The wind seems to have blown the fog away for the most part, but it still looks like zombies should be walking past out there. And it feels like I'm getting a zit alongside my nose. I'm too old for zits. W-a-a-a-ay too old.
I'm determined to work on my writing today. To do something writer-y, to string a few words together in a new way, or fix a few more scene-cards in my rewrite. I have an appointment to get my nails done and then I have to go to Mom's to carry some O2 tanks from her car to her apartment, but once I'm done with that, I'm sitting right back down here and working, not surfing, not tidying things, working on writing. *gives one firm nod* And no whining.
March 12--Maluku Islands, Indonesia. The road is a narrow one, its surface a fine, gray dust that feels soft as powder when it's dry, and is slick and sticky all at once when it rains. The path it traces through the band of palm trees sways toward the sea in some places and veers inland in others. It seems that there is always a beckoning curve in the distance, a seductive wriggle that lures you onward. And then there's the fragrance, it's a blend of cloves, nutmeg, and mace that tickles your nose, drawing you along with a spicy promise. Sheila and Jack bounced along in the rental jeep that had been old at the turn of the century and its condition had not improved over the last ten years. The Indian man at the rental counter had assured them that this vehicle with its scabrous white and rust sides and non-existent windshield was "perfectly safe for a jaunt to the spice plantation just down the way." Just down the way, right, Jack thought as he fought to keep the jeep on the road. The lack of power steering and the busted out shocks made his forearms burn and his butt numb. It'd be God's own miracle if they made it to the spice place and back in one piece.
Yet another picture of a road I'd like to travel. What is it about those saucy curves in the distance that pulls you along?