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: (bluenareth)
Yesterday was spent tweaking "Little Conversations" (a.k.a. "Salammbô Redux"), trying to get the words more perfect than I'll ever get them. My thanks to the first readers, without whom I'd be even more lost than I am. I'm mostly happy with it now. And yes, the title is a nod to the Concrete Blonde song (from Free, 1989). And this is, indeed, as I have already mentioned, possibly my most blatantly autobiographical story to date. Not on purpose. It just came out that way.

The rest of the day was spent laying out Sirenia Digest #21, writing its prolegomena, and suchlike. Today, Spooky and I will be proofing the issue, all 54 pages, and hopefully it'll go out to subscribers late tonight or early tomorrow. If you haven' subscribed yet, well, now would be a good time.

We did walk last night, and saw an absolutely enormous bat. Eptesicus fucus, I assume. They can live up to 19 years, and I guessing this was an old one. Anyway, yes, now that the heat wave has passed, I am determined to get back into the habit of walking. We did Freedom Park last night.

It's rare that I revisit a film and discover that my initial reaction changes radically. But night before last, we watched Stephen Norrington's 2003 adaptation of The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. There is proof, in the form of Blogger entry for 12 July 2003, that I very much enjoyed the film when I saw it in the theatre. However, Sunday night's viewing left me with an entirely different impression. Perhaps I viewed it differently because I've only recently read (and loved) the first two volumes of Alan Moore's comic, and now I can see how completely and wrongheadedly the film diverges from the original story. For one, I was astounded at the sexism inherent in making the League's leader Allan Quatermain instead of Mina Murray (and never mind that in the film, Mina is Mina Harker, not Mina Murray). I suppose it all comes down to Sean Connery being a much bigger box-office draw than Peta Wilson. At any rate, this time through, four years after I first saw the film, I found it little more than a clumsy action flick filled with badly filmed fight scenes. Only Nemo and Hyde come out anything like they should. Certainly, in comparison to Moore's book, it's a condescending and dim-witted film. And the whole thing with the addition of Tom Sawyer was just dumb. Think about it. Sawyer was born in or about 1833. And the film is set in 1899. So Sawyer would have been something like 66 years old! Anyway, yes, very disappointing, and I hate retractions, though it makes me all the more eager for The Black Dossier.

Okay, there's a museum by a New England harbour waiting for me, and then on to Mars...

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Caitlín R. Kiernan

February 2012

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