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Missing bit
27 February 2006
Ooh, just noticed, I wrote this a few days ago and completely neglected to post it. I think that actually happens quite often, only I wouldn't usually notice, not being in the habit of rereading my own journal. (People often ask me if I read my own books, and then seem surprised when I say no, absolutely not - but why on earth would I?)
Anyway, for what it's worth, here's the missing tablet, which dates from sometime after Misha died, but not long enough:
If the world divides between order and chaos, I am very much of the chaos party, right down at the extreme end of the range. The contents of my head is not ordered, and neither is the contents of my house. Every now and then, though, I take a pick-axe and a bucket to the detritus that has accreted here or there. This week, necessarily, I've been clearing my desk; and among the sheaves of papers I found the beginning of a story. Started it a couple of years back, give or take; haven't finished it, may very well never finish it, don't really remember what it was aiming at; but it's a good strong beginning, with a good strong title. Bring On the Empty Houses, it's called.
It's actually about religious houses, monks and nuns and such, but it has very pointed echoes today. I was actually away from home last night, staying happily with friends; and I stayed till after lunch today, but you can't do that for ever. So I came home.
It's kind of like when a lover moves out. You know they're gone, it's a constant sadness that you just ride over while you busy around with the day; but in the end you have to come home, and their actual physical absence is an unremitting shock. I keep mistaking sounds and shadows, and looking round, and remembering as I turn that Misha really isn't going to be there. Missing-limb syndrome: I seem to be living with a virtual cat. I guess she'll do the Cheshire thing, and fade away in the end.
I'm spending most of my home-time doing deliberately hard-edged cold-hearted techie stuff, as much contrast as I can manage to the warm fluffiness I lack. Trying to make Linux work on new machines, and failing, failing...
[The good news: Linux is now working. More or less. More fiddling required, but it's scary stuff, getting down and dirty in the mechanics of coding. I do keep popping up for air, which means writing fiction; oddly, at the moment that's science fiction, which is a thing I never do...]
© Chaz Brenchley 2006
Reproduced here by permission of Chaz Brenchley, who asserts his moral right to be identified as the author of this work.