Hey, hey, people, it’s been a long day, and self is sitting in front of her computer, tired.
One thing she is so happy about, this year, is that her garden is so — fecund. That’s the only way she can think to describe it. Plants that haven’t thrown off a bloom in years — like her Sheila’s Perfume — suddenly have big, fat flowers. Her oldest clematis, a montana rubens, suddenly has growth lower down on its gnarled, woody stem. And the wisteria she thought she’d killed is luscious, winding over the falling-down trellis, almost choking off the old wood.
Self checked out a site called Grey Magazine, and loves it. It seems to be a magazine about Italy, which is probably why she bookmarked it. But as she scrolls to the bottom of the page, she sees other things, like an article about the Reykjavik Fashion Festival (There’s one country — Iceland — she’d love to visit one day) and a review of a production of Bohéme. And there’s a fabulous, absolutely fabulous picture of the actress Charlotte Rampling (still a knockout).
Well, all this musing started because she sat down at her desk, read a new piece of fanfiction, thought of something, wrote it down, finished it — bam, bam, bam. It’s just one page, but self thinks it is fabulous.
Self thinks all her pieces are fabulous. That is, she thinks they are fabulous right after she finishes, or thinks she has finished. The feeling doesn’t last long, so she might as well enjoy the right now.
This new one-page flash fiction takes place in a future universe. It’s called “Memories of Trees” and is so angst-y and self loves it.
She remembered that when she spoke to Zack’s class last Monday, one of the students remarked that her story “Mayor of the Roses” and her story “Thing” — one set in a small town in Laguna and the other set in a dystopian future universe (Self swore she would never use the word dystopian again, especially after gazillions of reviewers used it when reviewing Hunger Games: Catching Fire, but she is forced to admit that it certainly is a very effective word, and anyway her fiction really is DYSTOPIAN, she’s not trying to be clever or anything, just really really honest) — seemed to have similar themes. Self’s first reaction was to go: Oh no! Because she hates thinking of herself as being so transparent and predictable. Which was not a useful line of thought: no one who’s predictable can be fabulous.
After much perusing of the newly re-designed Daily Post,self finally realized that it still has the links to other people’s blogs, a feature she thought had been lost. With the old layout, she would click on “Post a Comment,” and all the people who had posted on the week’s photo challenge would then appear on a list of links. Self would methodically move down this list, looking at each blog.
With the re-design, self couldn’t find a button for “Post a Comment.” Only today did she realize that the links still exist, although in a very different form. All self had to do was scroll down to the very bottom of the page, where there is a gallery of squares. Clicking on one of these squares immediately brings one to a blog post on the week’s photo challenge. In other words, the links are so much more visual now.
OK, so here’s what self has lined up for next week: She will board a plane for London. She will arrive in London. She signed up for a tour of Stonehenge, which takes place the day after her arrival. Jennie Lewis’s new poetry collection, Taking Mesopotamia, is having a reading at the British Museum on April 27, and self has tickets for that. Then, she’s the guest of Joan McGavin for a few days. Then she flies to Dublin. Then she sees FATHER HASLAM, who she hasn’t seen in 20 years. Father Haslam has asked a fellow priest, Father McCabe, to drive her to the Tyrone Guthrie Center. She will then be in a self-catering cottage in the Tyrone Guthrie Center. There is wi-fi, so she will really have to wean herself off Facebook. Then Penny arrives in Dublin. Then self clears out of her self-catering cottage and takes a long train trip to Cork, where she’s booked into a magnificent Irish country home that serves four-course dinners every night. Then she loses her passport so she can’t go home and will have to stay another couple of weeks until she gets a new passport. She’ll live off Irish ale and get fat. She won’t be able to squeeze into an Economy airplane seat, so she’ll just have to be bumped up to First Class. She will live happily ever after.