Late/Early, O Miller

Tomorrow's going to be one of those amazing grinds, yet again--get Cal to school for 8:30, get to the dentist for 9:00, get two fillings, hopefully get over to pick him up at 11:00, take him to Surrey Place. Afterwards, we'll see if I'm too knackered to kick and punch my way through BodyCombat.

So no 500 words before breakfast, and probably not later on, either. I spent today doing research, mainly--amusingly, one of the things I read while taking a break was somebody's rant about how most noir heroes strike her as "speshul snoflakes" with "protagonist privilege" (gee, I dunno; between a protagonist who convinces themself they have the right to do something and thus actually does something vs. a protagonist who accepts that they probably don't have the right to do anything and thus does nothing, I know which one I'd choose to write/read about), which filters extremely well into the coming throw-down between ex-preacher/hex-slinger Reverend Rook and preacher/gunslinger Sheriff Mesach Love:

Love: "So you've got magic powers, huh? Well, isn't that special! Aren't you just a special little antidinomian snowflake!"
Rook: "Um...yeah, I do feel sort of special, really. You know I could just drop a mountain on you, right?"
Love: "Because your powers come from Satan! I cast you out, devil! Get out! I'm strong in the power of the Lord! Oh, I'm just full of His power!"
Rook: "Well, you're sure full of somethin'."

Other fun stuff: I've officially decided to play Love like a cross between the lead singer of 16 Horsepower (those braids!) and Jared Padalecki in full Satan-begone! tainted exorcist mode. As Rook says: "Son, that's some load of pride you got there. Hell, it's like lookin' in a mirror, give or take the sodomy."

Anyhow: Late again, roily again. I need to get everything packed for tomorrow, and try to get to sleep.

Wednesday, With Teeth

Odd weather in Toronto right now, but even though Cal and I got caught in a drench-level downpour three separate times on our way to Surrey Place, I must admit that I quite like it. The sky is soft and rippling with overcast, the air misty, the spring-into-summer new growth lush and verdant, even when water-heavy. Somebody’s been speed-planting banks of tulips everywhere; as I passed through the park after getting my teeth fixed this morning, my tongue and both sides of my jaw still too numb to speak intelligibly, I walked past a bank located just kitty-corner to the high-foaming fountain, every bloom a perfect shade of waxen-ivory shot with purple which flared out wide at each petal’s bottom, like a guttering flame.

The damp air smelled of all sorts of secretive and natural things: Grass-shavings, cedar dust, stone. Nothing like mid- to late summer, when the baking/humid city heat accelerates every disgusting smell humanity’s managed to inflict on itself—petrol, tar, ozone, caulk, chlorine, garbage—and makes you feel like you’re being poached in Lake Ontario shoreline scum. “It almost seemed like England,” Mom said, later on, and I agree; well worth a little inconvenience.

Otherwise, Cal had a great time at Surrey Place, and it all worked out fairly well; didn’t go to BodyCombat, but that’s just because I feel like crap generally (probably PMS). And now I’m going to make an early night of it, so I can wake up fresh and rock the word-count tomorrow. Drugs, here I come!