Good weekend here in San Francisco.
I walked Twin Peaks this morning again, and saw absolutely no wildlife, but did manage to compose
What the hell was Carl Sandburg on about
With the fog and the cat’s feet
Here in Baghdad by the Bay
Fog is the wind’s teeth
Or maybe a caul
Drawn over the dreaming mouth
Of the city
It comes roaring out of the west
With jaws that bite
And claws that snatch
Seizing me as it passes
Within its frumious bandercatch
Her wordcount was on Our Lady of the Islands, mine on a short story called “Torquing Vacuum” that I’m writing for the heck of it. Blue collar SF set in the Sunspin continuity.
In that moment, Spanich suddenly wondered what it was he’d found so alluring about Austen. Sure, the kid was smoking hot, like fire in an oxygen plant, but had he never noticed how dumb Austen was. Maybe some dirtball farmer wouldn’t know the difference, but how could anyone survive in an orbital habitat and be so ignorant of the basic etiquette of ships and shipminds? The kind of ignorant that got people spaced out an airlock, or their breathing license erased from the station records.
“Look….” Spanich felt obscurely deflated and betrayed. “Don’t worry about Mare Ibrium. The captain-owner’s wife is in command this trip, and she’s deep-fried trouble on a fuckstick, if you catch my datastream. Let’s have a drink and, I don’t know, go dancing. Forget about starships, kid. They never mattered to you before, did they?”
Austen shrugged and smiled. The wattage seemed to have gone out of his expression, but maybe that was just Spanich. “I need something, Dommie. Something only you can help me with.”
“Only me, huh?” The words just slipped out of his triple-shift exhausted mouth. “And that’s why you’re sucking down a thousand-thaler drink on my tab? To get in good?”
Flying back to Portland this afternoon.
Onward through the day.