December 14th, 2005


The unlightable beanness of bears

So I'm up on the back porch doing laundry, and I reach up to turn on the dryer (it's a stack unit) and the control knob for the 'Start' button flies off at the touch of my finger. Being a descendant of tiny prey-item primates, and having both binocular vision and decent reflexes, I track the knob (white plastic, about 2" in diameter) as it shoots diagonally across the line of my body, bounces into the Child's shoe bin, and, well...vanishes.

While I'm looking at it.

Bend down.
Move shoe bin.
Look behind shoe bin.
Look under shoe bin.
Look into narrow crack between dryer and wall.
Empty shoe bin.
Insert fingers in each one of those damned shoes.
Turn over throw rug.
Look around in despair.
Go find pliers and start dryer.

I swear to Ghu, that little white knob is off partying with the red lectroids in the 8th dimension. It's just gone. Vanished before my very eyes.

Middle age is a bitch.


Last week I wrote a short story called "The Last Familiar Thing." It's my Abraham Lincoln on the moon as a zombie Confederate astronaut story. (Hey, they had New Orleans.) It was written specifically to literate a painting of Frank Wu's -- the two pieces will run in the RadCon program book, where we are co-guests of honor this coming February.

Interesting thing has cropped up in my first reader reactions to the story. It apparently makes no sense unless you read it with the illustration in mind. The story doesn't really work on its own, because the central image from which all the text derives is never described within the text itself.

So I'm turning this over in my head now. Is this a "real" story, if it's utterly dependent on an accompanying illustration? The illustration would certainly stand on its own without the story. Am I playing fair? It's not a graphic novel, or if it is, it's a one-frame graphic novel with 1,800 words of lettering. Does it count?

Hmm...deep thoughts on a cold night when my hands are already cramping from the weather.