greygirlbeast: (white2)
Any email that begins "Dear Beloved Friend" (or that has those words in its subject line) is either from a funeral parlor, evangelical Xtians, or an East-African money laundering scam.

I managed to get to sleep by three ayem this morning, and slept eight and a half hours, which is all but unheard of, as me and sleep goes. Yesterday's mood was so black, just before midnight I gave up trying to do much of anything. But, I'm getting ahead of myself, having begun the wrong way round.

It's raining today. I already miss the sunlight of yesterday. I didn't used to mind the rain.

Yesterday I was supposed to write more on Blood Oranges. Instead, I spent pretty much the whole afternoon dealing with the bonus section of illustrations that will be appearing in the limited edition of Two Worlds and In Between. I'd not been told we couldn't use color illustrations (because they have to be mechanically tipped in, etc. and etc.), so I'd included Ryan Obermeyer's marvelous cover for The Dry Salvages (it's there on his website; just use the menu until you find berliner dom). So, as I wasn't about to do the painting injustice by having it reproduced in black and white, I had to find a new piece to replace it (which wound up being a second Dame Darcy drawing from In the Garden of Poisonous Flowers. And there was more to dealing with the art, and more, and more.

And then my agent called...and we talked a lot. About the NEWS THAT IS SO GOOD, SO COOL I can't talk about it yet. After that, I was shot for the day. We had an early dinner, then headed out to the RISD museum for a FREE showing of Stanley Donen's Funny Face (1957). And then we strolled through the museum's temporary "Cocktail Culture" exhibit, and then we came home again.

I tried to rp, but the scene just kept feeling flatter and flatter, and I knew it was my fault and finally bowed out. I lay on the floor in the front parlor for a while, watching Spooky playing Alice: The Madness Returns, which is actually very beautiful. But the black mood grew blacker, and eventually I crawled off to bed. My pills let me sleep.

And that's yesterday, kittens. Today, the black mood is still with me. I'll sew something from it, which is usually the way of things.

Whiner: "Why are your stories always so dark?"

Me: "I make the best I can of what I'm given, that's why."

Whiner: "You're just not trying hard enough. You dwell on the darkness."

Me: "Go fuck yourself."

Now, that said, please do have a look at Round 2 of the Big Damn eBay Auction. Thanks.

Comments would be a kindness, here in the fading, last days or months or years of LiveJournal. Then again, now that we have Facebook, where communication apparently thrives in the absence of capitalization, proper spelling, and punctuation....*

Bound and Gagged,
Aunt Beast

* I'm not talking about people who misuse punctuation and capitalization. I'm talking about people who can't be bothered to use any at all.
greygirlbeast: (chi 5)
Whatever this entry might have been, it's going to be this entry, instead. And you can thank Monsieur Insomnie for that, for keeping me up all night and into the day with his deviant shenanigans. I said deviant, not devious.

Um...

Trip recounting Part Two. Yeah, well that's not really going to happen. Or it's not going to happen the way it would have, had I slept. Insomnia's sort of like time travel. Shit still happens, but it happens differently than it would have, because the worldline's been altered.

Day Two. We went to the American Museum of Natural History. I have many fond memories of the AMNH. The last time I'd been there was May 2001, and I was there as a paleontologist researching mosasaurs. I sat in the dusty attic, filled with cabinets of fossils and labels written in Cope's own spidery hand, and worked on a project that I was never able to finish. The museum's changed a bit in the last ten years. Mostly not for the better. And these are the two things that cycled through my mind repeatedly while we were there on Wednesday.

In the Hall of Biodiversity, I sat down and made some notes about how natural history museums are - partly by necessity, partly by way of wrongheaded educators - going the way of the dinosaurs they display. Funding continues to dry up, and museums have to find ways to stay afloat. So, they become more and more like theme parks. It's called "infotainment," which requires "interactive" gimmicks, instead of hands-off exhibits with, you know, words and stuff. Add to this a maze of gift shops. I gag on that sickly portmanteau, "infotainment." Anyway, in my little black notebook, I wrote:

More and more, the old museum has been lost to the ravages of "infotainment." And to that add hundreds upon hundreds of screeching children*. The sense of sanctuary has been lost, that secular Cathedral to Science and Nature that was once the hallmark of good museums. The quiet dignity. I watch the people, and they file past, hardly even pausing to actually look at anything. Video monitors everywhere, sensory overload. Very sad seeing this.

Okay, I feel bad enough without harping on the Death of Museums right now. I'll come back to it some other time.

---

"Fake Plastic Trees" has sold to Ellen Datlow and Terry Windling for their post-apocalyptic YA anthology, After. I suppose, at this point, everything that postdates tomorrow is post-apocalyptic.

Also, while I have decided to write Blood Oranges before Blue Canary, it's not what I actually want to do. Many factors come into play. Blood Oranges is a peculiar lark of a book. Blue Canary is my future (I hope). By the way, with my agent's blessings, I'll be writing the latter as Kathleen Rory Tierney. Or Kathleen R. Tierney. But the R will stand for Rory, whether people know it or not. Someday, I may write another novel like The Drowning Girl or The Red Tree. We shall see. Time will tell. Regardless, all this is a change of direction of my choosing.

Yesterday...um...yesterday, I signed 600+ signature sheets for Two Worlds and In Between (which required two hours and forty-five minutes). I emailed stories to two editors for two anthologies. I answered email. The REAL mail came, and there was a chunk of granite (brick red with grey phenocrysts) from Ryan Obermeyer, which he picked up on the shore of the Red Sea, at Hurghada, during his recent trip to Egypt. Actually, the stone came from out of the water of the Red Sea.

My foot hurts like hell. If hell hurts, and they tell us it will.

Last night, good rp in Rift. The guild grows, and its story begins to unfold.

And I'm going to hit myself in the face now.

Deliriously,
Aunt Beast

P.S. -- My birthday soon. Please give me stuff.

* Once, when I was young, children actually knew how to behave in museums. Now, the teachers chaperoning field trips have probably been bullied by helicopter parents to the point that they're afraid of telling kids to keep it down, for fear of lawsuits charging them with stifling self-expression or some bullshit. So, we get these fucking brats with a sense of entitlement.

May 17-18, Part Two )

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Caitlín R. Kiernan

February 2012

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