Today, I’m setting all of the overlays for the finished 180 pages of the book. Another 70 to go.. then we’ll do a press edit, then we will go to press. (If only my work stopped then…)
Orangelina is feeling very sprightly less her first 2014 clutch of eggs, and in this photo she is eating worms and rejecting a strawberry. Touchingly, she is behaving in a very motherly fashion to the crowd of young Desert Spinies that are scampering about in the Lurk, even another female old enough to be wearing mating colours. The boys are all still small and brown, not old enough to be run off by the Prince.
The cute (and very pregnant) whiptail that runs out for worms each morning is now eating out of my hand. Orangelina certainly would, but I’m too respectful of her strong bony jaw and of my fingers to go there. She was happy to see me this morning, friendly, frisky. I feel I could have stroked her head, but did not take the liberty.
I went into the Bookmans location at Campbell and Grant the other day, after a gorgeous breakfast with Dustin, and who did I see behind the counter but William Foster Hillis, Cuban music expert and general man of style behind the library counter for the past 29 years.
I see him about once every four years, and each time, when I come in the door, or when he spots me in the store, a beatific look comes over his face, and he says, with a sigh, “At last!” and we chat for a while. I feel cherished at each encounter; of course I cherish him as well. He’s got an astounding collection of music, all beautifully categorized and cross-referenced. This is his Tumblr.
I picked up a great stock image of the Moon this week, but you know what I didn’t get from them for my $9? The photographer’s name.
They want me to credit the stock archive, rather than the artist. It’s so lame I can hardly comprehend it. But look, what a pretty Moon picture.
I am amused by the trumpeting of the discovery of a vast water ocean, lurking in a rock layer many hundreds of miles below the surface of Earth; I feel Jules Verne cackling from the grave.
Mentally, we rappel down lava tubes in Iceland together, coming finally to an underground sea, with a dim beach.
Bill says, “Oh, that old thing. We’ve known about it for a decade. And there aren’t any monsters.”