Caitlín R. Kiernan

My thanks to jacobluest for the marvelous subject line.

Yesterday, I wrote 945 words and finished "The Crimson Alphabet." It closed with "W is for White Noise," "X is for Xenotropic," "Y is for Yuki-onna," and "Z is for Zipper." And I am pleased. Part Two will, of course, be included in Sirenia Digest #26 later this month.

Not much else to yesterday that's worth posting here. I did not leave the house. Spooky made an unexpectedly wonderful dinner of spinach and red bell-pepper quiche with chicken sausage on the side (spiced with garlic and more red pepper). The weather warmed up into the high '60s.

This morning a dream that seemed a continuation of the dream from yesterday morning, and I really, truly do hope I'm not entering another round of the sorts of recurring nightmares that led to my writing "A Season of Broken Dolls" and "In View of Nothing." I don't know that I'm up for that sort of dual life right now, mentally or physically. Anyway, for what it's worth, there was a great deal more wandering about on that "space balloon" vessel. I saw Africa through the porthole again. There were catwalks, like in a dirigible. The air was intensely cold and dry, and my lips were so chapped they bled. At one point, I was in a rather vast sort of cargo bay, hiding behind a wall of plastic crates, listening to a conversation I could not clearly make out. And later, I was in my compartment, dressing the orange man's gunshot wound. Blood up to my wrists, white gauze and surgical tape (but no scissors, and I "cut" it with my teeth), no exit wound. He'd apparently passed out and was motionless and did not talk as I worked. Later still, I was sitting in something like a dining car/lounge, smoking and drinking coffee, and trying to look inconspicuous in my huge fur coat.

For we're living in a safety zone.
Don't be holding back from me.
We're living from hour to hour down here,
And we'll take it when we can.
It's a kind of living which recognizes,
The death of the odourless man.
When nothing is vanity, nothing's too slow.
It's not Eden, but it's no sham.

(David Bowie, "The Motel")

Oh, Spooky listed more eBay items last night. Please have a look.

Today, I need to go Outside (yes, Outside!), and find a day-planner for 2008, as Green Tiger Press, makers of the splendid "Magic Spectacles" day-planners I've used the last four years have not released one for 2008. My doctor's appointment was put off until Friday. I'll spend part of the day on the corrections for the 3rd edition of Tales of Pain and Wonder, answering questions for sovay, who kindly consented to proof that monster of a ms. for me. I'd simply read it too many times to trust my eyes.

Okay. Coffee, proof of the reality of evolutionary exaptation.

Yesterday, I did a very respectable 1,522 words on "The Crimson Alphabet," managing to get from F to H (futanari, gallery, hive, and inhuman). F was the best of the four. Today, I'll do J through M and finish the first half for Sirenia Digest #25.

Afterwards, Spooky made spaghetti for dinner, and then we went out into the cold and the dark to see Blade Runner: The Final Cut at the Plaza on Ponce. Thing is, I'm probably one of the biggest damn Blade Runner geeks on the planet. I've long since lost count of how many times I've seen previous incarnations of the film, but would not be surprised if it were close to two hundred. It's one of those films I love so much I can recite it in my sleep. I was there on opening night on June 25th 1982. I was 18 years old; that particular theatre (Eastwood Twin at Eastwood Mall) was long ago torn down. I was there in 1994 when the "director's cut" was released (this time I saw it in a theatre in Athens, GA), and I thought, Yes, finally, they've put it back together (though, in truth, it was a rush job that Scott wasn't happy with). I've gone through a VHS of the film and two DVDs. All of this is just to say that I was very excited about seeing the "final cut" last night, more than twenty-five years after its initial release. And I was not disappointed. More than anything, this is a cleaner, tidier cut, not so much narratively different film from the 1994 release as cinematographically different. Some really annoying shots have been fixed. The best example, offhand, is when Roy Batty releases the white dove, and we get the shot of it flying away. Before, it was always this ugly, muddy blue shot that never made much sense, like we were seeing a shot that didn't really belong in the film. Now, we see the dove rising up towards the lights of the city skyline. The only thing I found jarring was one of Batty's lines during his confrontation with Tyrrell. In the previous two cuts I've seen, he says "I want more life, fucker." It sounds like he's about to say father, but changes his mind. In the "final cut," he says "father," instead. It's a somewhat inexplicable change and absolutely the only one I disagreed with. Overall, it's a gorgeous cut, and the sound (even at the Plaza, which does not have the best sound system in town) is crisp and possessed of more depth than I ever before noticed. It was just about the best way I could have imagined spending dratted Xmas Eve (short of getting that modest harem of nubile young Asian cyborgs with tentacle implants in just the right places that I mentioned a several days ago). I even took a few photos to mark the day:

( A Nerd's Pilgrimage )

But that's about it for yesterday. The next four letters of the alphabet await, as does coffee.