Frustrating

I'm just not hitting my stride on this whole writing thing this week. I like a routine, my inner-Hitler likes order and regimentation, and this week of guests, extra days off, celebratory meals and other non-everyday stuff has just kicked my ordered life into a cocked hat. Not that I'm really complaining, you understand, because I adore having my son and daughter-in-law around and I'll miss them when they're gone again, I'm just venting a bit.

Sonny boy and I went to see the new Harry Potter movie yesterday afternoon after a completely off-diet lunch of cheeseburger and fried cheese curds at Kroll's. Durwood and Sonny boy had chocolate malts too but I couldn't go that far, because I was planning on Milk Duds at the movie. I shared a few with my date, but only a few. The movie was pretty good, not as good as the book of course, but I do understand that there's no way in hell they could put all the subtle nuances and subplots in a movie, although I miss a lot of the little things that makes the stories so rich and fun to read.

Now for writing.
August 6--The Limbourg Brothers, April: Courtly Figures in the Castle Grounds. Emmaline gazed at the row of arched paintings that reminded her of the Stations of the Cross paintings in Meemaw's church, only these were much more colorful and cheerful than those. She liked the way the artists played fast and loose with perspective so that the viewer had a view down into the walled garden behind the foreground tower and yet showed you the castle in the distance too. It gave the experience of looking at them a kind of fun house-y, off-balance feeling that Emmaline thought was a nice change from all the serious art hung around there. She also liked the Zodiac figures arching across the top; it made it feel less like religious art which usually gave her a cramp over its hypocrisy.

I'm always happy when I find more parts of Emmaline's story. One of these days I'll collect them all and do something crazy with them, like add them to the rest of it.

August 7--Austrian School, A Viennese Cafe--The Chess Player. They were there every day without fail, at the same table, even in the same clothes. He supposed, by their intensity, that they thought of them as their lucky clothes. He hoped that they had multiple pairs of those same socks, solid red for the man he thought of as "the professor" in his gray three-piece suit, and red with yellow spots for the one he called "the jester" in his frock coat, striped pants, and amazing yellow shoes. Outside the window looking in was "the fan club," three be-hatted men with obviously nothing better to do that watch the gyrations of the chess players through plate glass. The one fan in the rear even went so far as to record the moves. Perhaps he wrote a chess column for some obscure Viennese newspaper. When his current assignment was completed, the watcher thought he might miss the small silent drama of this game. Right now it was time for him to move, his quarry had just passed the fan club on his way to work.

Ooh, spies. I miss the Cold War, but only for the spy stories.
--Barbara