greygirlbeast: (Eli2)
A band I knew when I lived in Athens (well, mostly Linda Hopper and Ruthie Morris) back in the nineties, in that other time and that other world. Coming home from the sea tonight, I remembered the song, and started wondering what happened to everyone. Of course, all I have to do is check Wikipedia. I sort of loathe the internet. The video was censored by MTV, because assholes don't want to hear the truth.



"Careful when you say goodbye..."
greygirlbeast: (sol)
Because I really didn't want to title this Readercon 22 (III), and I've just awakened from a nap of cataclysmic proportions, despite having slept in the broiling car on the way back from Burlington to Providence. If title must be explained, that's why. I am home, with another Shirley Jackson Award stone to sit upon my shelf. But what matters is I am home.

Shirley Jackson understood the importance of coming home. Eleanor and Merricat, they knew how precious is home.

Still, it was good to see so many people I so rarely get to see, those other authors, those editors and publishers, those others who are dear to me and whom I so very rarely ever get to see. You know who you are. That said, I am no person for crowds. Likely as not, I could go many more months and never find myself in another crowd of human beings and be pleased. I am exhausted, and I need to be alone, just me and Spooky, and, occasionally, the visitation of a friend or two.

I was good this year, and bought only three books: two used hardbacks – Herbert's God Emperor of Dune and LeGuin's The Compass Rose: Short Stories – along with a copy of Kelly Link's Magic for Beginners. Even so, and even though we were frugal, the cost of the con (I kept a careful tally), came to $606.49. My thanks to Stephen Lubold and Cliff Miller, without whose generosity we couldn't have attended.

Though I did three panels this year, I'm fairly certain the first and the third (this afternoon) were precisely the same panel. Certainly, we said most of the same things this afternoon that were said on Friday.

Regardless, I am home, where there is no AC, and only two bearable rooms (and I am not writing this from either of them). I am facing a mountain of work that should have been done two weeks ago, and which must be done despite the heat. The weathermen say this coming week will be the hottest of the summer for us. But, even so, I'm glad to be home.

Here again,
Aunt Beast
greygirlbeast: ("Dracorex")
A third consecutive sunny day in Providence, warm enough that I can believe spring isn't too far away. The willows are greening. There are a few flowers here and there. My office window is open again (it was open last night until I went to bed about 2 a.m.), and the temperature out there is a not unpleasantly mild 66F. We made it into the low 70s yesterday.

And as for yesterday, a marvelous day. Well, once we finally escaped Providence and made it to Boston. Greer ([livejournal.com profile] nineweaving) and I had resolved, on Wednesday, to meet up in Cambridge for a sort of impromptu mini-Triptree Award winner/honoree celebration. So, Spooky and I drove to Boston and met Greer and Sonya at the Harvard Museum of Comparative Zoology, which I'd not visited since July or August of 2006.

We didn't make it to the museum until a little after three, and it closes at five, so there wasn't much time to wander the galleries. We're planning to go back again one day soon, a day when we can arrive in the morning and spend the whole day just sketching and making notes. But even a short visit at the MCZ is grand. And we found Greer and Sonya ([livejournal.com profile] sovay), and wandered the galleries, admiring fossils and taxidermy, formalin-filled jars of sea creatures and the iridescent shells of beetles. The MCZ is itself a sort of time capsule, consisting in large part of the cabinet of Louis Agassiz, who founded the museum in 1859. It is a monument to the way that Victorians sought to understand natural history, and the seemingly chaotic halls are likely to give those with more modern sensibilities all sorts of discomfiting sensations. It's one of the last museums of its kind, and is, itself, as valuable an artifact as the artifacts it houses.

Oh, and Sonya gifted me with an enormous plush octopus from the MCZ gift shop, which I have christened Nemo. Unless I change my mind and start calling it Scylla. I suppose that depends on puzzling out its gender. Sexing the octopus....

Despite my aching, rotten feet, after we left the Museum we walked to Raven Books, a wonderful, wonderful place situated in a basement below street level. I'd promised I would be good on this trip and not come home with a metric shit-ton of books. But Greer and Sonya kept finding things and showing them to me. Oh, and Chris Ewen (he of Future Bible Heroes) met us at Raven Books. We had dinner next door at a fine Thai restaurant called Nine Tastes. I had the beef larb, tart as tart could be and with just the right level of heat (hot enough to eventually shut down my taste buds). And after that, after dinner, we walked up to the Harvard Bookstore, and then back to a comic shop called Million Year Picnic, where Spooky used to buy her funny books back in the day. By this point, it was well after dark and my feet were screaming, so we said our good-byes to Chris and headed back to the van. We drove Greer home (and left Sonya to fend for herself or fall to the wolves...or seek public transit, or something). I think Spooky and I made it back to Providence about 10 p.m.

So, yes...a much needed day out and among other people and among the sorts of things that make me smile. And, by the time all was said and done, it was a bit of a book-buying orgy. I lost track of what everyone else got (and everyone bought books), but I came away with:

1. A Lion Among Men by Gregory Maguire (2008)
2. The Sun and the Moon: The Remarkable True Account of Hoaxers, Showmen, Dueling Journalists, and Lunar Man-Bats in Nineteenth-Century New York by Matthew Goodman (2008)
3. The Lyrics of Tom Waits: The Early Years (1971-1982) (2007)
4. The Library of America Philip K. Dick volume, Five Novels of the 1960s and 1970s
5. Wise Children by Angela Carter (1991)
6. Moonwise by Greer Ilene Gilman (original 1991 edition, which Greer signed to me last night)
7. A Neil Jordan Reader (1993)
8. Leviathan: The History of Whaling in America by Eric Jay Dolin (2007)

So, yeah...books. There are sixteen photos behind the cut. Now, I must go decide which of two stories I will begin for Sirenia Digest #52.

18 March 2010 )
greygirlbeast: (Doc10-2)
No writing yesterday. No, that's not true. I began one story, wrote about 400 words, then realized it was not the right story. So I stopped and began another story, which I hope will be the right story. "The Sea Troll's Daughter," and I wrote more than 500 words on it. But I'm pretty sure it was a false start. So, you figure it out. I have most of the story in my head, the characters, the tone, the plot...and that very rarely ever is the case at the outset. Now, I only have to locate the words.

Um...how could it have taken me half an hour to realize that this is not 1931? The iPod should have been a dead giveaway, but there are so many temporal shifts lately, it's hard to keep track.

Still cloudy. Still raining. Still not summer.

I fear I have become addicted to Twitter. In one week, I went from detesting it on general principle, to addiction. Which is pretty much how I do things. Ah, well. Beats the crap out of backsliding into Second Life (It's been two months now, so yay me!). I will say that there are two things about Twitter that have pleased me greatly. First, none of this misuse of the word friend. On Twitter, one has followers, and one follows others, which, in all ways, makes much more sense, without linguistic perversions. Several times now, I've had people (from LJ, SL, Facebook) pull that "But you're my FRIEND" shit on me, and I have to point out that no, I'm not, that we've never even met, and so on, and so forth. Drama ensues. And, of course, the misuse of friend has led to the neologism friending, when there was already befriend to function as an accompanying verb, and it would have worked just fine. "But, you friended me!" No, I befriended you. And, in this qualified sense of the word, that only makes us sort of vaguely acquainted, at best. Anyway, that's one thing.

Another thing that pleases me about Twitter is that, at least among the people who are following me thus far (362), and those I'm following (57), there's been, in more than three days, almost no l33t or lolspeak or emoticons. Which surprises me, as we're limited to 140 characters per message, and yet, all of these people stop and think of a way to make themselves understood without resorting to idiotic acronyms. I have not seen "lol" even once (but maybe that's because I'm not following Eliza Dushku). I am told this would change were I to descend into the realm of "people who do real-time conversation," but I'm not even sure what that is——I mean, how it would differ from what I've seen so far, since it all seems rather "real time"——so I shall simply avoid it. Anyway, I'm greygirlbeast.

Yesterday, I tweeted the first part of The Red Tree micro-sneak-peek experiment. Today, I'll repost yesterday's bit, then add Pt. 2.

My thanks to everyone who's bid in the current round of eBay auctions. I will remind you that the clothbound copy of The Merewife up now is probably the only one I will ever auction, as I received but four copies, back in 2005. Among my hard-to-find publications, it's surely one of the hardest to find. And, yes, all proceeds from these auctions will go to help offset the expense of my attending ReaderCon in July. So, thank you again, if you've bid or already won an auction.

Yesterday, Serena Valentino ([livejournal.com profile] serenavalentino) wrote to relate to me a dream she'd had, a dream in which I appeared, and a dream which delighted me, when I heard of it. She's given me permission to include her description of the dream in this entry:

I had an interesting dream about you, even more interesting by virtue of rarely remembering my dreams. You were dressed in an Edwardian era outfit, a hybrid of a lady's outfit, but with long riding breeches under your skirt. I know this not because I got under your skirt, mind (it wasn't that sort of dream) your skirt was split in the front, revealing the breeches. Your long coat was also rather masculine, but tailored for a woman. It was very fetching. We were sitting near each other during a performance of some kind (candles illuminated the foot of the stage) and you commented on the performance, it was a very witty sort of comment, one would expect from Oscar Wilde, or yourself for that matter. I remember laughing a little too loudly for the people sitting near us, and that made us laugh even harder.

I only wish I could remember any of this.

Anything else? No, not really. Oh, except one thing. I'm pretty sure that very few people under the age of thirty-five remember what the word angst actually means, or know that "angsting" isn't a word, or that feeling and expressing angst is not a sign of weakness or something to be loathed and mocked. We'll talk about "emo" later. How can a nation be simultaneously so overwrought and emotionally constipated? Anyway, class dismissed. I need to see a lady about a platypus.
greygirlbeast: (river2)
This morning, or afternoon, as it does appear to now be afternoon, I am not entirely sure how or why I wound up getting somewhat drunk on black and tans at The Vortex late last night when I'd only meant to have a cup of Starbuck's swill...er, I mean coffee. Blame Ms. Lee. Especially since she seems to hold her liquor better than I do. We were talking about chakras and insanity, ethneogens, drag queens and Dragon*Con, sex and magick, and all of a sudden I was too drunk to walk home. She had to call Jim and Spooky to come and get us. In all fairness, though, yesterday must stand forever as one of the most perplexing, trying, and utterly inane excuses for a day that I've yet to have to live through. And now my head hurts, and I recall doing some sort of Nebari battle cry on the front porch at ohmygodthirty in the a.m. and it's a wonder no one called the cops, so that must be why my throat hurts. Now I'm trying to write out the tangle in my head, so that, hopefully, I can write some actual prose later today, because I sure as hell didn't get jack shit written yesterday (thank you very much, She Whose Name Will Never Be Spoken Here Again, amen, amen).

Proceed to the end of the beginning of the New Age of Me. Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars.

I'm sober now, and I have this need to sort through a number of "truths," so that later on, when the next dark day comes (as it surely will), I can look at this and try a little harder not to lose my shit. For instance, on the one hand, I seem to be a very good judge of people, but on the other, I have an astounding talent for befriending and trusting wolves in sheeps' clothing, finks, liars, weasels, stealth psychopaths, and pond scum. You know who you are, and you know who you aren't. Or maybe you don't, but it's not my problem anymore.

Sometimes, as Thomas Covenant reminded us, infections have to be cut out. Or, as Oatsie Mangehand would say, "It's only the next thing, it's not the last thing. Let's get through this, fellow."

For example. Somehow, no matter how many times you find yourself frelled up the ass by carelessly accumulated falsehoods masquerading as longtime friendships, cynicism and isolationism are still cop outs.

I could go on and on and on and the maudlin display might never end. But my head is killing me. And I really do have to write today; Spooky has to deal with eBay, tend to the grouchy, diabetic cat, feed the hamster, clean the house, fix the toilet, ad infinitum, but I have to write. Grateful thanks to those who helped us through yesterday and will help us through today and tomorrow. Now...where's my pointy stick? Move along. There's nothing here to see.

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Caitlín R. Kiernan

February 2012

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