bleary bits

Spent the hours between about 2 and 6 awake this morning; Aristotle was on the hunt, all over the top of the loft bed in the direction of the ceiling, which was still too far away for him to reach: a palmetto bug or a really big beetle (I never got a close enough look to determine which) had snuck in and its mere presence was enough to keep me awake. For distraction I read and watched both episodes of EZ Streets that they have on Brilliant But Cancelled. This show so totally rocked. Writing, music, acting, actors; I was bummed when it got cancelled. Kind of fun, in a bleary, I'd rather be asleep but the big bug, eek, kind of way, to see them again on my little laptop.

A bit of correspondence this morning assures me that my Howard story is still, in fact, "Two Hearts in Zamora."

The firecracker plant on my balcony is popping out in all these little red flowers which appear to attract the birds, mostly little ones, sparrows and such, but a lot of them, to a pretty small balcony. It is torture for the cats, since I close the screen to prevent any kamikaze dives precipitated by an overeager need for bird and a temporary loss of awareness of the drop to cement below. Maybe the birds are just torturing the cats and couldn't give a fig about the flowers.

This icon is from a computer illustration I did years and years ago, with a now very obsolete paint program. I was always pretty pleased with it.

I just finished Locked Rooms, the most recent entry in Laurie R. King's Mary Russell novels, and the best one since the first one, The Beekeeper's Apprentice, I think. It guest stars Dashiel Hammet and San Francisco.

news minute

Bleary woman trips on stairs, sprawls inelegantly, bruising knees and one ankle, slightly twisting right wrist.

Says, "Ouch."

(no subject)

I mentioned my friend Divya's New Yorker illustrations awhile back; here is a page with the collection thus far. If you click the discreet little arrows at the top you can be treated to a bunch of her other work, too.