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greygirlbeastI did 1,550 words yesterday.
I also obsessively checked the Amazon.com sales ranking on Daughter of Hounds at least once every hour. The book made it all the way up to 8,014 at one point. By the way, the platypus says that the 5th of January, should it happen to fall two days after the full moon, is the best date of all to order a copy of Daughter of Hounds. Hesheit is an amazing beast, the platypus, filled with wisdom and wit, piss and vinegar. Hesheit claims to have once lived beneath the desk of Isaac Asimov, and I wouldn't put it past himherit. One must never short-change a platypus.
There's a great wall of thunderstorms barreling down on Atlanta as I type this.
Last night, we watched Neil LaBute's 2006 remake of Robin Hardy's The Wicker Man, and, really, the less said the better. This film would have been right at home in some mid-70s TV line-up, it was just that dull. Long have I said that Nicolas Cage makes two sorts of films, the brilliant and the abominable. This falls squarely into the latter camp. And just about anything else I might say about the film would only open one of those cans of political worms, and I've better things to do. After the wretched film, we read quite a bit more of Gregory Maguire's Lost, which grows more interesting.
—————
This morning I escaped a severe bout of dreamsickness by the merest fraction of a hair. I woke just after 10 a.m. (CaST), an hour later than I would have liked, from some cybernoir fiasco. There was snow the colour of rust. I may be able to blame The Road for that part. I'd lost a syringe of some sort and all manner of nonsense depended upon my finding it again. There were interminable conversations, and I cut my hand (I can't recall which one) on a broken bottle. The "plot" of this thing, Margaret Atwood's dreaded "a what and a what and a what," has faded almost beyond recollection. And that's a good thing, I suspect. But there were robots — not androids, but robots — none of which seemed to work quite as they should. I had a tiny, unheated apartment garishly lit by exposed fluorescent tubes that seemed to flicker incessantly. The floor was always wet. Not damp, but wet tile. I had sex with a very beautiful legless albino woman, and she had whole galaxies in her blue eyes. There was something that happened on a rickety fire escape overlooking a sort of gigantic excavation. I don't think I ever did manage to get the syringe back, so that's probably why I wound up back here, pecking at this keyboard. That dream me was probably murdered by a corporate hit man or North Korean double agents or a legless albino woman. I will never know.
I also obsessively checked the Amazon.com sales ranking on Daughter of Hounds at least once every hour. The book made it all the way up to 8,014 at one point. By the way, the platypus says that the 5th of January, should it happen to fall two days after the full moon, is the best date of all to order a copy of Daughter of Hounds. Hesheit is an amazing beast, the platypus, filled with wisdom and wit, piss and vinegar. Hesheit claims to have once lived beneath the desk of Isaac Asimov, and I wouldn't put it past himherit. One must never short-change a platypus.
There's a great wall of thunderstorms barreling down on Atlanta as I type this.
Last night, we watched Neil LaBute's 2006 remake of Robin Hardy's The Wicker Man, and, really, the less said the better. This film would have been right at home in some mid-70s TV line-up, it was just that dull. Long have I said that Nicolas Cage makes two sorts of films, the brilliant and the abominable. This falls squarely into the latter camp. And just about anything else I might say about the film would only open one of those cans of political worms, and I've better things to do. After the wretched film, we read quite a bit more of Gregory Maguire's Lost, which grows more interesting.
—————
This morning I escaped a severe bout of dreamsickness by the merest fraction of a hair. I woke just after 10 a.m. (CaST), an hour later than I would have liked, from some cybernoir fiasco. There was snow the colour of rust. I may be able to blame The Road for that part. I'd lost a syringe of some sort and all manner of nonsense depended upon my finding it again. There were interminable conversations, and I cut my hand (I can't recall which one) on a broken bottle. The "plot" of this thing, Margaret Atwood's dreaded "a what and a what and a what," has faded almost beyond recollection. And that's a good thing, I suspect. But there were robots — not androids, but robots — none of which seemed to work quite as they should. I had a tiny, unheated apartment garishly lit by exposed fluorescent tubes that seemed to flicker incessantly. The floor was always wet. Not damp, but wet tile. I had sex with a very beautiful legless albino woman, and she had whole galaxies in her blue eyes. There was something that happened on a rickety fire escape overlooking a sort of gigantic excavation. I don't think I ever did manage to get the syringe back, so that's probably why I wound up back here, pecking at this keyboard. That dream me was probably murdered by a corporate hit man or North Korean double agents or a legless albino woman. I will never know.
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Date: 2007-01-06 03:11 am (UTC)