for someone I don't even know . . . or at least didn't know about in the dream. They just barged into my home and set up casseroles and marked out sleeping space without an invitation or a reason as far as I could see. It ended with a discussion about Wicca versus Christianity and being called a devil worshiper and all kinds of weird things, to which I ended by explaining Wicca and some of the fallacies of Christianity. Go figure.

Very strange dreams indeed. They could have been brought on by a coming invasion of my space in August when my landlords have decided they absolutely must come up here for two three-day weekends to stain two sides of the cabin or maybe my imagination is just overly active.

At any rate, I need to put the DVDs back into their nifty Netflix mailers and send them back so I can get more movies this week when I should be writing and researching and doing all kinds of writerly things. It's just too beautiful outside and every time I put Queen and Pat Benatar on Real Rhapsody thunder booms and my phone line de-stabilizes and I end up with silence and no music. It's like something is trying to tell me to get to work and forget about listening to music and playing games and surfing the net when I should be quietly writing while listening to the edifying sounds of Mozart or Rachmaninoff or working on the new website, for which I have not quite designed a logo. Still, I'd rather dance to Freddy Mercury cranked as high as it will go and drive dirt under my fingernails while I play with plants and seedlings and cut herbs to hang and dry. I'm feeling very natural today with overtones of Queen rock and roll tingling thru my dancing and singing muscles.

However, I did do something writerly today. I edited Beanie's essay about Dad and loving animals on a little farm outside of Columbus, Ohio. It was a very colorful editing project and I'm sure she will soon be perusing my journal to notify me I have made further mistakes of spelling and omissions of words. It's okay. She's entitled to a little fun and it helps me since I do little more than run spell check on my journal posts and do not read them over often. All my posts are from the fertile, and sometimes mercurial, soil at the top of my head.

I'll shut up now. Nothing much else to say.