I particularly like the title of this one. I believe William Gibson has a dvd of his random ramblings that's entitled Familiar Territory, which doesn't make my title any less worthy. I haven't strayed from familiar territory much at all, but right now I'm considering the possibility. Just doing something that I've not done before, talking to someone I normally wouldn't, and so on. Like the goth girl on the bus. People like that make me wonder what their motivations are for doing the things they do. It's always when you don't have time that you wish for changes and possibilities to open up in front of you.
It's sometimes quite frustrating how a single comment in conversation can make you lose all interest in writing out your thoughts. .......I like ellipses. Hmm. I've been sending out a few emails to people I needed to email, and not getting replies is annoying. I realize that people are busy and that not everyone checks their email as much as I do. But not getting replies makes me feel like I'm tossing message bottles into the vast emptiness of cyberspace.
He pulled the blade from the scabbard, the weight reassuring in his hands as he turned the sword, looking over the steel for scratches and nicks. Found none, and slowly dragged the oiled rag over the three feet of dusky steel. The forms had come slowly today; he was out of practice. Cleaning Sorrow always put him into a meditative state of mind. It was a time to contemplate the day's events and think over tomorrow's. He poured a trickle of oil down the blade, wiped it down smoothly, working it into the metal. It was almost zen, the cleaning of weapons, especially at twilight when day turned to night and the colors all faded to grey. He polished Sorrow until she shone, gleaming with all the grace a thing made to kill others could gleam with. He sighed at the memory of the girl. Her blue eyes and her smile. It always came back to that, in the end. Always. Stumbling through life, unsure in that aspect no matter what happened. Always unsure, and uncertain. Whatever happens, happens, he told himself. As if the phrase solved anything. He emptied his mind and focused on the moment. Oil and wipe. Careful attention to the crossguard and the pommel, the bottom of the blade where it met the guard...
Revisiting the Red Howlers
2 years ago