greygirlbeast: (talks to wolves)
This morning, Spooky made a fantastic ham omelette (LJ can only spell the word as omelet, which figures), which I ate with pepperoncini (which LJ can't spell at all) and buttered toast, using the leftovers from Friday morning. As I ate, the thought occurred to me, reflecting on all the asshole shoppers and drivers that seem to have slithered out of the cracks the last week or five, I thought, and asked aloud, "If they're this bad at Xmas, what must they be like the rest of the year?" Or maybe it's just that Xmas makes people extra thoughtless, selfish, and whatnot. Maybe it's Consumer Jesus rebound. Regardless, Spooky makes a damned good omelette.

Yesterday? Very, very little with which to regale you lot, kittens. I didn't drink. How's that? I read stories by Sarah Monette and Paul McAuley. The only thing I really wanted to do was board the train last night and ride as far north as Boston or as far south as Manhattan. Just to see the lights, and the long stretches of mostly darkness, and to feel the wheels beneath me. That's what we didn't do, as it was impractical. I'll never understand all this time spent dodging the impractical. If life is an inflated inner tube, then practicality and caution are twin nails waiting to puncture the rubber and release all the air. Practicality and caution are twin nails, and they conspire to thwart the wild heart.

Instead, we nested. We hid. We watched Badder Santa, ate junk food, had Mexican Coke, and played a lot of SW:toR (and no, we haven't forsaken Rift, but I am mostly steering clear until the "Fae Yule" shit has passed). My Sith has yellow eyes now, which I suppose is meant to signify her descent into the Dark Side. Her eyes were the palest blue, almost white. She's a terribly vain woman, who once was a slave in the mines of Korriban. Unmentionable things were done to her there, and those crimes against her mind and body left her shattered, and seeing her eyes turn yellow only drove Varla that much farther into the shadows. But, on the other hand, Darth Zash gave her a shiny new Fury-Class starship...so, all's well that ends well.

Also, yesterday – here on Earth – I listened to lots of old music, mostly Athens-period stuff. I stewed and hated at Xmas, like the Grinch atop Mount Crumpit. But the rage has subsided to indifference today. An odd indifference. Today, I am not so much bitter as I am baffled at the shallowness of it all. This day doesn't even feel like that wicked holiday. It just feels like any other cold Sunday in Providence, which is a consolation, so maybe that's my Fury-Class starship.

Wishing For Summer,
Aunt Beast
greygirlbeast: (Default)
All my best lives are lived in dreams.

Yesterday, being a day off, was, in the main, unremarkable, which is about the best I seem able to hope of my days off. (This is my journal and I may sound glum if I wish, and bugger off if you think any otherwise.)

There was torrential rain, and ferocious wind. The weather always becomes more interesting with the judicious application of adjectives.

I wore my pajamas all day, and we finished listening Madelaine L'Engle read A Wrinkle in Time. I may fundamentally disagree with L'Engle's cosmogony, which is distinctly Xtian, but I love this book, all the same. There was ramen for breakfast. There were brownies later on, and there was Chinese takeout for dinner. Late, there were those little Mystic frozen pizzas. There was a lot of WoW, because the weather was too crappy to venture out. Eyes of Sylvanas is beginning to feel a little like an actual guild, and there's talk of some coordinated play. We currently have 29 toons signed up. I finally got back to China Miéville's The Kraken, which I rather inexplicably set aside after the chaos of the Portland trip at the start of October. I took a nap in front of the fireplace. Spooky and I watched David Lynch's Blue Velvet (1986) again. Not sure which of us has seen it the most times, we've both seen in so many times. Just before sleep, Spooky read to me from Angela Carter.

Spooky has played a Worgen through the starting area, from Gilneas to Teldrassil. And, I quote, "That was so bad I wanted to die." So, I stand by my earlier assessment. Yes, Gilneas is beautifully designed. But the Worgen are a huge disappointment. Not scary. Not fun to play. Ridiculous to look at. And why do the females stand upright, while the males lurch and slump? The XX chromosomes must somehow protect the spine and pelvis of female werewolves. For that matter, the same is true of the trolls, now that I think of it. And if the Forsaken can be cannibals and scavenge their human kills, who don't the Worgan? Are furries too squeamish? Or is it because the Worgan are Alliance? Yet, I will say that it would be nice if Blizzard would gift the faux Brit accents of the Worgan and the people of Gilneas to the humans of Stormwind...who either sound like rednecks or Ned Flanders.

Today, I'm going to begin listening to the unabridged audiobook of Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell.

And begin Chapter Three of The Drowning Girl. In which Imp may attempt to tell one version of the truth.

Last night, a curious thing occurred to me. These days, most of my favorite musicians are men, and most of my favorite authors are women. It wasn't always this way. In the 90s, most of the musicians I listened to were women, and when I was a teenager, my favorite authors were male. So, not sure what to make of this. A statistical burp, and probably nothing more.
greygirlbeast: (Jupiter)
Yesterday, I wrote 1,778 words. The words did not come as easily as on Wednesday.

I've just received Sonya's story for Sirenia Digest #14, so I'm thinking this issue will likely go out to subscribers late tomorrow or sometime on Sunday. As soon as I can make it happen. Also, I will repeat the offer I made yesterday — anyone who subscribes this week, before midnight on Sunday, shall receive a FREE signed copy of the trade paperback of Silk.

I was trying to think of something I wanted to say about Daughter of Hounds, but at best I am only half awake. I am beginning to think this will be the January I slept through. With luck, something akin to wakefulness will return by February. Note, however, that while I do believe in chance and probability, I do not believe in luck.

Aside from the writing, there's little to be said for yesterday. I left the house, technically, in that I went out onto the front porch to get the mail and found an empty mailbox. Spooky had beaten me to it. That was my first time out since Monday. Spooky made fettuccine with pesto and artichoke hearts for dinner. Late, we watched the first forty-five minutes or so of The Return of the King (extended version), because I needed something comforting. That was most of yesterday.

I have this disquieting sensation that I am somehow slipping off the face of the world.

There were other things I was going to write about — lucid dreaming, magick, parsimony, my rational mind — but I'm about an hour late, and I'm having trouble concentrating on this entry. Maybe later today. Right now, the platypus wishes to have a word with me. A word or 1,500+.
greygirlbeast: (platypus)
This is not likely to go down in the annals of blogdom — even in the annals of CRK blogdom — as a particularly interesting entry. But you must remember, I am only a writer. We are not, in the main, people who lead particularly interesting lives, at least not on a day-to-day basis. There are exceptions, but, alas, not this morning.

That said...I did not write yesterday. See my second entry yesterday, the one that mentions too many e-mails and phone calls. Plus, it became evident I needed to postpone the office move, which led to yet more dithering and time wasting on my part. At 2:30ish (CaST), I made the decision that I'd take the rest of the day off. After all, I'd written five days straight, with a minimum of about 1,200 words each day (and way over that on most), and since I'd not be moving the office today, I'd be getting Saturday back. So, yeah, no writing yesterday. I will be finishing "The Lovesong of Lady Ratteanrufer" this afternoon.

Having decided that there would be no writing, and needing to clear my head, we went to Freedom Park and I did some work with my willow wand. It wasn't as cold as I'd expected, and the sun was bright and warm. There were crows. Then, more exhausted than I'd expected to be, I had an exceptionally hot bath and washed my hair and kept dozing off. Byron was expected at 7:30 for dinner, so I had to perk back up with coffee and Bailey's (see what I said about interesting?). We did dinner at The Vortex at L5P, and in an attempt to get some godsawful Cheap Trick song out of my head, Byron and I sang TMBG's "The Sun is a Mass of Incandescent Gas" just a bit louder than one probably ought in public. But it was The Vortex, so no one seemed to notice. Back home, we were both jonesing for more TMBG (he and I), so I put on Apollo 18. Then there was Dr. Who, and then Byron left, and then there was Battlestar Galactica, and then Spooky and I watched Jon Favreau's Zathura (2005) (which was actually quite good). There really wasn't much else to yesterday. I did get some reading done, more Dinosaurs of Mars research, The Processes of Fossilization (Stephen K. Donovan, ed.; 1991). There is far too little literature on the diagenesis of bone and the geochemistry of fossil bone.

I'll try to get some more of the underbed photos up this evening.

Late last night, Vince Locke sent me a whole bunch of the artwork for Tales from the Woeful Platypus, and if anything, it's more gorgeous than the work he did for Frog Toes and Tentacles. I mean, wow. Especially his illustrations for "Pony" and "pas-en-arrière." If you haven't yet preordered Tales from the Woeful Platypus and would like a copy, I hope you'll order soon. It's going to be another beautiful book, guaranteed.

Right. Herr Platypus is calling my name. Sheheit's a little annoyed at me for playing hooky yesterday, so amends must be made. You know how it goes...

Don't cry.
There's always a way,
Here in November in this house of leaves
We'll pray.
Please, I know it's hard to believe,
To see a perfect forest
Through so many splintered trees.
You and me,
And these shadows keep on changing.

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Caitlín R. Kiernan

February 2012

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