I'm on fire.

I've finished The Fireman by Joe Hill. It's the second book of my 'no more buying books until I've finished these five' vow. It was great. I was so happy.

Then I remembered today is the day my dad died seven years ago.

Blogging about John and Harper and Nick and Allie and Renee and their struggles with fanatics, killers, and the government seems frivolous. But what can I say that hasn't been said? My pain remains, numbed by time. Tears still come, irregular as July rain. Not strong enough to douse the embers left from fictional death, not a hope of quenching real sorrow.

My lips are dry and my throat cracks. Still fighting my mundane illness, spitting up gobs of yellow-white chicken fat. Less glamorous than black and gold scales that ignite and smoke. I don't even have a fever. Just a few caterpillar green pills.  Back into the fray.

Tonight is Breaking Bad night. I'll be with my husband and a friend. Mom is house-sitting, so I'll avoid that drama. This is the only part of the day where I'll have solitude and time to reflect. But the pool is dry. All I see is cracked earth. Dust whirls and makes my eyes water.

So thirsty.

The IT spot: IT begins.

Production has begun! We even have our first production photos:

We've also got some Pennywise concept art.

Not sure how I feel about it. IT is my all-time favorite book, and I don't think it can be filmed and retain all of the meaning. The mini-series is proof of that. But I think a decent telling could be committed to another media. Much like the Ghostbuster's movie, I'm remaining cautiously optimistic. For now.