rm | (no subject)

One of the nice things about cleaning is finding evidence of accomplishment, not just in the revelation of floor space or a living room that's going to be really cute (right now this theory is emerging about deep blue raw silk curtains onto which I'd sew a border of copper-colored leaves), but in discovering evidence of things I've done -- I have a decent if not complestist scrapbook of theatre stuff I've done, and I found the anthology one of my stories is in, as well as my contributor's copies of Rattle.

I'm also stewing over a slightly complex problem of bad record keeping. Before The Phone Company was published in Horror Between the Sheets, it was published on Gothic.net which was, at the time, a qualifying publication site for SFWA. The thing is, the story isn't archived there anymore, I don't have any record of my payment, although I remember depositing it, and Gothic.net has no way to contact anyone who runs it. So it's just one of those things essentially lost to the ether of accomplishment, but to say I'm annoyed with myself is a pretty severe understatement.

As such, A Place for the Filing of Important Papers becomes another household priority on a long list of many priorities chief amongst which is figuring out how to make the router play nicely with Patty's computer.

She goes home to Ohio for a week and change tomorrow, which is sad, but after Cyprus, fairly easy, although I should send her back with letters and scented paper cicadas nonetheless. While she's gone I'll clean off my desk and the closet, so that she can unpack after she gets back and I'm in SF.

Content is probably too mellow a word for my current state of being, but I am definitely so.

I always wish I could do more though, or see the value in what I've done -- whether it's the writing, the acting, or the emergence of floor space.

I do things. But I want to eat worlds.