greygirlbeast: (Default)
So, imagine that the entire human population has been decimated by a pandemic. The world's cities have been reduced to rubble and ash. Virtually no survivors remain. But someone makes a "reality TV series" about it. And our survivors all just happen to be amazingly gifted, mostly college-educated professionals, with skills uniquely suited to making it in this post-apopcalyptic wasteland. Well, as long as they have all those other skilled folks on hand. Because, face it. What use is it knowing how to build a solar array to power your blow drier if you don't know how to turn toxic sludge from the LA River into drinking water? Anyway, this is the formula for what Spooky and I found ourselves streaming last night, The Colony. Oh, yeah, it's bad. It's whatever's worse than bad.

Here we are. At the end of the world. In Los Angeles. And there are those roving gangs of bikers from The Road Warrior, only the producers forbid them to hurt any of the "participants," which is a good thing, since California seems to have banned all firearms immediately before the plague hit. Now, want reality? Give me a carpenter, a hooker, a few day laborers, maybe one professional (let's say a CPA), a junky, an orphan, and someone with Alzheimer's, and that would begin to simulate the situation that might arise after The End. Oh, and give them guns and knives and pointy sticks. And screw the bikers. Try roving bands of starving feral (and probably frequently rabid) dogs and coyotes.

I present this oddly watchable train wreck with an F+.

---

Yesterday was a very good day. I wrote 1,403 words and finished "Apostate." I also retitled it "The Transition of Elizabeth Haskings," a vast improvement. Look for Sirenia Digest #74 on Friday.

Meanwhile, I received very good news about closing the deal on Blood Oranges and its two sequels, and I can probably make the official announcement next week (or sooner).

And I'm going to have very cool news regarding both The Red Tree and The Drowning Girl, but I can't yet say what it is...except no, we're not talking film. But very, very cool news. It's gonna make a lot of my readers happy.

Oh! And Spooky ordered us a Cookiethulu T-shirt! (It was on sale yesterday). "Coooooookie! Iä! Iä!"

As for today, I'm going to celebrate yesterday going so well by taking a day off. I'll answer some email, but then I'm outta here, kittens. Which is not to say you shouldn't comment. You should. Because, you know, I will be back.

Looking Up,
Aunt Beast
greygirlbeast: (starbuck4)
Took the "Break in Case of Emergency" pill this morning at five ayem, that tricksy gem in my prescription pharmacoepia, that I so very rarely touch. Because it hits within mere minutes, and it hits like a freight train (the passenger sort would only stun) and wears off about eighteen hours later. I slept more than 8.5 hours, a sleep which culminated with a dream of a post-apocalyptic (not one word, that adjective) plague that slowly, horribly transformed the infected into bat-like alien things. It isn't a dream I wish ever to go near ever again.

And I'm not awake. My left eyelid (blind eye), keeps closing of its own accord.

[livejournal.com profile] readingthedark arrived early in the evening, we had dinner from the hot bar at Whole Foods, then headed to the show at the Met. The first band sucked empty donkey ballsacks. Don't even recall the band's name. A bunch of fucking hipster poseurs from Brooklyn trying to audition for the Grand Ole Opry. But the second band, Joe Fletcher and the Wrong Reasons, were rather damn bow tie. Singer looked a lot like Michael Wincott (swoon), and the sound was sort of like a collision between Rockabilly and Bob Dylan and Nick Cave and a really skanky honky-tonk five miles outside Yazoo City, Mississippi.

Brown Bird (buy Salt for Salt TODAY), returning home after a long tour, looked a little haggard, but sounded better than I've ever heard them sound. A mountain of bow tie. It was even worth enduring the drunks and texting idiots. And here's a thing? Why do people pay to attend a show, then spend the whole goddamn show texting? Or even spend five minutes doing it? Are they truly so attached at the genitals to their cell phones and social fucking networks that they can't stop that shit fot a couple of hours and just listen? Anyway, fuck them, and Brown Bird remains the finest Appalachian-Roots-Yiddish-Doom-Folk band anywhere on Earth.

And that's all I'm writing today. I'm still stoned, and I'm on vacation, motherfuckers.
greygirlbeast: (Default)
I woke this morning from red-orange dreams filled with apocalypse. Is it any wonder? The one image that most stands out in that mad rush of terrible things, the thing I most remember, was turning to watch a bloated white moon rise and then set again only a minute or so later. The world was ending. This world. I wish I could convey the things I felt inside that dream without resorting to the narrative. There was sorrow and regret, more than any sort of fear.

-----

A good writing day yesterday. I did 1,025 words on the new story for Sirenia Digest #17. As predicted, it has become a full-fledged short story. Right now, the total word count stands at 5,942, and I think it's going to come in at about 7,000 in the end. THE END, which I do hope to find sometime later today. If you liked Low Red Moon and/or Daughter of Hounds, you will probably be pleased with this piece. It's set in January 1999. A couple of years before the events of Low Red Moon, about eleven years before the events of Daughter of Hounds. Just a little while after the events of "So Runs the World Away," and it provides an intersection for all three (and, no doubt, numerous others). But it needs a title. Usually, I find the right title before I start the story, but not this time.

Yesterday, the postman brought me my contributor's copies of Weird Tales #344, which includes my non-fiction piece, "Notes from a Damned Life." It also includes a very amusing Darrell Schweitzer review of the gawdsawful Eragon film.

Kid Night last night. We walked to Videodrome, getting the night's movies and the day's exercise both at once. We watched Joe Carnahan's deliriously violent Smokin' Aces (2007), which probably shouldn't have qualified as a genuine Kid-Night movie, but being who we are, it worked that way for me and Spooky. I don't know what critics thought of this film, but we both loved it and I sort of wish we'd seen it in the theatre. We followed it with a 1959 Swedish sf gem, Terror in the Midnight Sun (aka Rymdinvasion i Lappland). Truly, this movie is almost as charming as Reptilicus (1961), and for almost all the same reasons. The gigantic furry alien steals the show, calling to mind some bizarre ur-Muppet and the abominable snowman of Rasputina's "The New Zero." Virgil W. Vogel later added a lot of superfluous footage and John Carradine, and re-released the film in America as the far less charming and utterly nonsensical Invasion of the Animal People. A very good Kid Night, indeed.

Before bed, I read two by Edward Gorey — The Other Statue and The Headless Bust.

Okay. Now I must find coffee. And then, THE END. And a suitable title.

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Caitlín R. Kiernan

February 2012

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