I don’t want to work.
Instead, I’ve got a nagging desire to try and write some short fiction loosely based on several old-school songs. Not one piece, but a series of pieces inspired by those lyrics. At this particular moment, I’m interested in a mentally roughed-out ideas for some Siouxsie, early Cure and maybe some Bauhaus or Sisters of Mercy. Mostly Siouxsie because autumn is officially underway and October is just around the corner. October means All Hallows Eve and Samhain and, as such, I have always associated Siouxsie and the Banshees with October.
It might be because the Queen of Goth (“I’m not Goth!” she declared, thereby confirming her status as the Goth Queen) has written lyrics for a number of creepy songs (when you get down to actually reading the lyrics), including more than a few about October or about subject associated with October.
I also think of Ray Bradbury during this time and how his ghost is probably smacking me upside the back of my head and telling me that I don’t write nearly enough, and asking me how can I expect to write my own Something Wicked This Way Comes if I don’t write, write and write. [This is contrary to the perception I’m sure I left behind after yesterday’s post.] Or October Country (which incidentally makes me annoyed that someone took that as a band name before I could for one of my various bands, along with October People). Lovecraft would just shake his head and have me consumed by a room with odd angles with the help of a cat sporting a human face.
Instead, I have ahead of me a day of reviewing technical SOPs (Standard Operating Procedures) for either a vast number of stylistic and technical corrections or for no changes at all. Maybe placing a sampling jar order with a laboratory for some environmental samples. If I’m lucky, I get some more research requests for substances containing PFAS to determine how much could be in them based on Safety Data Sheets that companies frequently enter “Trade Secret” on their ingredient lists instead of a meaningful chemical.
All that, when I would rather write about the kids breaking into an abandoned house on Dayton’s Bluff in Saint Paul that the neighborhood calls the “Witch House”, in search of reputed treasure and magical artifacts. Those stories rarely end well.
Especially when you toss in a beckoning voice coming from cradle bars.
And a not very October thought, but more fitting to this post: