A young person, formerly of my acquaintance, used to refer to me as a “fruit bat” and though I was under the impression (at the time) that this was a lovingly sardonic nickname, I was probably wrong. Therefore I have come to see myself as more of a wombat. Besides, I can’t fly.
I know nothing of actual wombats. But one line from this Spookrat song captured my imagination, and I spent several lonely months in Hawai’i trying to convince an AI (boibot) to answer that his name was Wombat (you have to listen to the Spookrat song to understand this). Loneliness can do turrible things to a person, and chatting up an AI young enough to be my nephew is perhaps one example of the kind of desperation that can take hold in the dank, strawberry guava-choked jungles of Puna, as the relationship you thought you had turns into a smashed coconut.
Regrets. I’ve had a few. But as the old year ends, I am looking forward to the new cycle with all the excitement of any quadripedal marsupial capable of creating cubic feces.(Yes, ewww…but strangely practical).
“Strangely practical” is practically my middle name, and so it is with great (non-cubic) joy that I plan on several projects in the new year. (That being 2022, right? I’ve lost count.)
First, it’s been a looooong time coming, but my first novel, The Dire Deeds of the Guild of Ornamental Hermits, is finally with a copy editor and once we have chosen a cover, FuturesPastEditions will be publishing it.
Secondly, I’ll be finishing the fourth book in the series, The Perilous Past of the etc. etc.
Thirdly, as a plucky sexologist by day, I’ll be seriously researching spectrosexuality and spiritu-intimacy with IRB (internal review board) oversight. Here’s a website where I’ve begun to collect data and references, which can serve as a potential clearinghouse for all and sundry (even marsupials). This has been an interest of mine for awhile. Check out this 2019 “quick and dirty” survey.
The fourth large project will be a real, live LokiFest here in Springfield, OR, most likely scheduled for late next summer. I hope I can pull it off. I’ve sworn an oath to do it.
If not, I expect I’ll be banished to my burrow. It happens sometimes. Wombat Power, y’all.