mixed bag

In the mundane world, I had to take a flat tire to the shop for a repair.  While there, I unlimbered my laptop and carried on with the final re-write of the fourth and final Sanna novel.  This is magic, you know - carrying several entire books and a complete mail system in a pad small enough to tuck into a lady's bag,

The re-write wound up just about the time the repair was finished.  One tire had picked up a screw AND a nail.  When did I drive through a construction zone?  With all the work going on inside my head, I frequently need to remind myself to be here now.  I drove to the tire shop on auto-pilot.  Not a good thing to do.

As for the room in my head, the kitties are exploring and adventuring all over the dark corners, and vermin are running for their lives.  The extra lights are a big help.  Under the table are crammed boxes full of food:  Jello powder that has set up brick hard over the years;  Pickled quail eggs with the brine gone opaquely murky; Australian canned mutton left over from WWII.  Food is what Mom was all about.  She believed it was her job  to feed her family and friends, and it was the job of her friends and family to eat.  No wonder I have trouble keeping weight off.  I'm good at my job.

All the old food and old rules about it goes out the window.

 The next dust-sheeted mound turns out to be a Victorian era settee with gold brocade upholstery, just like mother loved.  I wouldn't have it in my house because all those carved and fretted bits of woodwork are a bitch to keep dusted, and the brocade shows marks if you even sit on it.  The seat is piled high with more mysterious boxes, and peculiar bundles are shoved underneath.  Linda, -  Amy, you guys would love each other.  Would you be willing to come help me with this?