greygirlbeast: (white)
Yesterday, I wrote only 810 words on "The Prayer of Ninety Cats," but I spent hours and hours picking though words from the Great Nothing. The story is, at this point, 6,145 words long, so I'm guessing it'll go to 7,000+ words. This month, Sirenia Digest subscribers, you get no mere vignette, but a full-fledged short story.

Great talk with my editor at Dark Horse yesterday. Details as soon as I may.

No Thanksgiving here today, and if you want to know why I do not observe Thanksgiving, well I wrote this last year, on November 23rd:

This whole Thanksgiving thing came up yesterday. That is, the fact that I do not observe this whole Thanksgiving thing. And various people (including my mother) were like, oh come on, you have a lot of things to be thankful for. To which I can only reply that, in this instance, thankfulness implies that there is someone or something out there to thank. I would say that yes, sure, I am appreciative of many things in my life— Spooky, my mom, Spooky's mom and dad, Rhode Island, being able to mostly pay my bills, the sea, and so forth. But being appreciative does not entail being thankful, in the sense that is generally meant when people speak of Thanksgiving. I am not thankful, not in the Thanksgiving sense, which implies gratitude towards some "higher power," even when you've completely stripped the holiday of its Christian roots and made it just "Turkey Day." I can appreciate turkey any day. I don't need a special day to eat turkey, or cranberries, or that disgusting stuff made of sweet potatoes with melted marshmallows on top. And there's no one for me to "give thanks," other than myself, and Spooky, and my readers, and maybe half a dozen other people. So, I'm not trying to be a wet blanket. I just don't do Thanksgiving. I try to make sure the people in my life to whom I am grateful for this or that know that I am grateful for their kindness and concern. I don't need to set aside a special day for it. To some, it may seem like I'm worrying over semantics and only mincing words. But that's what I do. All day, almost every day. I mince words, in an effort to get to what I genuinely mean. Usually, I choose my words with obsessive care.

That said, as I was too busy and tired to properly observe either Mabon or Samhain, we'll be having a huge autumnal meal to retroactively celebrate both. I am told there will be Brussels sprouts.

Mabon 2010

Sep. 22nd, 2010 12:46 pm
greygirlbeast: (Neytiri)
Yesterday imploded. Or exploded. Doesn't really matter, because when the colloid of airborne solid and liquid particulates and gases had cleared, well, there was little left of the day to salvage. Nothing was written. Which makes yesterday a Lost Day. With only eight days remaining until we leave for the HPLFF, there's no time for days like that.

I forgot to mention that, night before last, I heard a coyote very near the house. I heard it several times, an oddly eerie sound. I'm still trying to get used to the idea of urban coyotes.

Today is Mabon.

The brightest spot to yesterday, the most silver lining (there were few of either) was the arrival of my author's copies of Haunted Legends, edited by Ellen Datlow and Nick Mamatas. It contains my story "As Red As Red," which I wrote in March and April of 2009. The anthology was released simultaneously in three formats: trade paperback, hardback, and a Kindle edition (though how anyone can read anything on a Kindle is beyond me*). This is a story I'm very happy with— sort of a footnote to The Red Tree —and I hope you'll pick up the collection, which includes a bevy of fine authors.

Please have a look at the current eBay auctions. They end today and tonight. Still no bid on The Wrong Things (2001), my collaborative collection with [ profile] docbrite. These have become very rare, and I have only a handful of copies.

The rumours are true. The 2010 H. P. Lovecraft Film Festival is the last HPLFF, at least for the foreseeable future, as the director, Andrew Migliore, is retiring. You can't blame him; he's been doing this for fifteen years. Aaron Vanek has started a satellite festival in LA, so there will be that. So, yeah. Alas. The end is, indeed, nigh.

Last night, I watched the moon and Jupiter again.

To try to scrape something good from yesterday, late in the afternoon we drove to Warwick and got the new Swans CD, My Father Will Guide Me Up a Rope to the Sky, at Newbury Comics. This is the Swans minus Jarboe, but still. And we went to the market. And coming back home the sun was starting to set, and the clouds were on fire, and I wished I'd brought the camera.

The day ended when I took a Seroquel, that tiny reddish drab of numb, and fell asleep watching Avatar. It's becoming one of my comfort films, because it's beautiful, and it's heart is always in the right place— even when it stumbles —and in the end the humans lose and have to go back to their dying world. A bedtime story for panenatheists (I think I just made that word up).


The whole money thing is wearing me ragged again. Of course, at this point, I imagine it's wearing almost everyone ragged. The lifeboat is overcrowded, and we have the teabaggers wanting to punch a hole in the hull. Day before yesterday, I found this animated map— "The Decline: The Geography of a Recession" —based on data from the Bureau of Labor Statistics (and other local unemployment statistics). It chronicles unemployment in the US from January 2007 (4.6%) to June 2010 (9.7%). It's sort of horrifying.

Anyway, yeah. I've reached the point where I'm considering asking my agent if she can get me another novelization deal. Frankly, I'd rather eat dog shit than go through that special hell again, but the money was good. Of course, there's no guarantee the money would be good again, and it would derail my actual, for-real, trying-not-to-suck writing.

Now, I need to make an end to this entry, then go find THE END to "John Four."

* Nothing personal, Kindle. I hate all "eReaders" and "ebooks" equally on principle.
greygirlbeast: (Default)
A sunny, warm day in Providence. I want to be Outside, but there's so much work to do. Only ten days left until the trip to Oregon for the HPLFF, and there's so much to get done twixt now and then. Still, if I finish with the writing early, I may try to persuade Spooky to take me to the sea.

Tomorrow is Mabon.

Yesterday, I wrote 1,039 words on a very strange new piece for Sirenia Digest. Sort of a post-apocalyptic vignette, wherein the apocalypse seems to have been the coming of Nyarlathotep and Azathoth to earth. Or, more accurately, earth tumbling into Azathoth. I felt like doing something explicitly Lovecraftian just before the Festival in Portland, and this seems to be it. Also, I'm thinking #58 will be devoted entirely to my explicitly Lovecraftian tales (which are fewer and farther between than some may think), the new piece plus several of the old ones. By the way, I am adopting the term that Joshi sets forth in The Rise and Fall of the Cthulhu Mythos. Which is to say, I have never written Cthulhu Mythos stories, which are stories arising from August Derleth's bastardization of Lovecraft's vision into an inane struggle between good and evil. Instead, I do occasionally write stories that fit into the Lovecraft Mythos (if one must put a label on these things).

This morning I got word that the Jeff and Ann are very pleased with "The Key to the Castleblakeney Key," which was good news to wake to, as it is also a very strange story.

Spooky made the front page of Etsy this morning, with one of her Pumpkinhead Ghosts, between noon and one. You can see the rest of her Etsy shop here. And please have a look at the current eBay auctions (unless you intend to immediately resell on Amazon for a profit).

Anyway, the good writing day gave way to a very frustrating evening. I was supposed to do a bit of rp in Insilico. We started it and took a dinner break. And then I couldn't log back in, though I spent about an hour trying before I gave up. I have no idea what was going on (I was able to log on just fine this morning). So, instead, Spooky and I did some WoW, the Warsong Gulch Battle three times (because it was Call to Arms this weekend); Horde won twice, so not bad. But then we tried to do one of the Outland dungeons, the Steam Vault, and the boss kicked our blood-elf butts five times. And he's only some dumb ass fucking naga! So...yeah, a night of geeky frustrations.

In the wake of a week of illness, I'm now on a diet of Utterly Fucking Bland Food. Chicken and rice. Bananas. Potatoes. Bland, mushy, pale food. But at least maybe I'll be able to get back to digesting what I eat. Oh, and once you're past -05, you're are allowed to talk publicly about gross shit like this. Look it up.

Okay. Time to work.
greygirlbeast: (white)
Not a whole lot to write about, as regards yesterday. At least not, as regards writing. Since I didn't write yesterday.

Spooky and I chose Beavertail for our Mabon ritual. Last year we went farther east, out to Fort Weatherill. The weather was cloudy yesterday, and windy, but not cold. We found a good flat place on the rocks north of the lighthouse. No one nearby except a few fisherman. Sailboats in the bay. Gulls and cormorants.

Afterwards, we drove to Saundertown to visit Spooky's mom and dad (and get eggs and basil, squash and tomatoes). On the way back to Providence, we stopped to watch the sunset over a pumpkin patch north of Slocum. It was a good day. Autumn is not my season, but if it must come, it should be embraced.

There are photographs:

Mabon '09 )


Last night, we watched the Season premiere of Heroes. I liked the introduction of the carnival, and I still adore Zachary Quinto. But mostly, the show is what the show has always been. Not really good, just entertaining enough to keep you watching. Later, Spooky and I got in some WoW in the Badlands, with our Draenei characters, and we both reached Level 42.

Mabon '09

Sep. 22nd, 2009 12:18 pm
greygirlbeast: (Pagan1)
Like I said yesterday, not ready for autumn. But it's here all the same. And I will greet it as best I can. Spooky and I are taking the day off. We'll go to Beavertail, to the sea, and by her parent's farm for eggs and green tomatoes (and probably other things).

A joyous Mabon to all who observe the Sabbat, to all who celebrate the turning of the Wheel of the Year.


Yesterday, I did 1,039 words on "Charcloth, Firesteel, and Flint," the second piece for Sirenia Digest #46. And discovered that what I needed to be a 2k-word vignette is determined to be a 4k-word short story.

And as soon as this story's done, I need to sit down and gather all my notes and thoughts on Blood Oranges into some sort of coherent whole. And begin my Martian YA story, which is due November 1st. It will be set on the same Mars as was my "Bradbury Weather."

And promotional stuff for The Red Tree continues.


Last night, we saw Paul McGuigan's Push (2009), which I actually liked quite a lot. It was rather like an especially good episode of Heroes, only less goofy. We played some WoW; I'm really getting addicted to doing the battlefields, but, gods, I wish Blizzard could give us battlefields that were actual battlefields, something a little more imaginative than endless rounds of "Capture the Flag." No, I wish they would, because they certainly could. Then again, I see plenty of players who can't seem to grasp the simple concept behind "Capture the Flag." Later, we watched another episode from the second season of Dead Like Me. I didn't notice this so much the first time through the series, but Season Two really loses direction. It's not surprising, given the way the network ditched the show's creator, Bryan Fuller, back in Season One. The performances remain true, but the scripts just sort of flail about.

That was yesterday.
greygirlbeast: (The Red Tree)
Tomorrow is Mabon, and here I am, not even close to ready for autumn.

Yesterday was better, from a writing standpoint. I did 817 words on a new vignette for Sirenia Digest #46, which I'm calling "Charcloth, Firesteel, and Flint." Hopefully, when I read over the pages later today, I'll still like them.

Lovecraft scholar S.T. Joshi has written a genuinely beautiful review of The Red Tree, which will appear in the Fall 2009 issue of Dead Reckonings. He's given me permission to include excerpts from it in this entry. Now, however, I'm re-reading his review, and finding it almost as hard to excerpt as the novel itself. I do adore this line (how could I not?):

...but Kiernan’s witchery of words creates a mesmerising effect that we haven’t seen since the days of Lovecraft and Bradbury..

...and this bit near the end....

Those seeking a neat resolution to the overall scenario—either to the supernatural manifestation that is the red tree or to the lives and fates of the protagonists—are likely to be disappointed. As Sarah herself states at the end, “Just when you think it’s one thing, this story, it’ll go and become something else entirely.” The Red Tree is supremely rewarding not merely for its moments of terror, but for its ineffably sensitive display of the complexity of human emotions. It is a kind of “Heart of Darkness” for our time——an exploration of both the sinister darkness of the foreboding rural landscape and of the inscrutable darkness of the human heart. The reader comes away feeling privileged to have read it.

Anyway...yeah. This review, by a critic and scholar I so admire, has sort of helped pull me through the angry darkness of the past few days. But the excerpts do not do the review justice.


Yesterday, a reader asked: "You make me wonder, though, is it more important to be good or be recognized? I know both are best, but the question is for either or."

Which makes it a very hard question, indeed, if I am to choose only the one or the other. But you do have to begin all this by understanding that being a good writer does not even come near to a guarantee that one will also be recognized. Most good writers——most writers period——go unrecognized. Of course, here we would need to define our terms, good and recognized. The first possesses fewer problems than the latter, though the definition would be necessarily subjective, and would change, to a degree, from one reader to the next. But defining recognized, that's a tougher call. Are we talking about the critics and reviewers? Do we mean recognition to be synonymous with fame, and do we expect fame to bring financial stability or fortune? We all ask complex questions, often thinking them to be simple. And, you know what? I am not awake enough for this question. Maybe I'll come back to it...


Spooky's been getting lots of new stuff up at her Dreaming Squid Etsy shop, and you really ought to take a look. I stole one of the figurines for my own. If I had my way, I'd never let her sell any of them. These pieces are one of a kind and very time intensive.
greygirlbeast: (Pagan1)
An extremely good writing day yesterday. I did 1,864 words and finished Chapter Six of The Red Tree. Much better than Sunday, when I wrote only 1,010 words and did not finish the chapter. The manuscript is now 68,003 words long. There was no writing on Monday, because it was Mabon, and I had no intention of spending the whole sabbat at a keyboard. And now it is Wednesday, and I see that my last real entry was made on Sunday morning, which leaves me to play catch up again.

First, I want to announce that Frank Woodward's documentary, Lovecraft: Fear of the Unknown (in which I appear), winner of best documentary at this year's San Diego Comic thingy, will be screened at the Chaplin Theatre on Saturday, October 4th, at the absurdly early hour of 1:45 p.m. It's part of this year's Shriekfest, whatever that might be. This will be the film's Los Angeles premiere. Frank tells me it's also been slated for festivals in Buenos Aires and Montreal.

Sunday night we watched Jean-Pierre Jeunet's Le Fabuleux destin d'Amélie Poulain (2001), which I'd only seen the one time in the theatre. I'd forgotten what a truly perfect film it is.

Monday, we got out of the house as soon as we could, which I think was about 2 p.m., and headed south from Providence. First, we visited Game Stop in Warwick, because they had the World of Warcraft "Battle Chest" (Wow plus the "Burning Crusade" expansion) on sale, and we picked up a copy for me and another for Spooky. Yes, it's gone that far. I'll return to the subject of WoW shortly. Anyway, after Warwick, we'd intended to drive down to Moonstone Beach, but changed our minds (we have two of them, most of the time) and instead headed east towards Beavertail. But there was to be yet another change in plans. In Jamestown, we decided that instead of going on to Beavertail, we'd explore the southeastern edge of Conanicut Island, around the ruins of Ft. Wetherill. The first fort built on the coast here was Fort Louis (named for the King of France, yes), erected during the American Revolution. Later, it was Fort Dumpling (named for Dumpling Rock), after being lost to the Brits during the occupation of Newport. In 1900, the fort was renamed in honor of Captain Alexander Wetherill, an infantryman killed in the Battle of San Juan during the Spanish American War.

We parked and spent the afternoon on the rocky beaches, surrounded by high granite cliffs (an unnamed granite formation dating from the Late Proterozoic), searching for bits of beach glass. It was a grand way to spend the first day of Autumn, and I was more in need of actual Nature than Ritual, so it was also a grand way to spend Mabon. I needed that nearness to Panthalassa. So, I lay for hours on the cobble-strewn beach, the clear water of West Cove literally lapping at my feet. It was a grey overcast day, and quite chilly, but no rain. There were ravens and gulls and cormorants. We found lots of glass, including some rare violet and pink bits. The only other people we saw, I think, were two guys who'd been scuba diving in the cove. There were sail boats, and the wind made my ears ache. It was close to a perfect day. There are photos below, behind the cut.

As for World of Whorecrack, and what should have been Level Grind Part Two, let me just say that nothing takes the gung out of your ho (or mine, anyway), like having to endure two hours (!) loading the game software and innumerable patches. My free trial was almost up, so I went ahead and activated a paid account. But, yeah, the software took for fucking ever to load. And load. And load. It was after 9 p.m. before I actually got back to, you know, playing. I'd hoped to get back up to Lvl 15 last night, but having lost all that time loading the game, I only made it to 13. Still, not bad for two nights. Mithwen advances. But. I am beginning to wonder why I bothered switching from the PvP server to an RP server. In two nights, and maybe twelve hours of play over those two nights, except for a few exchanges between me and Spooky, I have yet to see anything resembling rp. I don't mean that I'm seeing bad rp. I'm just not seeing any rp at all. Not even an attempt. I do see lots of annoying ooc behavior and chat. And there's more traffic on the new server, which is sort of irritating, and people keep challenging me to duels (I decline, as it makes no sense in story, and they make no attempt to rp the requests). So...I am left to wonder. Why does Blizzard bother with rp servers, and why do all these people sign in to rp servers, when no one even tries to rp. There's no attempt that I can see at being in character, playing someone who is actually a part of Azeroth. As near as I can tell, it's not that players in WoW can't rp, it's more like the concept is entirely alien to them. I begin to suspect it never even crosses their mind, what "roleplay" actually means. Fortunately, it's a good enough game that I don't really care about the missing rp, and I suppose I could form a group devoted to actual rp. We'll see. But I am annoyed that I switched servers and started over.

Oh, and last night, while I was trying to dump some loot in the bank in Darnassus, some goofball named "Thirstyblood" shoved a guild charter in my face and asked if I would sign it. I did, since it seemed like it would be more trouble to say no. I did not know this would automatically make me a member. Duh. Anyway, shortly thereafter, the guild was activated and the title appeared over my head —— "Unholly Strength." I "whispered" to Thirstyblood and asked if he knew he'd misspelled "unholy." At first, he said no, he'd spelled it that way on purpose. He then admitted "unholy strength" was taken. I asked to leave the group. He wanted to know if I was leaving over the spelling, and I said yes, for starters. At this point, he changed his story again, and said it was just how he wanted to spell "unholy," and made a stink about having a right to spell things as he wished. I said fine, wonderful, just please let me leave. Never mind that we're playing Alliance, so it's a given that we at least probably wouldn't think of ourselves as unholy. Or unholly, for that matter. The guy was getting really...apoplectic...over me not respecting his "right" to spell words as he "chose." But, after five minutes or so of this, he did finally eject me from the guild. I wanted to ask if he called himself "Thirstyblood" because "Bloodthirsty" (which would have been bad enough) was already taken, or if that was a personal choice, too. Jesus fuck, where does all the stupid come from?

Anyway, I have to get to work on Sirenia Digest #34 (subscribe!) and look over the page proofs for the B is for Beginnings chapbook...but behind the cut:

Fort Wetherill, Mabon 2008 )
greygirlbeast: (Middle Triassic)
Soooooo...a Joyful Mabon to all those who mark the turning of the Wheel of the Year.

But, I'm making this post because a few of you expressed interest in joining me and Spooky in World of Warcraft. And I discovered this morning that I goofed when I set up my account last Saturday. You may recall, I was in the throes of tooth pain and Oxycodon. Instead of choosing an RP server, I chose a PVP server (Anub'arak). And we didn't catch it until this ayem, which might say something about the usefulness of WoW for actual rp. Anyway, despite the fact that my character, Merricat, was LvL 19+, and Spooky's, Syllahr, was 17+, tonight we started we've both started over on an RP server — Cenarian Circle. My new character looks exactly the same, but is named Mithwen, instead of Merricat, as I was in the mood for Sindarin (Mith = "grey" + the suffix wen, "maiden"). Spooky is still Syllahr, and she says I shouldn't be Tolkien's bitch. But I am. Anyway, as I write this, I've made it back up to Lvl. 8 (since 9:00 pm). And that's the server where we'll be, if anyone is looking for us. Apologies for any inconvenience.

I'll make a real post tomorrow.
greygirlbeast: (Illyria)
The last few months, my dreams have been strangely subdued. Strange for me, I mean. Only rarely have I had to cope with the old morning bouts of dreamsickness. I have no idea why. Anyway, the last week or so, the dreams have been back, bright and loud and insistent, and lingering long after I'm "awake."

Yesterday, I only managed 843 words on Chapter Six of The Red Tree. But. All my concerns about time aside, this morning I do at least retain the clarity to know that it's wrong to worry that you did not write enough on any given day that you sat trying to write. I will say, I think that The Red Tree is the book that I hope I one day have the opportunity to rewrite and expand. One day, I hope there might be a hardback edition with all the different fonts the text calls for, and the photographs, and facsimiles of letters, and all the rest. We can dream. By the way, here's the excerpt from Thoreau's The Maine Woods (1864) that appears in the novel (and offers a bit of insight into the novel, really):

…Nature was here something savage and awful, though beautiful. I looked with awe at the ground I trod on, to see what the Powers had made there, the form and fashion and material of their work. This was that Earth of which we have heard, made out of Chaos and Old Night. Here was no man's garden, but the unhandselled globe. It was not lawn, nor pasture, nor mead, nor woodland, nor lea, nor arable, nor waste-land. It was the fresh and natural surface of the planet Earth, as it was made for ever and ever, —— to be the dwelling of man, we say, —— so Nature made it, and man may use it if he can. Man was not to be associated with it. It was Matter, vast, terrific, —— not his Mother Earth that we have heard of, not for him to tread on, or be buried in, —— no, it were being too familiar even to let his bones lie there, —— the home, this, of Necessity and Fate. There was there felt the presence of a force not bound to be kind to man. It was a place for heathenism and superstitious rites, —— to be inhabited by men nearer of kin to the rocks and to wild animals than we. We walked over it with a certain awe, stopping, from time to time, to pick the blueberries which grew there, and had a smart and spicy taste. Perchance where our wild pines stand, and leaves lie on their forest floor, in Concord, there were once reapers, and husbandmen planted grain; but here not even the surface had been scarred by man, but it was a specimen of what God saw fit to make this world. What is it to be admitted to a museum, to see a myriad of particular things, compared with being shown some star's surface, some hard matter in its home! I stand in awe of my body, this matter to which I am bound has become so strange to me. I fear not spirits, ghosts, of which I am one, —— that my body might, — but I fear bodies, I tremble to meet them. What is this Titan that has possession of me? Talk of mysteries! —— Think of our life in nature, —— daily to be shown matter, to come in contact with it, —— rocks, trees, wind on our cheeks! The solid earth! the actual world! the common sense! Contact! Contact! Who are we? where are we?

And I should also express my gratitude for the many words of encouragement yesterday, though, in truth, that's not why I posted that entry. Rarely do I publicly express the self doubt that I always, always feel. But, as this journal is meant to be an accurate portrayal of what writing is like for me, it seems unfair to never include that part of it, when that part of it is really very front and center. I will never be the writer I want to be. I will always fall short of my own expectations. And maybe that's important, even vital. Maybe it's what keeps me moving.

Please have a look at the current eBay auctions, three of which end today. Also, let me remind you that the mass-market paperback of Daughter of Hounds is now available, and also that subpress is taking pre-orders for my first sf collection, A is for Alien.

A nasty bit of a headache this morning, and I have to beat it down, because there's no time for headaches.

As for the non-writing portion of yesterday, I don't know. I think yesterday and the two days before have sort of blurred together. Spooky has changed the summer altar dressings to the autumn altar dressings, in preparation for Mabon. We spent some time yesterday evening working on my office, which never really got completely unpacked and set up back in June. I reached a point and just sort of stopped unpacking and began writing. But its been bugging me. Spooky spent part of yesterday out photographing various buildings in Providence that we are recreating in the Howards End sim. Last night, we both played far, far too much World of Whorecrack. I fear we are well and truly hooked. I made it as far south as Ashenvale, and the Zoram Strand, which is quite gorgeous, even if the deer can kill you. Merricat has reached Level 18, and halfway to 19. Back on Earth, and actually before WoW, I had a hot bath, and we had leftovers for dinner. I think that was yesterday, more or less. Hubero says hi, by the way.
greygirlbeast: (Bowie3)
And here, already, it is Mabon. Too, too soon. Even after this dreadful summer, part of me dreads the approach of winter. Those blue skies. My aching feet. Ah, whatever. Here's wishing you a joyful Mabon, or Aban Efed, or Feast of the Ingathering, or simply a pleasant Autumnal Equinox.

As predicted, yesterday was all housecleaning, and now this place is a fair sight less cluttered and dusty. So, today we can return to work on Tales of Pain and Wonder — the last couple hundred line edits — and hopefully, tonight, I'll not be so fried I can't get back to work on the screenplay for "Onion."

Yesterday at dusk, we went out for our evening walk, and heard the screech owl (Megascops asio) that we've been hearing on our street for a couple of months now. Last night, though, we were fortunate enough to catch sight of her or him, perched on a branch near the road and crying out with the distinctive "whinny" of a screech owl, sort of like the sound an Hyracotherium might have made (assuming palaeotheriids whinnied, and they likely did not). It's an eerie, beautiful sound. We walked west almost as far as Inman Park, and returned to find Byron seated on our porch steps. We watched the "new" Torchwood, part of The Graham Norton Show, and then Mike Judge's Idiocracy. On the one hand, I'll admit the movie was funny, sort of like Futurama turned inside out. But on the other, Spooky and I agreed afterwards that its portrayal of a future human population where everyone is an slack-jawed, consumerized idiot to be not so very different from how we perceive the bulk of the present human populace, and in that regard the film is more annoying and creepifying than anything. I note the film has a 6.4 at IMDb, and a 67% fresh rating at Rotten Tomatoes.

Since I started Second Life back in May, I've seen a certain statistic bandied about, something to the effect of "53% of all Second Life women are really men." This morning, I was determined to track down the source of the number, but have so far had no luck. Though I'm quite certain that the number of men using female avatars is indeed extremely high, I also know that there's no reliable way of calculating the actual percentage, if only because most of them aren't going to admit that they're not really female. And I'm wondering, too, does this count as transvestitism...but that's a different kettle of fish. Anyway, the search led me to several articles wherein people were worrying about the possibility of Second Life cracking down on its (very large) furry population, by deeming sex with or between furries to be bestiality and therefore a violation of "community standards." Which got me to thinking where that would leave Nareth Nishi (at this point, she's 100% Nebari) or Miss Paine (25% Neko), as neither of us are genuinely human. And what about Klingon avs, and Vulcan avs, and Elvish avs, and Twi'lek avs, and so on and so forth. Sure, they're all humanoid, but they aren't any more human than a humanoid raccoon or horse or skunk. In fact, from a strictly biological standpoint, the sexual deviation involved in having sex with a humanoid skunk is far, far less than that involving congress with any humanoid alien race, as humans and skunks at least share a common genetic history and, somewhere back there, a shared common ancestor. Not so with humans and Nebari, or humans and Twi'lek, or whatever. Anyway, if anyone can actually find the source of the "53% of all Second Life women are really men" thing, please let me know. You'll get a cookie or something.

Yeah, so the day isn't getting any younger, and this typescript isn't getting any less menacing, so I suppose I should wrap this up.
greygirlbeast: (dr10-1)
Last night, the insomnia demanded two Ambien, and so this morning...this afternoon, which I see it has mind is no where near awake. Any moment now, the floor will drop out from beneath me to reveal the deepest, darkest part of the sea, and maybe, if I'm lucky, I'll realize that I'm only dreaming.

Yesterday was all proofreading, editing, and so forth, and there is nothing much there to write about. Towering waves of tedium, that's all.

Oh, but now I have iced coffee. Thank you, Spooky.

I've got to find the time and motivation to get back to the "Onion" screenplay, because not only do I have the very patient producer D waiting on it, I now also have a director of some considerable merit wanting a look at it, and here I am stuck in these endless hallways of proofing and editing. This could be the project that changes everything, and, somehow, I have spent the last few months not being able to find the bloody time to sit down and do it. I have promised myself I will return to the screenplay tomorrow night (as tomorrow day must be spent editing Tales of Pain and Wonder). Opportunity knocks, and it seems I'm too obsessed with commas to answer the frelling door.

I've been meaning to say, Spooky's done more of her mini-Cthulhu figures — the last of the bunch, I think — and you can see a photo of #3 in her Squid Soup blog, here. I adore these wee bastards. They are for sale. $40 each. Which reminds me, we need to get eBay going again (groan), because Victoria Regina (my old iBook) needs a new battery, and that's gonna set me back about $150.

Tomorrow is Mabon. I swear, this summer was half a blink, at most. The wheel turns.

Last night, Byron came for dinner and Doctor Who. We did the Vortex at L5P, and though last night's episode was very intriguing, "Blink" is a damned hard act to follow. Later, the three of us dropped by Videodrome for the director's cut of Tony Scott's True Romance. I have it on VHS, but it's frelling pan and scan, and Byron has it on DVD, but can't find it. And we'd started reciting lines during dinner, so how else were we supposed to spend the last two hours of Friday night? After Byron headed for home, Spooky and I did just a dab of Second Life, because New Babbage grew by one-third its total size yesterday with the arrival of the Port Babbage sim. Right now, it's a flat expanse of rock and drying seaweed, crisscrossed by freshly lain railroad. Soon it will the bustling commercial heart of the city. I think we were in bed by 1:30 a.m., and Spooky read another two chapters of Dune aloud. And then I proceeded not to be able to fall asleep.

Today, we're going to take a break from editing long enough to clean house, because some times these things simply have to be done — so grab a broom, Mr. Platypus...
greygirlbeast: (Nar'eth4)
Not even half enough sleep on Monday night, followed by virtually no sleep on Tuesday night, and every moment that I did manage to sleep, the dreams were right there, violent and bright and they always know exactly where to frelling jab. All the soft spots. So the first half of yesterday is a blur. Dreamsick and unable to quite wake up or focus my eyes. Finally, in one of those cure or kill strokes of desperation, I made certain alterations to my body chemistry and the dreams loosened their hold and, Lo!, I was able to write. I did 621 words on "Daughter of Man, Mother of Wyrm," which was quite a bit better than the paltry 225 words I did on Tuesday. Better still, what I wrote yesterday I can actually use. On Tuesday, I sat myself down to write a "weirdly erotic" vignette and began, instead, an intricate and bawdy Gilliamesque fantasy which would have required a good 12,000 words to complete. Spooky loved it, but I've set it aside for another time. Right now, there's only time for Tales from the Woeful Platypus and Sirenia Digest 10. All the way to the end of September, there is time for nothing else.

This month, the digest will, once again, be a little late. I just got the rough sketch from Vince's illustration for "Untitled 23" last night (it's gonna be gorgeous, the finished piece). And Sonya and I still have a ways to go on our collaboration. I'm hoping that the digest will go out on Tuesday or Wednesday. For my part, I'd rather it be done well than be done on time, and I hope you feel the same. I do thank you all for your patience.

Over at "Tropism," Tim Pratt has very nice things to say about Daughter of Hounds.

We're getting a foretaste of autumn, just in time for Mabon. We needed sweaters for our walk last night. The sky has assumed that startling, disarming shade of bottomless blue. I am made uneasy by such wide monochrome skies. But the nip in the air is nice, I must admit.

The Shakespeare binge was interupted Tuesday night by Prachya Pinkaew's Ong-bak (2003), because Byron said we should see it. And yes, Tony Jaa does have the moves. Then, last night, we watched Ralph Nelson's Lilies of the Field (1963) with Sidney Poitier. It's an old favourite I'd not seen in a while. Spooky made a marvelously spicy bean and cabbage soup for dinner, a Spanish recipe, which we shall have again tonight.

Ah, and here's a photo Spooky took Monday of a mantid visitor to our front porch (behind the cut):

Hi there )


greygirlbeast: (Default)
Caitlín R. Kiernan

February 2012

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