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: (Bowie1)
Yesterday, I did 1,520 words. Right now, there's so little other than the writing. These entries seem little more than a grotesquely ornate frame to fit around a daily word count. Then again, maybe that's not so inappropriate. For years now, my life has seemed little more than a grotesquely elaborate frame to fit around the daily word counts.

I considered, this morning, taking part in the [livejournal.com profile] 50bookchallenge thing. You know, read fifty books in a year. I suppose it's a noble sentiment. But I read so wretchedly slow (one eye, eye strain from writing, etc.), and I also have a feeling that something like this, if I really got hooked on it (which I probably wouldn't), I'd only be reading the books to meet that goal of having read fifty books in a year, not because I needed to read or wanted to read the books in question. So, no. Not for me. But it was a curious sort of thought to entertain for however many minutes were required to eat my breakfast ramen.

I had to resort to the Ambien last night, this morning. I was still wide awake at almost 5 a.m. (CaST).

But I think my greatest challenge at the moment is exercise, the fact that I'm getting so frightfully little of it. I left the house yesterday for the first time since Tuesday. I wake up and wobble straight into my office, spend maybe two hours futzing about online, maybe a little Wikipedia, my e-mail, the blog, and then the writing starts, which carries me on to six p.m. or seven p.m., and by then the last thing I want to do is frelling exercise. It's been about two weeks since I last had a decent walk, my major source of exercise. I've even slacked off on the hand weights. And at -2, simply refusing to exercise is not an option. Spooky's no better about this than I am, but at least she has to leave the house a few times a day to run errands. It's an occupational hazard, I do suspect, this not exercising thing. Once, I was an active beast.

I just heard that Rachel has decided to leave the The Crüxshadows at the conclusion of the current tour, which makes me quite sad. But we do what we must. On a brighter note, Spooky tells me that VNV Nation are playing the Masquerade very soon, so maybe I'll sneak out and finally see them live. Tonight, Harry and the Potters are playing the Masquerade and we both wanted to go, but likely won't. Same reason I likely won't exercise. I do the work, the writing, and then there's no energy for or interest in anything else.

Last night, we made the mistake of watching Greg McLean's Wolf Creek (2005). I think I'm with Ebert on this one. He gave it zero out of five stars. I think it deserves even less than that. It is an artless, witless sort of thing, which I would pity, but I'm not feeling so charitable. One must wonder at what point a virtual snuff film becomes all but indistinguishable from the real thing, and if when that point is reached we have something which is in anyway different in its intended function than a "real" snuff film.

I'm usually pretty good at avoiding crappy, life-sucking films, but here I've had two in as many nights. I blame Netflix, and the fact that it seems Pans Labyrinth will never be released in Atlanta. At least we get Luc Besson's Arthur and the Minimoys on the 12th.

And that's all I have for now, though I would be very, very grateful if you'd order a copy of Daughter of Hounds, or snag one from your local pusher. Whichever way works for me. Thanks.

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Caitlín R. Kiernan

February 2012

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