“There’s nothing like a love song to give you a good laugh.”

It’s been an unexciting handful of days. But, honestly, if that’s the worst you can say about a weekend, that’s probably not too bad.

I watched a pair of movies last night, Alfred Hitchcock’s Notorious and Jonathan Glazer’s Under the Skin. Both were terrific — the former because they don’t make them like that anymore, and the latter because I don’t think they’ve ever made them like that. Under the Skin is definitely the more unsettling of the two films, with a surprisingly great performance by Scarlett Johansson. (Less surprising because it’s Johansson, who’s actually been having a good run since at least The Avengers, than because the role is largely silent.) The movie’s very loosely based on a novel of the same name I read late last year, but I think in not trying to tell all of that novel’s story — or even explicitly tell you what story it’s telling — the movie is much more effective at looking at the alien-ness of its lead character.

I spent most of today writing…or, what’s that thing where you stare blankly into space and then periodically slam your head against the wall to see if you can knock some words loose? I did that. I made absolutely no headway with the story I’ve been working on lately, then finally turned my attentions to another, sillier idea and managed to squeeze a few hundred decent-enough words out of that. It wasn’t much, but there’s only so much abuse that wall can take.

My regular writing group couldn’t meet today…so we met yesterday. I don’t think there was any appreciable difference, but you tell me. Here’s what I wrote:

We couldn’t see where we were going, but all things being equal, that was probably for the best. Half an hour earlier, the last of the on-board systems had shorted, a spray of white sparks and a weird hum that stuck in the ears long after the life support itself had shut down. Now there was just silence: no propulsion, not even drift. All of the ship’s computers were dark. We had maybe three hours of breathable air left, a little more if we could pry open the bay to hydroponics and the O2 that was locked up in there. But it wouldn’t be enough; we’d be dead before we reached wherever we were landing, and I think Maisie knew it just as well as I did.

Hijacking the ship had seemed like a good idea at the time. Bad ideas usually do.

It was a deep-space hauler, its cargo nothing to write home about. Just three cramped bays filled with knock-off goods — handbags, jewelry, sneakers — bound for the poor saps living out on the rim. But as salvage, ripped to its foundations and sold for parts, it’d sell for good money. Enough for what Maisie and I needed, anyway. We wouldn’t even need a big team to pull it off, just a couple other guys I’d worked with once before, a few credits tossed their way. We’d get ourselves on board — even private haulers stopped for distress calls, way out here — and we’d subdue the crew, just like that. Hell, it seemed like the best damn idea I’d had all year.

Except there’d been no crew. Just a few leftover systems shutting down. The ship was dying.

I tell all of this to you now — and you know what happened; god, who doesn’t know what happened? — and it almost sounds funny. Maybe I’ll get real lucky and the judge will think it’s funny too and let me go with a laugh. I might even be able to find out what happened to Maisie. If I’m lucky — if we’re all lucky — maybe she really is dead.

Because I sure as hell don’t want to go back where that dying ship finally crash-landed. Even if that is where everyone seems so damn set on sending me.

Anywho, that was my weekend.