It's supposed to be the biggest 4th of July parade in the country, and it goes past a block from my house. I sit in the shade in the front yard and watch people schlep coolers and chairs and kids and umbrellas over to University Avenue. They glare at me, sitting there in my rocking chair and sipping my iced tea.

I used to watch the parade, but the shade is preferable to the sun on the sidewalk. I can hear the bands just fine, and my favorite part of the parade comes to me.

The warplanes from Hill Air Force Base and the local airport rip the air right above my house. Sometimes I can hear them coming, sometimes it's only the movement against the mountains that warns me as the planes outrace the scream of their engines.

Hubby wanders outside after the last plane. "What was that third one that came over?"

"Let's see, we had the fighters in the Missing Man formation ..."

"F-16s."

"Then the World War II fighter..."

"Something with an Allison engine."

"The third one was a pair of trainers, I think."

"I knew it was multi-engine something."

"Then two biplanes."

"Stearmans."

"And, of course, the B-17."

"I knew that one."

He nods and toddles back inside. I watch the late arrivals stream along the sidewalk trying to catch enough of the parade to make all the effort worth it. I hear the B-17 circling the valley to head back up to Ogden and the base. In how many other countries can warplanes streak low over a city and be greeted by laughter?

Surprisingly, my depictions of murder and mayhem suck. Depressed now. I can't believe I have so much to learn about guns and spatter, but I do.

Damn. First eighty pages of "Matty" edited for pacing - the first third of the book is always the part that needs pacing checks after it's done.

But why do I feel as if I've got nothing done?

That ain't nothin', deb. Keep at it.

So I thought I'd post a pre-drabble-flurry bit. I wanted to say that the drabbles are still wonderful. And I find myself writing with much more ease and much less grumbling these days. Even if I'm still doing squat with anything, it's really good to be writing again.

--- the muse stirs

the muse stirs
she hears the call
a silver voice
drips
promises of relief
like dewdrops from her fingertips

to a dying man
panting in the heat
parched and starving lying
on the cracks of hell
he will not survive
this desert without inspiration

motivation
to arise with aching bones
and troubled head
to pour out the fire and passion
that is boiling in his soul
so that

she may quench it
in her eyes like inkwells
deeper than desperation
and more cool
she laughs
and blinks a velvet eye

and suddenly he sees
that the muse stirs
and he puts pen to paper
and writes

Oh, Liese, how lovely!

(psst, the eighty pages is now 220 pages, but I still have 140 pages to edit and a new piece to write)

You're making good progress. I always admire your work ethic.

And thanks.

If all that nonsense with the car-towing idiots hadn't come up yesterday, I'd be done, or close to it. Thank heavens I'm still roughtly seven months ahead of when this needs to be submitted....

Yeah, I was going to mention the still-ahead-of-schedule bit, but I figured since it was your schedule, you probably knew. Heh.

I can't believe the car-towed-idiots. Amazing, the gall, the temerity, the clipboard.

It was "see, you caused us a PROBLEM" 'tude that got me. Welcome to the Age of Anomie, people....

It's like the opposite of empathy. Let me see how I can take anything from your viewpoint and make it totally about me. And how, since I am the center of the universe, I have but to react to these external things that dare to interact with me. Because YOU of course, could cause trouble for ME, but it is inconceivable that I could cause trouble for YOU, much less, that I could cause trouble for myself.