Echoes in a Hollow Space

Random quote of the day:


"Crime is the soul of lust. What would be pleasure if it were not accompanied by crime? It is not the object of debauchery that excites us, rather the idea of evil."

—Marquis de Sade, letter to his wife, quoted in “Must We Burn Sade?” by Simone de Beauvoir





So many more interesting images I could have used for Sade, but I must keep things "family friendly" for posting here at work.



( Illustrated version. )



Disclaimer: The views expressed in this random quote of the day do not necessarily reflect the views of the poster, her immediate family, Siegfried and Roy, Leonard Maltin, or the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. They do, however, sometimes reflect the views of the Cottingley Fairies.

After a 1500 word sprint today, chapter 25 is in the bag. Once I got over my whining, this one came together really fast. I'm not sure one of the characters is a fully rounded human being, and I'm not sure whether the latest plot tangent may be a bit too tricksy, but that's for worrying about in the second draft.

And I'd just like to say, God bless the heat when the gorgeous shirtless men go jogging.

A Tale of Two Joggers:

♥

Sunday I went shopping with The Mom. We made the turn off Alla Road onto the Marina Freeway and there was this little old dude jogging down Culver Blvd. wearing nothing but baggy navy swimming trunks. Brown as a berry, a fine crop of snowy hair all over his back and chest, hanging down from his chin and blowing on top of his head—though a little thin up there. In this heat, I worried for his health because there wasn't a lick of shade to be found anywhere around there, but he looked like he did this kind of thing every day. Very buff for an ancient mariner, really in quite good shape—but jogging real slow and heading out on a part of Culver that's isolated as it heads towards the bridge over Lincoln Blvd. and on into the wetlands. Eventually, if he kept heading that way, he'd make it to the beach at Playa del Rey.

Maybe two hours later I'm heading back down Culver on my way home from mom's place in Westchester—and there's the ancient mariner in almost exactly the same place I saw him before near the Marina freeway, only jogging the other way. Same pace, slow and steady, but much sweatier—and his navy trunks are seriously wet. I didn't know, actually, if he was just that sweaty of if he'd taken a dip somewhere. I was definitely hoping for the latter.

♥♥

Driving home last night, a tall, handsome young man with shoulder-length dark blonde hair, tan, great body—really well-cut pecs, and abs that were nice, but not too overdone, if you know what I mean...What was I saying? Oh, nothing to report there. He just gave me the shivers, that's all. In a good way. Handsome Guy jogged on the shady side of the street, unlike the ancient mariner.

Things I thought of blogging today: A rant on how Carly Simon sings all her songs at the same bland, plain vanilla emotional pitch with not a thought in her head as to what the lyrics say. And something about the good ol' gals of jazz singing like Etta Jones and Nina Simone and Judy Garland.

Why I didn't blog it: I'm cranky and shouldn't be let that far off the lease.

Cliché du jour: "Gwyddog and all who stand with him will feel my wrath! It's just like writing for TV, folks!

Do you ever ask yourself, "Who the hell snuck into my novel and wrote that bilge?"