Today has been slow and langorous, tempered by the foul weather without, and punctuated by gourmet indulgences. For example, I have a french press steeping with Blue Mountain coffee as I type. I can lift my eyes at any moment and see the french press standing like a bronze R2D2 on the kitchen counter, the plunger raised high above it like a spike waiting to be driven down into its head. Its glass body is filled with pungent, deliriously delicious coffee, and soon I will take a cup. Or two.

Earlier, I had a cracked corner from a deliriously delicious chunk of dark chocolate. It was quite good, and sufficiently hard so as to resist immediate dissolution in my mouth, an organic sliver lying on my tongue for a full two minutes before I lost self control and chomped it down, mad-croc style.

Lunch was baked chicken onto which I upended the pan and drizzled clear, deliriously delicious fat onto. It was scrumptious, and was preceded by a small plate of lettuce, pineapple and cottage cheese. Delish and nutrish, as my old sensei used to proclaim whenever he stood over the felled body of an opponent.

Breakfast, you breath in breathless anticipation? I forget. It was too long ago, in another land, and besides, the wench is dead.

I’ve spent most of the day reading Auden (the poet, you fools, the poet!), focusing my energies and attention almost exclusively on his magnificent The Sea and the Mirror, which is his response to Shakespeare’s The Tempest. It’s really quite excellently excellent, and features great wit, change of voice, and rhyme schemes. Also, it flays open the Tempest, spreads its folds and reveals the sere and anguished double heart at its center. So take a gander, if you’ve got the nerve.

Also reading Caitlin R. Kiernan’s Low Red Moon, which is, as always, fabulously written (Poppy Z. Brite said of Ms. Kiernan that she ‘writes like a gothic cathedral on fire’, and it’s true, she does). The plot is advancing with pleasing rapidity, and it is steeped in Lovecraft, which always delights the delirious kids. Plus, Caitlin can write. Gott damerung can she write. I’m about halfway, and though at time she spends perhaps a little too long ruminating inside her character’s heads, a little too long examining their thoughts and reactions to every little thing, on the whole it’s proving to be a brilliant read. Avante!

And in finallium: I have begun a second blog entitled Ffrogwhist, wherein I write a short story each day based on the fragments generated by a steampunk dream machine. Take a look, if you have the time, and are not too inured to the power of beauty.