Burning Angels: Ballard and Vance

Strange juxtapositions to come back to after two weeks: the Jack Vance anthology (mine is either among the strongest or weakest in there, depending on various reports) and the best of Ballard, along with some stones from Shirley Jackson.Odd coming back after two weeks of such intensity and non-stop work, living in a little ivy-strewn cottage with two old dogs outside to greet me whenever I left or came back. Good company in the form of Ann and Holly Black, and then Tobias Buckell, Will Hindmarch, and Darin Bradley along with faculty, TAs, RAs, the students, and others. Some days it seemed like I'd been there a million years. Other days like it was a single moment.The flight into Atlanta was nuts. In the middle of bad weather, the pilot seemed to come in at the wrong angle and we pulled up groaning at the last second and came back around to try again--and got it right this time. Followed by a creaky flight to Tallahassee and back into the known world.With a Wilco song in my head and an image that came to me during the almost-crash: of an angel with flaming wings burning through the aisle, trailed by a flickering, inexorable komodo dragon, smelling of rotted meat. Fodder for the story I'm working on called "Komodo."Other inspirations, too, to go with the perspirations--like the woman in the airport bar who bought the meals of soldiers headed out to Afghanistan. Or the other woman who had missed her flight because she'd been transfixed by a really good jazz pianist. It happens. It happens all the time. (Although it really shouldn't.)Back now and trying to find the point and the focus again--even as I have to submerged for the next few mornings to work on the top sekrit project with native species and deal with other stuff in the afternoons. Time for Ann to take the router again.