Soderbergh's Solaris while doing my laundry tonight, which I thoroughly enjoyed regardless of it being a protracted episode of any number of Star Trek iterations. Good science fiction can accomplish a number of things, not the least of which being a way to ask existential questions not as easily framed in our current reality. But you knew that already.
I've been working, and coming home from work, and playing instruments and watching things and reading and spending way too long each night trying to get to sleep. Snow to the point of inhibiting activity is bad enough, but it's coming at the worst time of year for me. The time when my general distaste for winter blossoms into a petulant, impatient loathing. Everything is buried under a whitewash and it's getting difficult to remember what it's like to drive barefoot and sleep with a window open. Just fucking be over already.
But there's a light, as there always is. Over the past week or two I've been watching as potential activity slowly begins to fill my spring and early summer, with little of my own prompting or control. If it's to the point that it exceeds what I can hold in my random access memory and I have to start keeping a calendar to avoid double-booking, that counts as notable. In the short term there's Bella Morte things happening these next two weekends: The Southern on Saturday, and then we're leaving for Con Nooga late next Thursday. And more other-things after that, which I'll undoubtedly bring up as they get closer.
For now it's a matter of keeping my sanity until there is green and sun and sweat again. I wonder if this room just needs a plant.
- I'm dreaming of a white desert