So, the day-job. Busy today, in a non-frenzied way. I had, alas, hoped to have time to write some correspondence, so I could write fiction when I came home. Alas, no correspondence written at work, so — no Ghost Ship words at home.
Man, I need a wife.
Have I mentioned here that I subscribed to Pandora and set up Radio Rolanni? The mix of music is, um, eclectic. Today, I not only heard “Bad” by Kristy MacColl, immortalized in the title, but two different versions of “Night on Bald Mountain.”
The repeat didn’t bother me; I like “Night on Bald Mountain.” What was. . .interesting was a point of execution.
For those who don’t know the story, there is a “witches sabbath” taking place on Bald Mountain, and it’s just as noisy and as raucous as you’d imagine, what with the demons, and the rum, and the demon rum, and the karaoke, and kids today, where will it all end? At one point during the night, a church bell suddenly sounds, and the whole party falls Dead. Silent. as if the witches and their demon dates are looking over their shoulders for Mom, or maybe the Yeti, before they resume their revelries.
In today’s first version, which was done by a Russian orchestra of some flavor, the church bell is like the silver tone you might get from a bell on the harness of an elf lord’s mount, so impossibly frail and distant that the party on the mountain couldn’t possibly have heard it. The fact that they did, and for a moment stopped, was. . .unexpectedly moving.
The day’s second offering was from the Chicago Orchestra. Their church bell sounded like an axe. No way you’re missing that baby, it don’t matter how high you got the karaoke box dialed. And it was not as moving. In Chicago, the church is a contender — a player. In Russia, it’s a pretty fantasy, regarded, perhaps, for the memory of its power, which is now fading.
So, that’s what I got today. Tomorrow is more day-job, then a three-day weekend. Monday, I start back full-time. Maybe I’ll have a writing blitz on the weekend and finish that first draft.
It could happen.