All quiet on the western slopes.
Saturday evening and we had no plastic eggs, so I walked down to the Fred Meyer to get a half dozen or so imprinted with animal faces and pastel bags of Kit-Kats and sour jellybeans, and I ended up getting a bottle of bubbles, too, because why not. On the way there the sun had been setting, and when I left the store it was almost entirely down, and Hawthorne stretched up away ahead of me into the deepening gloom and at the head of it the far-off colonnade of the Seminary’s front porch catching the last of the light on the ankles of Mount Tabor—and just for a flash, the way you see these things, I saw it: a flickering winding line of candles held in sure and steady hands, a procession making its slow way up the paths there among the trees toward the long-dormant (but not dead) caldera, and I knew how it was all going to end. —Oh, no one’s doom was sealed at that point; those have long since been written down and sealed away in envelopes, days and dates, hows and whys. But what would be done about it, what it’s all going to do to the city: now, with that one glimpse, I know a little more.
Slowly, solely. —Less than a week from the 16th of April. Something will appear here then; something more will appear on days thereafter, but when exactly, which, I don’t know, nor whether it’ll all be done by the 27th as advertised, as promised, sloe, slew, slhoa.
So we’ll set the marker down, here: next week, Monday, April 16th, will see the online première of no. 18, “Dazzle,” with installments appearing, um. Pre-orders? I’ll get back to you on that.
It should all be wrapped up in plenty of time for the “Moon” to come in June. (And so forth; and so on.)
I will be places as well in the next little while. Perhaps I should mention them?
Stumptown and VanCAF will be joint appearances with the Spouse; Readercon and the PZS, I’ll be on my lonesome. I should have at least a couple of books and chapbooks at each of these, and also a warm smile and hearty handshake.
—posted 4399 days ago
