schemata spatula
Each morning it seems a little surprising that the earth is still here, that I can still breathe and perceive, that the slapdash machinery of body and brain didn't just fall apart overnight. Almost ten thousand days it's been running. And there's probably twice that to go, unless one of those planes really does fall from the sky.
For those who are interested in this novel, I am nearing the end of the first half and plotted out the second half last night. It makes sense to me. I know how it will end. It's a really weird book in several respects but, thus far (and this is honestly surprising), a good book—I don't want to jinx it, but after a hundred single-spaced pages I haven't yet fucked up my conception. Which is more than I can say for anything else I've written.
There are four parts. You probably all know that the Maya, like most if not all Mesoamerican cultures, had/have a strong conception of a four-pointed universe aligned to the cardinal directions. So the four parts are called:
South is not quite finished, but West ought to be shorter than the others, so I'd say the book is about half written. It ends with West since that is the direction of the setting sun, associated with the color black and with death. Oh yes, of course this is a cheerful book. I mean, it's Guatemala.
