greygirlbeast: (river3)
Don't forget, kittens, today is Krampus Day. Behave accordingly.

Bodies, can't you see what everybody wants from you?
If you could want that, too, then you'll be happy.
~ St. Vincent, "Cruel"

Yesterday, I wrote 1,241 words and so began "Another Tale of Two Cities" for Sirenia Digest. I'm hoping very much that it will be finished on the evening of the 7th, at the latest. It might be called science fiction, but I'd rather just call it weird erotica. And speaking of the evening of the 7th, I'm very much hoping to see more replies to the Question @ Hand #5 by then.

Last week, I stopped myself from buying an iPhone, though I seem to need one. In part, I stopped myself out of fear of another wave of "buyer's remorse," such as experienced recently, immediately after purchasing Kermit the iPad. Which I seemed to need for work. Since that purchase, by the way, I have found about fifty wonderful uses for Kermit the iPad...but not a single one of them has been work related*. Sure, endless mobile Japanese porn – no denying that rocks – but not exactly what my editors mean when they speak of "increased connectivity." In the Elder Days, by the way, we just said "easier to contact." Anyway, I didn't buy the iPhone, because (even though my cellphone is a pile of bantha dung), near as I can tell the iPhone and the iPad do exactly the same thing. Only, the iPhone has a vastly smaller screen and keys (and the virtual keys on my iPad are already too small for my admittedly large fingers), and I'll be damned if I can figure out a single useful thing the iPhone does that Kermit the iPad doesn't already do. Well, except make phone calls. And I hate making, and receiving, phone calls. Besides, technically, the iPad does permit video calls, all Jetson-like, using either FaceTime or Skype. Of course, the thought of a video call terrifies me beyond words. It's bad enough that callers can hear me. Let them see me, too? Anyway, point is, other than the fact that the iPhone is much smaller, and therefore even more mobile...why bother? And, by the way, you know, I hope, that all this increased connectivity nonsense, it's nothing but a) a means for the CIA, NSA, BTFA, DHS, and aliens from Planet X to keep track of you, and b) is being sold to us so that we never have a moment free of the grinding machine of capitalism (yes, excessive socialization aids and abets the agenda of the New World Order).

Damn, that's a long paragraph.

Probably, I ought to stop now. Only, I'll first point out that – following this thread – ebooks do the same thing as books, only not as well, and the ones you buy today will PROBABLY be inaccessible in a few years, and you can't donate them to libraries, or leave them to anyone. Meanwhile, my hard copies might well be accessible five hundred years from now, and can be bequeathed to loved ones. However, "we" are increasingly a selfish and short-sighted species (this makes my life easier = this is good), now more than ever before, so none of this is relevant. But I'm beating a dead horse. Whack, whack, whack.

Staring at Kermit,
Aunt Beast

* Spooky says this is not true, as all of Blood Oranges was proofed on the iPad. I will qualify, and say that actually she only used it to read along while I read the hard-copy ms. aloud and made marks on it. Still, I suppose she has a point.
greygirlbeast: (Default)
Sunny today, Again, I should be in the sea. This is a thing that will not happen, though, because even if it weren't for the writing, I've got a doctor's appointment this evening. Actually, doctor's appointments can be fun, if you go about them the right way. I have found most doctors to be horrified and/or stupefied at the notion that everyone doesn't want every conceivable test for every conceivable symptom which might lead to any conceivable malady.

Doctor: "But you might have X?"

Me: "So what? If I do, I'd rather not know. It's not like I could ever afford the treatments, and, besides, I'm chronically suicidal."

This is not a fiction. I have actually had this exchange. It was lovely. I'm pretty sure it's not a patient response taught at medical schools.

Or! If any cavity probing is involved, only agree to them if the doctor first agrees to say "Good puppy," at regular intervals.

---

Yesterday, I wrote 1,957 words on Chapter Seven of Blood Oranges. The book is moving quickly towards its conclusion. I'm pretty sure an old school bus filled with Swamp Yankee werewolves is involved. Some idiot is going to proclaim this a great "horror" novel. Or say something like, "Finally, Caitlín R. Kiernan has figured out how to write great horror." And me, I'll just sit back and laugh. The hardest part about this book is that most of what is perceived as "horror" became self-parody and comedy long ago, but very few people have figured it out. It's hard to parody a parody. So says the world's only triggerpunk, and she ought to know.

Spooky (on the other paw) went to her parents' place, to visit with her sister, Steph, and nephew, Miles, who are up from Brooklyn. Miles is three and a half, and he likes pirates. And he proclaims, "Brothers are sisters. Sisters are brothers." I wish they taught this shit in school. Anyway, Spooky took photos of a cute kid and a frog (behind the cut, below). I cry foul.

---.

This morning, Bruce Sterling tweeted, "Social media does not exist for you. You are the PRODUCT in social media. That's why it's free." Fucking brilliant. I'm going to have a stencil of that quote made and start tagging everything in site.

---

As for whatever else there was of yesterday...nothing that warrants recording, but I'll record it anyway. A little Rift (I'm trying to get the achievement for killing 250 centaurs in the Droughtlands; see, and you thought I was all like smart and shit). We read more of The Stand (1978 text, accept no substitute). There was some Second Life RP. Oh, furries are annoyingly little shit (just in case you didn't know). "It's not a fetish! It's a lifestyle! Do you think I chose to want to have sex in a fursuit!? I'm a Loony Toon trapped in a human body!" Milk and Cheese! Milk and Cheese!

Sorry. That wasn't nice, was it? I'm channeling Siobahn Quinn.

As for Ridley Scott directing and producing a Blade Runner sequel or prequel...I'm not sure how to react to that.

Hesitantly,
Aunt Beast

17 August 2011 )
greygirlbeast: (Narcissa)
Today, Ferris Bueller's Day Off is twenty-five years old. That is, today is the 25th anniversary of its theatrical release. Fuck, I'm old. I told Spooky we should play hooky today, do nutty shit like lip syncing on parade floats, and then destroy an expensive car. Sadly, she only laughed.

"Bueller?...Bueller?...Bueller?"

Le sigh.

I hereby open the floor to comments.

Yesterday, I wrote 1,430 words on Chapter Three of Blood Oranges (a chapter which, by the way, is titled "Bobby Ng, Alice Cregan, and the Troll Who Lives Under the Bridge"), and reached page 102. It was pretty much all a conversation with the troll yesterday. Today, I have to find the end of that conversation. I let [livejournal.com profile] readingthedark have a look at the pages last night, and, afterwards, he declared "Holy shitfuck. You've written literary crack." I'm assuming that's a good thing. Anyway, he's driving down tonight for a visit.

Please allow me to remind you of the Big Damn eBay auction. Because, you know, I'm still waiting for Everything on Earth is Free Forever Day, but it's a slow train coming. Also, have a look at Spooky's Dreaming Squid Dollworks and Sundries Etsy shop. All her paintings are on sale (limited time) for 20% off! Coupon code: ART20

It just occurred to me that the loathsome emoticon o.0 is actually a broken infinity symbol, and that's got to be some sort of profound. I blame the Illuminati. For breaking it, not for my revelation.

Gods, it's only noon thirty, and already I've mentioned the Soggy Bottom Boys.

Yesterday, Spooky stopped by Myopic Books and procured for me a belated birthday present – the 50th-anniversary edition of William S. Burroughs' Junky, because a bitch cunt of a snatch, who otherwise shall not be named, absconded with my copy back in 2005 (along with many other favorite books), and because I've been needing to read it again. In part because Siobahn Kerry Quinn, the protagonist of Blood Oranges, was a heroin addict before getting bitten by a werewolf and then vampirized on the same night. Oh, and last night, we watched Trainspotting, which I hadn't seen since the '90s. Obviously, not exactly a coincidence. I can hardly draw off my own experiences as a heroin addict, having only shot up that once and all. It's not that I dislike needles. And smack really is better by a hundred times than the best sex you've ever had. It's just I was meant for greater things, like growing old and bitter and more properly wicked.

Junkies, by and large, aren't wicked people. Sure, they'll rob you blind, but isn't that the American way? Isn't that the cornerstone of Capitalism? I ask you, isn't highway robbery the very platform upon which this great nation was founded? Isn't that why Richard Nixon rode out against Che Guevara at the Battle of Little Bighorn on that venerable Christmas Day in 1932? Isn't that why Mister Fred McFeely Rogers wore cardigan sweaters?

What the hell am I on about? Oh, and now Spooky's singing the theme song to Captain Kangaroo, but making up her own lyrics.

Maybe we'd best pause here, to reflect and twiddle our collective thumbs.

Twiddlin' and Reflectin',
Aunt Beast
greygirlbeast: (grey)
What's remarkable is not how much I complain in this journal. It's how little I complain in this journal. The more the years pile up on the far side of -0, the less I see the point in getting myself bent out of shape about this or that or what the hell ever, and the less I see the point in publicly broadcasting my annoyance. That said, I am now going to complain.

What the fuck's with this weird depersonalization/reductionism going on in America (and elsewhere, I expect), whereby almost anything and everything is described as product (plural and singular). I see someone talking about making cookies on television, and they don't say, "We want to make the best cookie we can." No. They say, "We want to make the best product we can." And that product is not to be sold and eaten by people, or even customers, but by consumers. You see it online, with webzines talking about content, not articles, stories, photographs, etc. I see it in publishing, with everything coming down to a matter of how many units have been moved, rather than how many books have been bought. I'm not even sure precisely why this makes me so angry, except somehow it seems to work to devalue everything and everyone. It all becomes only interchangeable bits, with little or no intrinsic value.

And I do think words matter, and are not to be be swapped about willy-nilly. Sure, shorthand can be convenient, but when it stops being shorthand and becomes common speech, meaning is lost.

Yeah, whatever. I mean, nobody much seems to mind, right?

Meanwhile...

They illuminate the land,
and they make me think of you.
What sunk silently to the depths of a mystery?
A clue that only one scientist knew?

Who knew that the sky is now found to contain
Benzene and methane and chalk,
And bloody mud, muddy blood from the sky,
From the sickly sweet wings of Edith's Checker-Spot Butterfly?
They die in the ocean.
Their legs are broken.
The rain slows their flight as it soaks their wings.

In microphone, we'll listen for thunder.
The telephone will dial a number,
To deliver a, a clearer picture of weird wet weather.
This puts all previous discoveries in doubt.
These are the things we have theories about.

Overhead, two sky titans they collide in slow motion.
Then, over the Ice Tongue, fluid flows.
A one thousand foot thick chunk of sediment is exposed.
Your own special home.

A choking, vapor-laced haze obscured by acid rain,
Enveloping everything, on the edge of the Milky Way.


— Rasputina, "A Retinue of Moons"

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Caitlín R. Kiernan

February 2012

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