One of those torturous writing mornings where nothing comes and everything feels shit. Still seeking that small detail.., that rhytmic manifestation of something... a pervasive thought that there's a flaw in my thinking WRT this story that I can't yet see… meanwhile: K off with her sixth graders to Camp Plague, outdoor activities and such. Omnipresent worry for the next couple of days; I'm sure that the Camp Plague departure is at least somewhat to blame for said feelings of writing-shit.

Growing mild to moderate obsession with the 1916 German version of PHANTOM OF THE OPERA, the first film adaptation of Leroux's story; never knew it existed – and, apparently, none of it does; it’s considered longlost – until I fell into a rabbit hole when the words weren't coming. (At least I learned something.)

Speaking of learning something: my hometown has reached the national stage for one of its own being the asshole who assaulted an MSNBC reporter covering Hurriance Ida; perhaps worth noting that, in a description of a crime previously committed by said asshole, the article included the following: "Surveillance showed that he drilled into tanks containing sodium cyanide, hydrochloric acid, yellow chromate, ferrous chloride and sulfuric acid, the news site reported."

Keeping tradition a part of our future, indeed. The day awaits.