Between the cheap wine, caffeine tabs, and lisinopril, I’m keeping at it every night this week. As I was finishing this up, I was, thank God, allowed to see that a brigade of the Nation is already closing on the flimsy position the City has north of the bridge. This will allow me to avoid any prolonged battle and instead precipitate the domino-like collapse of first Portland’s armed defense followed by its civil collapse.
In the mean time, let’s wrap things up with the Mayor.
Everyone that looks at Nichole, “…a seeming poster girl for Irish Tourism!…” is often taken aback by the fact that, one, of course, she’s a three year old machine, and two, was coded and raised in Japan. Orientals and Asians are not self-loathing as Whites have been taught to be over the past 4-5 generations. Some things obvious to her are total heresy to those about her.
Dialog! At last! Lots and lots of dialog! And while everyone is talking, I set forces in motion that cannot be slowed or stopped. We’ve Teresa firmly in the picture, a glimpse of Mackenzie; I just need Nichole’s love, Gil, back in. Once I’ve everyone in hand, it’s ‘that famous final scene.’
In an absurd burst of enthusiasm, I thought I could finish the manuscript this weekend. My new doctor certainly wants me to: “you’re drinking too much; your liver numbers are shot to hell.” Great. I told her I’ll cut back in a week or so, once finished.
It has been a difficult transitional period in the story. I did NOT want to write yet another battle, swirling about Nichole, but was uncertain how to write around it. Last night, after watching a few old music videos, I saw the part of Nichole and Armando having a quiet moment – not a war moment – in the back of the MRAP. That let’s me tell the story to the point where things fall to shit and she get’s out of there, on a mad dash south, where she’ll encounter Major Muller & his 2nd Detachment of Cavalry as well as Friend Joe, serving in Militia A, holding the supply line between Portland and Longview.
After that? Into the City with the Nation on their heels. Rocks fall; everyone dies. I’m so happy to be writing this…
After being so far into Nichole’s world over the weekend, my boss asked me about ten minutes into work, “Are you okay?” At least I was able to confuse her with my reply…
“I am only a little in your world.”
Fortunately I never really crossed back, so was able to rush home and toss out what’s below. Starts off playful, but once over the pass, goes dark quickly. Not sure what, beyond notes, I’ll manage the rest of the week, but I’ll do my best.
Probably sounds better in Latin. Which makes an appearance in the last few lines of this update.
Saturday I had two mixed drinks: gin and Monster. Wrote about 1600 words. Sunday, as I was making then eating my chili con queso con carne, I’d beer. Wrote Nichole and Tuchman into a room, about 150 words… then, nothing. Late Monday AM, back to wine and 1100 words were there at my fingertips. I’ve seen the snippets of their ride back and her reunion with Gil and Mackenzie, but I’ve RealLife matters to attend to.
So much for beer. Sad. I homebrewed for over fifteen years, but gave it up because of the carbs. “All things change; all things die.”
Continue reading ““All of Alcohol is divided into three parts…””
It’s been an awful week: dog dead, family off on vacation, my boss back… an Iliad of woes. Very difficult to write in such an environment.
Thus, even a pantser such as I must break down and make some outlines, becoming a plotter, lest nothing be written at all. Below the fold is a pic of the notes I made this afternoon; I was able to lay down about 700 words in the evening, but things are in flux.
What were I an OCD such as Acire: able to plan an entire month! Two partial days on the heels of tragedy is the best I can do. Content tomorrow… what else is left to me?
By and large, this weblog is about my writings of Machine Civilization… hence the name. Still, every now and then some RealLife breaks in. This is one of those times.
Having successfully fought sarcoma just over a year ago, my mis-aptly named dog, Lucky Star, a schnoodle of only nine years, will be dead in 3-7 days from another cancer, of his upper spinal cord.
My house is a veritable Iliad of woes right now. For those who are followers of The Way, please pray for my wife and daughters, who are besides themselves. Me? I’ll just keep buggering on.
