Sunshine Shogunate: from another discarded thing, this time a discarded action screenplay about a very tough-minded woman.

Ideas everywhere, popping like it was movie night; but no ideas for the novels today, after 2000 words or so yesterday, that 2000 spread liberally across three novels.

I even had time to read about science trying to understand God, and the philosophy of the mind paragliding past creation and simply trying to plug holes in a flooded dyke.  

Perhaps, Underhill said, we see something of God in ourselves, as we were made in His image, as we are imperfect likenesses of our Creation Father.

In that I was thinking something of heresy, Caitlyn Heresy, or something of that nature, hanging from the ceiling, or asking someone else to hang from the ceiling, upside down, like in the Spiderman movie with Kirsten Dunst.

She didn't die; I saw her in the desert working as a waiting person at the roadside diner on the edge of forever.  She had a limp from previous exploits, fighting her way out of the bad place, going toe-to-toe, once shot in the leg, home once shot-up, too.

I thought it kind of heroic that her fame after was anonymity and a menial job; it was a living.

She slipped me a letter, and I knew she didn't write it in those moments when I was there, and I knew she didn't write it for me, either, but anyone from Chatham, anyone at all with the commonality.

She gave it to me willingly.

I wiped my mouth with a thin paper napkin, slyly with the other hand putting her paper in my breast pocket, to sit next to me heart: that Mike Morris's heart, not Michael Pitt's heart from that movie.  Decorum, people.

As I paid the check, she was serving tables, and then, as I was going out the glass door, I could hear her shuffle step as she carried plates or ketchup bottles or something towards the back.

It was so awfully hot, I had microwave egg rolls on the dashboard heating in the sun; they too began to sweat, like me, my feet getting the false-chill from being sweat-damp, sort of the opposite of frostbite, in the heathen jungle of the desert wastes.

"I had about me an empire, but now, conspirer?--

Look upon my works--ye ephemeral dotage--and despair!"

She was like the fourth man in Nebuchednezzar's furnace of old, that fourth, even the old king growing more and more insane, remarking to himself, "there is another among them, who is as the Son of God!"

I slopped on the egg roll, though it were chicken, and I as a starved swine, later in the evening, as the sky went from orange to purple, a bruise growing older till the purple bled away into a horrid gray, a kind of coffin gray, and I drove off the road into the desert wastes, keeping the roadway in sight, remembering dimly ahead, Turkey Trot across in California, and the old Opera House(which was the only place they wore cowboy boots, there, and to there and back, no where else), the Pine Straw Technology Center.

The Patron of America, of course, the much sanctified mother of the Lord, and the big character in the thing was a woman, kind of a blending of the Blessed Mother, and the Lord our Savior himself, particularly not in how she saw herself or particularly acted, because she was action movie, but her story was told through auxiliaries, capillaries, such that she was made a saint, made bigger, as of the Doomsayer's from the old movie site, those background characters that make approving remarks that "put her over" with the audience.  We see the technique used often in regard to villains in pictures, but people like John Ford, in their scenes, the background characters either commented something of the main man, or had it on the tip of their tongues.