in memory of Mike

elisem has a post about Mike and the Minneapolis Public Library, and the soon-to-be John M. Ford Memorial Endowment Fund, which is so fitting and beautiful that I'm crying again, and I hate crying while I type.

I am finding that most of my memories of Mike are gestalt memories rather than specific memories: the instantly recognizable intonation of the "ANYway ..." he used to signal he'd finished a digression and was coming back to the topic ostensibly under discussion; the way he'd appear periodically at Elise's table in the dealer's room, just to check in with her; Ask Dr. Mike, complete with white coat and microphone; and, most germane to this, I've got a beautiful clear image of Mike in a Minneapolis bookstore, patiently trawling the shelves, bulky coat, bag, ponytail, eyebrows, and all.

I only got to go bookstore trawling with him once, but I've got that memory. And I love having it, and I love him for having been Mike.

And I hate crying while I type.

put one foot in front of the other

Yesterday, I got through Chapter 1 of The Mirador. This isn't as exciting as it sounds, because I'd done a largish chunk of the work some day a week or two ago. However, still. Chapter 1. 33 pages.

So to meet my minimum necessary quota for today, I need to get through 10 pages. More is better, but let's start with 10.

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Greenhorn spoofs on timekeeping in Mélusine. (For anyone else who's feeling the same way, allow me to point you to the explanation on my website.)