Ye Gods, a Real Entry.

Or Ye Odin, at the rate I'm going.

Posting this now (as opposed to later) partly in honor of mattador's preference for Norse mythology over boobs and partly in honor of the following exchange this morning:

Me: *staggers squinty-eyed to the breakfast table bundled in stripy blanket and red flannel nightgown* Coffeeeeeee...

Backdraft: You look like Odin in his pyjamas.

Me: ?!?!!

[Bystanding family members asumed as shit. Conversation about Loki's frilly nightgown ensues.]

Me: I'm LiveJournaling this.

At any rate, on a more serious note. (No, really. I seem to keep introducing this quite solemn piece in a silly context. When I read it in the coffeehouse at Northfield [er, I'll explain what Northfield is later, because that'll take a whole nother entry], I came up to read wearing four black socks rubber-banded together as a beret substitute [hell, it was black and floppy and ugly, it'll do] and promptly had to take it off so as to not provide inappropriate visuals [sorry, Llewellyn, no chicken hat.]) Somewhat creative retelling of a bit of Norse mythology I happen to be highly obsessed with, and take a point in pride in being obsessed with before I read American Gods. Yeah, you know what's coming. In retrospect, actually came out much less grim than I intended it to be, and the title is just silly, but I had fun with the language. Might take another stab at the story later, perhaps.

Semi-original work! Yelp, yelp, yelp!

( The High One's Steed, or, How Writing Came Into the World. )

I like my life.

Yesterday I'm on the Atlantic Ocean in a twelve-foot sailboat, have only the day before heard of brummel hooks and other crucial items. I survived, albeit with sunburn. (The girlfriend, an old sea wasp, helped.) Today I'm finally sending the fourth chapter of Lexicon to FA. (It's been, what, a year? *twitch* At least their submission form hasn't changed.)

The whole situation makes me want to play Which One Doesn't Belong with sailing terms. Traveller, transom, scrumble, clew. And a whole different situation made me want to write a humurously profound poem with the opening line On the first day of my life / I went up to the ocean. / And it was really fucking cold.

Fog is cool. Literally. Especially at night, at the end of a walkway out to the dock where the sea and the sky blend all together into one and you seem to be floating in the mist at the end of the world.

One of the cats across the street where I'm living seems to be pregnant. Maybe I could visit kittens...

Hm. Want to post more stuff. But it is late, and I should make an attempt to be diurnal for the girlfriend's sake.