Dismantle the Sun

It's Saturday, the sun is shining and it is the perfect temperature outside with a slight breeze blowing in to keep it from getting too hot. And what am I doing? Ignoring it. Sitting on my couch, surrounding by books on the Regency period, Historic English Homes, Word Painting, notebooks and pens, and ignoring the sun. Occasionally I'll glance out my big picture window and glare at the brightness, almost wishing it would rain so I wouldn't feel so guilty about spending such a beautiful day cooped up inside. I could go out I suppose, but to be frank (or Sally if you prefer), I don't want to. I want to stay on my couch and work on my outline. While others are planning activities that celebrate the warmth and the sunshine, I am quite content to crawl inside the magical world I've created in my head and ignore it completely. I am obviously, without a doubt, completely insane. People have been telling me this for years, but the truth of the matter is just now sinking in.

I spent last night updating my website. I rewrote the blurb for Desire & Brimstone and added the blurb for Saving Grace, Book 2 in the Widowed Wives Series. I added two book excerpts to my excerpts page and hope to get the other three done sometime in the next week.

As for today, I plan on ignoring the sun for as long as humanly possible and continue working on my formatted outline for D&B. In the meantime, I'll leave you with this, one of my favorite poems by W. H. Auden that I stole today's installment title from (any of you movie buffs might remember it being read during the funeral in Four Weddings & A Funeral):

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message, He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;'
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood
For nothing now can ever come to any good.