I need a vacation to recover from my vacation.

So, I took last week off work. (I'm lucky; I can do this.) It was meant to be a nice, quiet, stay-at-home vacation - a chance to get some rest, catch up on my reading, maybe play some video games, and get some writing done. Admittedly, there were also some useful/practical activities planned: sorting laundry, getting my car checked over, cleaning dishes, and like that.

The thing about vacations is that you're supposed to come out of them feeling relaxed and refreshed - or, possibly, tired but satisfied, in the wake of a particularly fun or interesting time. This time... not so much. I was exhausted when I went into the vacation, owing to the lovely game of Musical Diseases which has been a family pastime for waaaaaay too long now, and which finally caught up with me just as I started my shiny new vacation. And I'm just about that tired now; I think I slept about fourteen hours the night before last, and then another seven hours last night. It's not that I'm sick, exactly - it's more like I can't seem to completely recover from having been sick.

So, for most of my things-I-was-going-to-be-doing, what I actually accomplished was "some of it." Getting rest? Some of it. Catching up on my reading? Some of it. Playing video games? I started The Elder Scrolls: Oblivion, so - some of it. Sorting laundry? Some of it. Getting the car checked out? Done, but now I'm waiting on a replacement for the catalytic converter, so - some of it. Sorting laundry? Some of it. Actually, most of it.

The big exception is writing. Writing requires uninterrupted time and unbroken energy - at least for me. Maybe there are people out there who can just keep plugging away at their writing projects, and get decent results. Personally, if I don't have enough energy, then it's hard to be enthusiastic about whatever I'm working on - and if I'm not enthusiastic about writing it, odds are it's not going to be very interesting to read. So I end up with basically two choices: work on little things (like blog entries) while I wait for my energy to come back, or else dig in and refuse to do anything except rest and relax until I have enough energy to write. The second option, unfortunately, generally means putting off things that really need to be done - laundry, for example - and is further complicated by the existence of two boys who really want to spend time with their Daddy and/or really need to be supervised.

Which is why my progress on my longer writing projects has totaled about three sentences over the course of this week.

And so but anyway, I think I need a vacation to recover from my vacation. (I'm not holding my breath.) Meanwhile, here's a picture of one of the more compelling distractions in my life:

You can see why he's compelling, right?

Harduk The Slayer and the Ruins of Doom

The platform indeed held a ruined city... but in addition to empty and half-collapsed stone buildings, it held a swarming multitude of workmen. For a moment, Harduk thought that they must have come to loot the ruins -- he had known some treasure-hunters who used crews like this, though never one so large -- but it could not be so. Everything they were doing was entirely wrong.

Here, a group of men were using a wooden frame and a complicated system of ropes and pulleys to haul a stone entablature into place atop a series of columns. There, a stonecutter was chipping one corner off a rectangular stone block. And here, a sculptor was putting the finishing touches on a series of disturbing bas-reliefs atop a doorway. To one side there were piles of cut and quarried stone, neatly stacked against their eventual use, and beyond them a small city of tents that would house the workmen when they rested. These men were not looting; they were *building*.

A pair of men stood not ten paces away, consulting over a piece of parchment. From his place just below the top of the water stair, Harduk's wilderness-keen ears could pick out bits of their argument. It seemed to center on the proper position of a certain building in relation to a central boulevard. They spoke in the tongue of hard-working Pithya, which was known for its extensive public works projects.

Harduk considered for a moment longer, then rose and approached them. None of the workers were armed. Though less soft than most city people, they were laborers and artisans; he could see no warriors among them. He had never yet found a ruin in the wilderness that was safe, but he supposed there must be a first time for everything.

"...Can't let it block the Royal Way," the shorter man was saying. "Just keep the footprint small. Make it taller, instead. If the master asks, we'll tell him it's a grain vault."

"Guess we'll have to," agreed the taller man, who was stick-thin and wore the sleeveless robe of a Pithyan scholar. "Maybe we can leave off one wall, scatter some rubble..."

His words trailed away as he caught sight of Harduk. His companion turned with him, and Harduk observed broad shoulders above a broad gut. He wore a simple tunic and leggings, which were tucked into plain boots: the sort of man who had once been a laborer, and now led teams of them. "Listen, fellow," he said evenly. "I know it's hot out, and the work is hard; but keep your pants on, or I'll have to dock your pay. The Ma--"

Harduk frowned at him, an expression that conveyed a very strong impression of a gathering storm. "What transpires here, fellows?"

The two men exchanged a quick glance. "We're constructing a set of ruins on this island," said the taller scholar. "Very picturesque, don't you think?"

"You're not one of mine, are you?" put in the work-leader. "With the sword, I thought... but never mind. What brings you here, warrior?"

Harduk stopped, close enough to converse with them but not close enough to threaten. "A serpent grew scared during last night's storm," he said, "and clung to my ship for comfort. The ship did not survive. I did, and washed up here."

"A castaway?" asked the scholar, surprise evident on his face.

"You'll be wanting for food and drink, then," said the work-leader.

Harduk waved such considerations away. "Later," he said. "Just now, I would learn more of your purpose here. You are building these ruins?"

"Just so," said the scholar. He looked around with pride. "Aren't they lovely?"

"The world," Harduk said, "is full of ruins. Why add more?" In truth, he'd spent a good deal of his own life reducing various parts of the world to ruin, usually for pay, but sometimes for fun. This, however, was different. These ruins were meant to look ancient, though they were newly built. The very idea offended his sensibilities. If he couldn't trust ancient ruins to be the last remnants of vanished civilizations, how could he trust them to be full of fabulous treasures and incalculable dangers? Half his life had been spent pursuing such things, by accident or apurpose. Constructions such as this could ruin everything.

The work-leader shrugged. "Because we're being paid."

"If you want to know what they're for," said the scholar, "you'll have to ask the master."

"And where," Harduk asked, "is your master?"

The scholar glanced at the work-leader, but the work-leader just shrugged. "As it happens, he's right there."

Harduk turned and beheld a man in dark robes, inspecting a statue from which one of the artisans had just removed one extended wing. Even at a distance, there was a certain magnetic vitality about the man. Unlike the scholar, his robes had full sleeves and his belt appeared to be woven silver.

He glanced at them, then turned and strode away.

Harduk started after him.

"Don't kill him," called the work leader. "He's the only one who can call back our boat!"

Harduk nodded, but it was acknowledgment -- not agreement. By the cold wastes of Distractia, he would have answers from this man... and put an end to the making of these false ruins.

Some Days there's nothing to say...

Working on a writing project, so today I'm officially neglecting the blog. There are plenty of things going on - Halloween's coming up, my vacation is almost over, and pretty soon the holiday season is going to fall on my head like a ton of bricks - but I haven't a thing to say about any of that.

I do, however, have one big reminder: the Mock Gathering is tomorrow! I've had a few people tell me that they're planning to be there; I don't expect a huge group, but this is at least actually happening.

So, what's going on with you?

Ask the Hive Mind: Haunted Box of Switches

Okay, so... Barry Andrews (of Shriekback and various other projects) put out an album called Haunted Box of Switches.

It was released in the U.K., and this was back in 2003, which probably explains why the American version of Amazon doesn't seem to know it ever existed. Neither does iTunes. This is a source of considerable frustration to me, since I'd like to get a copy of it.

So, since the standard consumer channels have failed me, I turn to the Internet. Does anybody out there have a copy of this album, or know somebody who does? I'm okay with picking it up secondhand, though obviously I'd prefer to purchase it in some way that actually benefits the artist.

And while I'm at it, why the hell isn't Haunted Box of Switches more available? How the [Expletive Deleted] does an album like this appear and disappear before I even manage to discover its existence?

Cashews. (Gesundheit.)

Warning: Children are foul and disgusting creatures, capable of creating noxious effluvia that no sane or loving God would permit to exist. If you are in the least bit squeamish, you should perhaps reconsider your apparent intent to continue reading this post.

Cashews. The child wants cashews. The child has asked for cashews. Dear God... please... not the cashews. The very mention of the word (especially in that childish, quavering voice) fills me with existential dread. But how can I avoid the horror?

Look, I know what you're thinking. What's wrong with cashews? They're a perfectly good snack: tasty, filling, reasonably healthy. There are plenty of parents who would be grovelingly grateful to have their offspring ask for cashews instead of, say, Chocolate Covered Cheesy Poofs.

I understand that. Really, I do. But... well...

Okay, here's the thing: it's not the cashews. It's the child.

See, if Firstborn was asking for them, I'd be fine with it. But it's not Firstborn. It's Secondborn. And Secondborn isn't even two and a half yet. And... well... Despite his deep and heart-felt love of cashews, he can't actually digest them.

At all.

He chews them happily enough; they fill the emptiness in his tummy and bring a happy light to his eyes.

And a day or so later, I find them in his diaper. Their passage through the human body has not changed them. Stomach acid has not marred them. The varied flora and fauna of the intestines have found no purchase in their nutty composition.

They were cashews when he ate them, and they were cashews still when he pooped them out.

And that is why I fear the call for cashews.

Harduk The Slayer And The Hidden Stair Of Doom

Two hours later, Harduk stood at the edge of the stream. His belly was full, and his thirst was assuaged. What meat he hadn't eaten immediately, he had stuffed into a crude bag fashioned from the boar's hide.

Though occupied by one last task, Harduk remained wary. He listened to bird calls and slight movements in the trees. He looked back over his shoulder, at the fallen tree where he had made his meal, then across the stream to the trees on the far side. Upstream, the water was cold and clear, the flat stretch where he stood fed by a small waterfall made up of short, regular steps. Downstream, the water was warmer and faintly golden, though the current carried that away quickly enough.

Turning his head, Harduk looked again at the waterfalls. That series of steps seemed very regular -- almost too regular. As if...

Yanking his loincloth back into place, he followed the stream to the base of the falls. He was not imagining things. Either someone had cut steps into the streambed, or the water was following the course of some ancient stairway. He considered, but only for a moment: strange as they were, the steps were both a sign of civilization, and a path to higher ground. Mounting the stairs, he began to climb.

Tucked away in its narrow cleft, the water stair hid the rest of the island from him, but also kept him out of sight. Harduk considered that a fair trade. The way was slippery and irregular, worn by the steady passage of water, but Harduk's steps were swift and sure.

The ascent seemed to take hours, and indeed it was hours later that he began to hear voices over the constant trickle of running water. He slowed. Voices should mean people, but in his experience that wasn't always the case. Ahead, he could see a break in the steps: perhaps it was only another landing, but it seemed he had finally reached the top of this mountain. Harduk mounted the remaining steps as swiftly and silently as a tiger. Crouching just below the top, Harduk carefully raised his head above the edge.

He had half-expected to find himself looking at the city whose inhabitants had built these ancient stairs. And that was so, after a fashion. But...

"By the Grim King," he breathed. "What deviltry is this?"

Mock Gathering This Saturday

The long-awaited [1] and much-lauded [2] gathering of friends [3] of the blog is scheduled for this coming Saturday! Be there, or... well... be somewhere else, I guess. But I hope you'll be there. I promise, I don't have footnotes in person.

There will be signs with pics of Cuddles The Zombie Velociraptor on the table, so we shouldn't be too hard to find.
This isn't any sort of themed event; I'd just like to catch up with friends and iFriends, and maybe meet some of you in person (if we haven't already). So if you're in the area and it sounds like fun, please come by.

Time & Date: Saturday, October 13, 1:00 - 5:00 p.m.
Location: Trinity Hall at Mockingbird Station off Central Expressway (Highway 75).
Who's Invited: Anyone who's in the area (or happens to be passing through) and thinks this sounds like fun. Children are welcome (mine will almost certainly be there).

 See you there!

[1] ...at least by me...
[2] ...ditto...
[3] ...real and imaginary...