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8 July 2000

When I leave Ma's and turn my face towards home now, it's Sagittarius that twinkles above the treetops directly ahead. Until tonight, there have been green fireflies twinkling, too. But the air has turned quite chilly and the fireflies are keeping warm somewhere...

Work is sucking me dry. I knew this would happen. It always does. There's no creativity left after a day working with computers. Maybe it has something to do with left/right brain activity... I work with intellect all day, solving problems-- but the solutions to the problems require a great deal of creativity and intuition, so, is it that I am spending all my creativity? Or is it that I am at odds with it? I don't know anymore. I do know that this always happens when I work full time.

Today I refused to work. I read. I read the final Inspector Morse novel, The Remorseful Day, by Colin Dexter. I've always rather liked Morse, and I approached the reading of this book with some trepidation. Not a lot, but some-- I have a tendency not to trust authors. But, the thing about Morse is this: he has always seemed mortal-- alive. Unlike other characters who never suffer from any but trifling human ailments. No, Morse has always been quite human. When he drinks, his body suffers. And the effects accumulate. Morse changes over the cousre of the novels. Morse lives.

Lived. Morse's death didn't really come as a surprise, not to those who knew him. It seemed a logical and natural conclusion. Inevitable.

I feel as if I was reading stories about a real person, living a real life. Colin Dexter deserves some tribute for that, I think. Well done, sir.


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