Thinking aloud.

I finally did it. I shaved off the rattail. Never again will anyone (coughGaneshcough) be able to accuse me of having a mullet. I was shaving my head and it was taking so damn long, it was such a hassle, and then I got to the back. I was thinking about how I was going to have to shave round the stupid thing and what a fiddle that would be, and I just went rghghghghh. Sides which, I'm thinking of getting a tatt on the back of my neck, which would be hidden by the hair. The skin there has been asking for a tattoo, just like the skin on the side of my head used to beg before I got my rose done. It's a nagging physical sensation, as if someone was holding their hand out over that point, not quite touching it. When the ink is in place then contact will be made, the circuit completed. I belive the thing my skin requires is an angelic figure of some kind. I'm searching for the right image.

My novel is trying to kill me. This is the hardest thing I've ever done. I know it's all there, all the componants are in place, waiting within the empty page for me to find them, yet... I keep getting lost on the way. What the hell happened to my imagination? Why can't I think anymore? And then I want to abandon it, and I can't: it throws up some enticing image or concept, and I have to go back. This thing will have blood from me before it's done, you mark my words.

I love the view from my window. Just now I'm watching some people (an adult and a kid?) flying a big kite in the field across the way. It's one of those huge ones like a parachute; must take a hell of a lot of strength to hang on to it.