Caitlín R. Kiernan (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
greygirlbeast) wrote2011-10-09 01:18 pm
greygirlbeast) wrote2011-10-09 01:18 pm
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"And reasons exist, for reasons alone, where the wild things were once."
Oh my bloody fucking fuck. I am so fucking over this aging thing. I did something stupid to my hip...my FREAKING fucking hip...yesterday. Probably when I was trying to clean and reorganize part of my office, rearranging bookshelves in the vain attempt to turn that House on Ash Tree Lane trick and create larger spaces within smaller spaces. It didn't work, but I feel like, during my sleep, someone took a sledgehammer to my left hip. Wanna wake up really goddamn fast? Forget fucking coffee. Trying motherfucking hip pain. Tiger balm and two Doan's tablets—yes, motherfucking Doan's tablets—have dulled the pain enough that I'll be able to sit up and write. But FUCK THIS SHIT (to quote Frank Black). This winter, I'm joining a gym and getting this meatbag into some semblance of working order. Last night (not suspecting the hip pain was headed my way), Spooky and I were discussing how we both need to lose some weight. Using Hubero as a standard of weight measurement, it was decided I need to lose 1 Hubero. That's one whole FAT cat I'm carrying around, all day and every day. Again (second verse, same as the first), FUCK THAT SHIT.
Oh, and please. No commiseration, or I feel your pain, or whatever. No stories that go something like: "Well, when I was only fifteen years old I was riding my bicycle and a pit bull grabbed my ankle and dragged me and the bike—by the ankle, mind you—twelve blocks, up hill both ways, before it was shot in the head by a kindly spaceman who called an ambulance that hitched my ankle to its back fender and dragged me twelve miles, up hill both ways, over a dirt road that was mostly potholes, all the way to the hospital—which was closed! Now, you wanna talk hip pain? That's hip pain!" None of those stories. In fact, I want a T-shirt that reads, simply, "Do Not Commiserate."
But at least the Hip Agony does help me not feel so bad that I'm spending the Last Warmest Day of 2011 in Rhode Island (going up to about 85˚F) trying to fix the timeline, instead of "chillaxing" (hold on while I choke myself for using that odious "word," even sarcastically) at the beach, swimming, losing a cat.
Anyway...
Yesterday was mostly me discovering that things were worse than I suspected. That failed time-travel experiment? Well, feel free to blame me for the Eighties. That's right. Blame me for the entire decade. But...Frank the Goat's on it, and there may yet be hope. You may wake up tomorrow and have no idea whatsoever that the Eighties ever occurred, because they won't have. Unless we fail, me and Frank (that's me and Frank the Goat, not me and Frank Black—and I mean Frank Black from Blue Velvet, not Frank Black, née Black Francis, from the Pixies, or the ultra-cool-and-spooky Frank Black from Millennium, and certainly not Frank the Interdimensional Demon Bunny), and that's always a possibility. One must never underestimate the likelihood of failure. John DeLorean, he underestimated his ability to fail...and look how that turned out. And of course I'm right. I'm me.
Next week's shoot for the book trailer for The Drowning Girl: A Memoir races towards us (five days to go), and...frankly (black), I'm terrified. Will we be ready? I'm gonna roll a 1d4 and hold my breath.
Um...and...what?
Last night, Spooky and I saw last week's episode of Fringe, "One October Night," and..wow. Olivia and Fauxlivia. That was pretty much a slash episode (albeit, without the hot Fauxlivia-on-Olivia sex). And we watched another episode from Season Four of Mad Men. Oh, and something that I can't (or, rather, won't) show you until tomorrow.
And then I looked through the marvelous Dark Horse hardback collection of Bernie Wrightson stuff from the pages of Creepy and Eerie (thank you, Steven Lubold!), then read another story from the Halloween anthology, "Three Doors" by Norman Partridge. The story itself is so-so, but it's narrative technique has moments of sheer brilliance. To whit:
"Doesn't matter to me how you explain it.
I'm not here to draw you a diagram.
I'm just here to tell you a story."
The voice of the narrator (ergo, the author), is a grand "fuck you" to all the morons who want their hands held during story time. In fact, those lines echo rather remarkably Quinn's attitude towards her imagined readers in Blood Oranges: "You can believe this or not. Whatever"
But now, now I must go fix the timeline, so you who are old enough can stop remembering "designer stubble", Guns N' Roses, and the return of shoulder pads.
Accidentally Retro,
Aunt Beast (in pain we trust)
Oh, and please. No commiseration, or I feel your pain, or whatever. No stories that go something like: "Well, when I was only fifteen years old I was riding my bicycle and a pit bull grabbed my ankle and dragged me and the bike—by the ankle, mind you—twelve blocks, up hill both ways, before it was shot in the head by a kindly spaceman who called an ambulance that hitched my ankle to its back fender and dragged me twelve miles, up hill both ways, over a dirt road that was mostly potholes, all the way to the hospital—which was closed! Now, you wanna talk hip pain? That's hip pain!" None of those stories. In fact, I want a T-shirt that reads, simply, "Do Not Commiserate."
But at least the Hip Agony does help me not feel so bad that I'm spending the Last Warmest Day of 2011 in Rhode Island (going up to about 85˚F) trying to fix the timeline, instead of "chillaxing" (hold on while I choke myself for using that odious "word," even sarcastically) at the beach, swimming, losing a cat.
Anyway...
Yesterday was mostly me discovering that things were worse than I suspected. That failed time-travel experiment? Well, feel free to blame me for the Eighties. That's right. Blame me for the entire decade. But...Frank the Goat's on it, and there may yet be hope. You may wake up tomorrow and have no idea whatsoever that the Eighties ever occurred, because they won't have. Unless we fail, me and Frank (that's me and Frank the Goat, not me and Frank Black—and I mean Frank Black from Blue Velvet, not Frank Black, née Black Francis, from the Pixies, or the ultra-cool-and-spooky Frank Black from Millennium, and certainly not Frank the Interdimensional Demon Bunny), and that's always a possibility. One must never underestimate the likelihood of failure. John DeLorean, he underestimated his ability to fail...and look how that turned out. And of course I'm right. I'm me.
Next week's shoot for the book trailer for The Drowning Girl: A Memoir races towards us (five days to go), and...frankly (black), I'm terrified. Will we be ready? I'm gonna roll a 1d4 and hold my breath.
Um...and...what?
Last night, Spooky and I saw last week's episode of Fringe, "One October Night," and..wow. Olivia and Fauxlivia. That was pretty much a slash episode (albeit, without the hot Fauxlivia-on-Olivia sex). And we watched another episode from Season Four of Mad Men. Oh, and something that I can't (or, rather, won't) show you until tomorrow.
And then I looked through the marvelous Dark Horse hardback collection of Bernie Wrightson stuff from the pages of Creepy and Eerie (thank you, Steven Lubold!), then read another story from the Halloween anthology, "Three Doors" by Norman Partridge. The story itself is so-so, but it's narrative technique has moments of sheer brilliance. To whit:
"Doesn't matter to me how you explain it.
I'm not here to draw you a diagram.
I'm just here to tell you a story."
The voice of the narrator (ergo, the author), is a grand "fuck you" to all the morons who want their hands held during story time. In fact, those lines echo rather remarkably Quinn's attitude towards her imagined readers in Blood Oranges: "You can believe this or not. Whatever"
But now, now I must go fix the timeline, so you who are old enough can stop remembering "designer stubble", Guns N' Roses, and the return of shoulder pads.
Accidentally Retro,
Aunt Beast (in pain we trust)
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I'm now imagining all those Frank Blacks mashed up into one character...would that work?
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Take down Guns n Roses, with my blessing - I fucking hated them with a passion. I'd be happy to never remember them.
One word: sucked.
I'm now imagining all those Frank Blacks mashed up into one character...would that work?
No.
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Good luck on losing your Huberos. I think I have three of him to lose.
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Surprised to hear you want to join a gym. The humanity at such a facility is depressing. Thought maybe beach walking might be more up your alley. Or hiking. However, I can see the efficiency related to time in the gym deal.
The gym would be cheaper, more time efficient, and safer. Walking on a beach in Rhode Island (which would take some time and gas to reach, considering where we live in Rhode Island). Walking beaches after, say, early November would result in hypothermia within two minutes.
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though not as well as Hubero does.
Hubero's such an old queen he thinks he wears it like Marilyn Monroe wore diamonds.
The Sturgeon this is obvious!
And yes, audio books!
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http://www.amazon.com/Your-Shape-Fitness-Evolved-Xbox-360/dp/B002I0H9WM/
I started using it in order to help with some anxiety/insomnia issues, and it’s helped so much I haven’t stopped. I’ve lost 40 pounds so far this year.
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I’m not sure if you have an Xbox360/Kinect, but this game’s been working for me on the weight loss front (and without the annoying commute and forced human interaction):
I don't have those consoles, and anything I'd have to do at home, I wouldn't do.
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By the way, I dreamed about you last night. I had a copy of The Drowning Girl, and read it; and posted on my blog that it was one of the most significant novels ever written, the most sublime and terrifying thing I had ever read. I remember being so nervous about posting, because the copy I had was one I had clearly stolen. But I did it just the same, I typed, and clicked "post". And then: you flew like a dark storm over the coast of New England. And I was standing at my window, watching the sun sink down into the dark of the jagged skyline, only to realize I was facing east, and the sun was not setting. It was you, flying across the water and down toward me, and I was going to pay for my transgression, for betraying everything you loved, everything you'd worked for, for betraying the written word. And then the world grew dark and something hit my chest. And then there was you, writing a codex to the novel, dipping your silver claws in and out of my chest as you used my blood to write the words. And I woke up, sweating and strangling in my sheets.
It was a wonderful dream.
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It was a wonderful dream.
You're welcome.
Maybe that's how I hurt my hip.
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We'll both be at Readercon next year: I'll buy you and Spooky a drink, and you can punch my hip in return.
I'll bring a crowbar.
I can take it - I feel pretty much nothing anymore.
Well, my worst pain, it isn't precisely physical. So this shit takes me by surprise.
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please fix Jan 6, 1988 when you can. I will be deeply in your debt if you can.
on the comisseration, there is that old joke about the two people who were trying to outdo each other on how miserable their lives were... I still remember the bit about "and we lived in a shoebox in the middle of the highway" ...
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Ah, the Four Yorkshiremen bit... Monty Python did a wonderful version.
Here's an early version with Marty Feldman:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-eDaSvRO9xA
Here's a live version:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xe1a1wHxTyo
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You can cut out a big bloody chunk of my hip bone to replace your painful piece.
That's a kind offer, but I think I'll seek less drastic solutions first.
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I think you need a T-shirt with that on it.
or the ultra-cool-and-spooky Frank Black from Millennium
Nobody warned me there was a first-season episode with him and Brad Dourif. My brain almost ran out my ears.
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I think you need a T-shirt with that on it.
Agreed.
My brain almost ran out my ears.
Nice.
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Yeah. Duly noted. But truth would have blown the whole paragraph...
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And of course I'm right. I'm me.
So say we all! And a pox on aging, a particularly nasty wart-ridden one.
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I'm still laughing about Snert.
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I dreamed we moved the fridge outside and put it in the oleander for shade. Then there was violence, as there so often is.
Oleander would be a good name for an imaginary offspring. Oleander and Datura. If I ever get clucky, I'll just take it out on my cats.
Last night there was a visit from the Midnight Muse, and fiendish writing til the wee hours. Odd stories, one I somewhat think you would like (yes, I am that arrogant), and some of the strangest, most wondrous ideas of my life so far.
I'm sorry for the rambling, I'm not sure I'm awake, nor that I want to be. I suffer mornings most of all, as Amanda says.
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I suffer mornings most of all, as Amanda says.
A fine turn of phrase.
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As a secondary sufferer of hip-pain - my wife hits me with her crutches when her osteoarthritis plays up and I try and be sympathetic - I have no idea of the pain experienced and I don't care to find out. I try to be as nice as possible and say out of her - long - reach. Hopefully the Huberoctomy works.
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As a secondary sufferer of hip-pain - my wife hits me with her crutches when her osteoarthritis plays up and I try and be sympathetic - I have no idea of the pain experienced and I don't care to find out. I try to be as nice as possible and say out of her - long - reach.
I hope this was meant to be funny.
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You're welcome. So, now...you know.
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