The things up so far come from being in Kentucky. I sat around on Thanksgiving weekend, back in that deathtrap of a room of mine, writing beneath the whine of my ceiling fan which hasn't worked since the summer of '96 and which has, for the last five months, began to make noises like a poltergeist and scare my superstitious brother into the next room. Having slept on the couch which is now his bed for an entire summer, I decided I'd need to run into this creature which took my braver sibling away from the infinitely more comfortable smokey mattress in my room.
The room is being excavated (I use that verb deliberately and with full impact implied) for my uncle, who hopes to move in before next summer, and all manner of boxes and things are piled on what used to be my bed. Fortunately, I have pulled down an old mattress dating from some unthinkable era and created a nest amid the glorious ruin of the original Purple Moon (see the title page info and the section about the author). I don't mind the broken ceiling fan now that I know it can be stopped; my brother neglected to tell anyone that he broke the pull-chain, which could shut off the efforts of the motors to rotate. But if and when I fix it, I'm keeping that little secret from him, if only to hold onto my old room for another few weeks, wherein I will write and read like my old high school days and pretend, just for a while, that the past four years have never happened, for good or ill.