Journals of a Disc-Trotter

       April 16^th, 2024

           My new story idea is coming along. “All The World’s A Rage” might be the best thing I’ve written so far. I think people will like the title. It’s a kind of play on words from one of those quotes that everybody knows but we don’t really know where they came from. But hey, a good idea is a good idea. I’m sure the title will lead me to some cool ideas and characters. Something about how crazy the world is these days. Will check back in after meeting my word count for the day.

           Writer’s block strikes again. I just couldn’t figure out how to put the pieces together today. But you know what they say, if you can’t write, read. Somebody said that, probably. So, I went to the local bookshop and asked for a recommendation for a fun read just to get my imagination going. They gave me some book about a flat earth and a turtle and weird colors. I don’t know how this is going to go, but I’ll give it a shot. Anyway, heading to bed to see if this book is for me. Goodnight, me.

           April 17^th, 2024

           I barely remember anything I read of that book, but I had the strangest dream. I dreamed of a vast sea of stars atop various other meteor-pocked celestial bodies, which crawled along the shores of the void on hydrogen-frosted flippers all toward the same place to meet and give birth to a new universe. And it was all narrated by some snarky David Attenborough with a light lisp snickering about a Big Bang. That’s probably to be expected of a flat-earther. Weird dream. But it does give a few ideas. “Clash of Turtles”, maybe? They were titanic. It could work. I’ll have to mull it over.

           I’ not sure this is the way to go, either. I tried to start strong with a battle scene to really kick off the story, but after my 1,000 words their necks all got tired of holding their beaks up and just started waiting for the enemy to come to them. Turtles aren’t known for their clashing prowess. They win wars by sheer force of apathy. After a century of geological patience, all their enemies are long dead. Then all they need to worry about is the Clash of the Lichens on their backs.

           I’ll try again tomorrow. Time for bed.

           April 23^rd, 2024

           I passed by a lavender bush today and for some reason the air about it felt strangely greasy and had an almost tinny aroma. It was quite relaxing, though. If it weren’t in someone’s front yard, I’d have plucked some for tea. It’d probably taste horrid, but bad experiences can make for good stories.

           Trying again at the “All The World’s A Rage” idea, and it’s just not working. The whole thing just seems too Two-Dimensional. The characters, the premise, the whole world of it is just flat. Maybe I need to take a step away from it, not try so hard. I think I’ll go to the kitchen and make something for myself. They say the best ideas can hit you while you’re doing the dishes. Someone said that at least once, I’m sure. Of course, it would probably have been a man. We’re the only ones who need a reason to wash our own dishes. Because, for some reason unknown even to us, not eating off the crust of yesterday’s slop isn’t good enough. Now. What to have tonight? Let’s see… That cheese wheel of a moon is making me think pizza.

           May 5^th, 2024

           Good morning, me. Dreadful pizza last night (you get a gold star for effort, and I’ve earned a Purple Heart for my sacrifice), but it’s given me an idea. Since I’m not having any luck with Chelonian passions or lazy Shakespeare rip-offs, I’m going to go for something completely different. While stubbornly nibbling from rim to hub at my malformed bread disc, I thought I probably need to learn a few recipes before I die of malnutrition or gastrointestinal obstruction. And then it came to me. The Necro-Omnomnomnicon: The Cookbook of the Dead. Think of all the different ways to prepare and enjoy a fresh frontal lobe, or how to make a decent Cerebellum Crème Brule. Grandma, wherever she is, would be so excited with the idea she’d practically write the book herself. I wish I could phone her up and ask what her tastes are these days, rest her soul. Hm. Maybe there’s a book for that, too.

           It’s me. I just had a thought. I may not be able to phone her up, but I *can* invent my own granny to write up this ridiculous book. She would be the kindly old woman of the neighborhood who insists on feeding and bloating up everyone who comes by and regularly leaves Parietal pies cooling on her headstone sill. Granny Shirley Morton – Nanny Shirl, the old girl, is going to have her dishes spread to every graveyard and every catacomb and every burial mound the world over. Assuming they can read. Which raises an important question: after the process of decomposition has taken our finer motor skills, do we all speak the same dead language? In absence of any authority, and being the only authority on my own fancies, I’ll say ‘yes’. And now I’m off to work it out, while the skillet’s still hot.

           May 11^th, 2024

           We both know who it is, so let’s skip that part. A strange thing happened last night. As I was working out the recipe for Pons a la Mort, I could swear I heard something outside my window. It was a sound like the opening and closing of a sarcophagus lid, if sarcophagi could sigh longingly. It put me a bit on edge, so I went off to bed to avoid any more cryptic intrusions. And while I was drifting off between planes of consciousness, the sound came again, only clearer this time. It seemed to lean over to my untethered consciousness and, in a tone like a child being asked what he would like for supper, said simply, “ANYTHING WITH CURRY?” I’m not entirely sure what it means, but I’ll consider it a good omen.