Caitlín R. Kiernan

The humidity is so high in this house I think the walls are about the begin dripping. I believe I can wring water from my socks.

I was dreaming of a life in a city, a filthy 20th-century city that had grown ancient and mean. Cruel, this city. Staircases that rose and descended forever, towards attics that could never be gained, and basements where no one ever dared go. The city, which was rotting, abutted the sea, which was rotten. I swam in water the color of strong tea, and there was a very large shark that swam past me. I photographed it. Among all those decaying tenements there was a sanitarium, or asylum, that seemed to have grown between and through many of the other buildings like a parasitic organism. My head ached, as if my head had always ached. Paranoia. Climbing and descending stairs. The certainty of being pursued, whether pursuers were in evidence or not. NecroNoir. A whole world in dead shades of brown and grey. The camera with the shark photograph on it lost, and a desperate hunt for it, as, somehow, the proof of my sanity rested with the proof of the shark. Windows looking out over sagging rooftops. Never anything to the sky but clouds.

I wish I could remember more, because there was a lot more. But I'm glad I can't remember more.

There's a shark shaped fin
In the water of my dreams.
Alligator screams from the depths there
I'd swim with you there...

---

Yesterday, I wrote 1,894 words and finished "Figurehead," which will appear in Sirenia Digest #67, which should be out on (or before) the 5th of June. When I was done with the story, I sent it to sovay, who brought up the relevance of passages from Ovid's Metamorphoses (1.125 — 134). I read a lot of Ovid long ago in college, but most of it's only echoes now. Sometimes, in need of inspiration*, I go back to the Metamorphoses (which is likely obvious). Anyway, she pointed me to a passage that was so alike to the theme of "Figurehead" that I felt the unnerving sensation of experiencing inspiration after the fact:

A third generation followed them, of bronze
and more savage by nature, readier with harsh arms,
yet not wicked; of hard iron was the very last.
All at once there broke into the age of baser ore
every wrong — shame and truth and loyalty fled
and in their place came trickery and deceit
and treachery and force and the wicked love of having.
The seaman spread his sails to the winds he did not yet
understand, and what had stood long on high mountains
now tossed as keels on unknown waves...

If you take the digest, you see what I mean. If you don't, you won't.

Last night, we played far too much Rift, fighting an endless series of invasions and rifts outside the Chancel of Labors and Whitefall, as Iron Pine suffered multiple air rifts and invasions by the minions of the dragon Crucia. Then, after Selwyn returned to Meridian, there was some very good rp on the cliffs north of Lakeside, looking out over the sea. Via a very strange turn of events, I find myself, for the first time ever, rping an essentially transgender character. Sort of an Orlando thing going on, only with a Kelari, instead of Tilda Swinton (Selwyn, though, I must say, is at least as hot at Tilda Swinton, even if she's only pixels). It all ended with Selwyn following Celinn across the burning wastes of Droughtlands to the refuge of Lantern Hook...which is essentially a Fremen sietch, straight from the pages of Dune. And I will remind you: We have a guild. Here. And you can play with us. And there's a FREE 7-day trial.

Today, Spooky has to get new tires for the automobile, and I have to write another (this time short) vignette for the digest.

And I leave you with Hubero:

( 29 May 2011 )

* A short, partial list of other authors I often turn to for inspiration: Lewis Carroll, Oscar Wilde, T. S. Eliot, Lovecraft, Shirley Jackson, Matthew Arnold, W. B. Yeats, Angela Carter, William Gibson, William Blake, Anne Sexton, Joseph Campbell.

Yesterday, I wrote 1,289 words on the story for Dark Horse. So, a good writing day. I'll certainly finish the story by tomorrow evening, and possibly this evening. So, I'm ahead of schedule for a change. And there was lots of email. And, in the evening, I talked with Peter and Neil, on the actual telephone. I gotta be careful, or I'm going to blow this whole reclusive mystique.

Actually, that's one of the things Neil and I talked about, how I need to let go of my trepidation stroke indifference towards the Outside, now that the crisis that triggered the worst of it has passed.

Today is a good day for comments. It's going to be a long, long day.

I have another Question @ Hand, one for Sirenia Digst #65, and I'll post it this evening, with the comments screened for complete anonymity.

We did Kid Night last night. It's sort of slipped out of vogue, mine and Spooky's Kid Night tradition. Mostly, I blame MMORPGs. But we pulled it out last night and dusted it off. First there were hot dogs and fries, then we watched Seiji Chiba's Alien vs. Ninja (2010), an incredibly awful Japanese flick about, well, ninja's fighting aliens. Okay, not real ninjas, and the aliens were just guys in utterly unconvincing monster suits. But two or three of the ninjas were very sexy. Otherwise, not much good I can say about Alien vs. Ninja. Except that we streamed it free. It's like in Ghost World, when Enid says, "This is so bad, it's gone past good and back to bad again." That's Alien vs. Ninja. We almost followed it with something called Vampire Girl vs. Frankenstein Girl, but then we watched the trailer and thought better of it. And we ate cookies and jelly beans and drank Pepsi Throwback. So, yeah. Total Kid Night. Teeth were rotted. Brain cells died.

After the movie, we played Rift (which, in a sane world, would count as a kidly pastime). I was Nilleshna, my Kelari cleric (most of her points are in Cabalism), and Spooky played one of her clerics, a Kelari named Miisya (also a cabalist). I made Level 22. We're out in the rocky wastes of Stonefield, fighting trolls and troglodytes and giants and all that shit that comes pouring out of rifts (because Regulos obviously can't keep his legs together). So, you betcha. Magical elf chicks in chain mail. Later still, I read to Spooky from Harlan Ellison's Stalking the Nightmare (1982) and "Shattered Like A Glass Goblin," from Deathbird Stories (1975). A perfect evening for nerdy kids.

Chilly outside. Not cold, but not genuinely warm, either. It might go as high as sixty. I'd risk West Cove, if I didn't need to be writing.

Speaking of which, so far the Dark Horse story has been written entirely to Fever Ray's "If I Had a Heart." It's on repeat, and has played 52 times so far, as I hunt and peck my way through the tale. And here's the video, for those who have not been introduced to the brilliance of Fever Ray (Swedish brother and sister duo, Karin Dreijer Andersson and Olof Dreijer, who usually perform together as the Knife):

A very good writing day yesterday. I did 1,514 words, and found THE END of "As Red as Red." Thank fuck. This story has surely had it's way with me, and I can only hope that it's been worth the effort. It weighs in at a total word count of 7,014 words. Spooky likes it. Sonya (sovay) likes it. No one else has read it yet, but I tend to trust their opinions. Today, we have to read over the whole story, and then I'll do a small bit of tweaking and polishing, make sure there are no continuity errors or typos, then send it away to the anthology's editor.

As predicted, the CEM (copy-edited manuscript) of The Red Tree arrived yesterday. I've not yet opened the envelope, but Anne (my editor at Penguin) says the copyeditor's marks are light, mostly pertaining to layout and typeface (the book's text uses two or three different fonts).

Today, I also need to read through two or three stories from Sirenia Digest, to pick a couple to send to another editor. And tomorrow, I'll begin work on #40, which will include new fiction by me and Sonya Taaffe.

The long-lost Monster Doodle sculpture is now up at eBay, and you may have a look. Near as I can recall, I sculpted this one back in the spring of 2006, right before I stopped doing these little guys. Then it was misplaced, and Spooky found it a couple of weeks back. She painted it this week. I've signed and dated the critter. Now you can bid, and give the bug-eyed, slimy bugger a good home.

---

After all the writing yesterday, Spooky got dinner from an Italian place on Atwells Avenue. Of course, there are probably fifty Italian places on Atwells, but this one's called Sicilia's. And I can now say that they make the best meatball sub (with sausage and mozzarella) I have ever wrapped my lips around. After dinner, there was more WoW. Shaharrazad helped Suraa with a quest down on the Shimmering Flats, south of Thousand Needles, and then we had to make a foray into Tanaris and (ugh) Un'Goro. But after that, I soloed for Ogrimmar and Darkspear rep, up in Ashenvale, mostly in the Blackfathom Deeps. Oh, and I now have a new Shah icon, and there's another screencap behind the cut ('cause, I figure if I'm gonna geek out at you about my WoW alter-ego, I can at least include elf-pr0n eye candy):

( Shaharrazad at Sunset )

After WoW, we watched the first three episodes of Season Four of Buffy, the Vampire Slayer. I think I got to sleep about three ayem. Anyway, no WoW tonight, as it's time to get back to the Alpha Institute in Nor. Tonight, Nareth has to undergo a special procedure of a delicate and private nature. I believe a speculum will be involved.

---

Turns out (and thanks to ruby_star for bringing this to my attention), the DVD release of Let the Right One In has a different and inferior set of English subtitles than appeared in the theatrical release. The whole situation, discussed over at i09, has me angry and baffled. It's not like I can take the DVD back. It's not the fault of the store that sold it to me. I doubt they're even aware the subtitling is different. But I will be writing a nasty letter to the company that released the DVD. Having read the novel and seen the movie in the theatre, the DVD subtitles seem, from the i09 article, to be, well, "dumbed down." And, as for the dubbing, I've heard the voice acting is horrid. Ah, well. At least I have the pretty pictures. But I thought people who've not bought the DVD should know.

And now, it's time to make the doughnuts.

So, apologies to those of you who read the blog for, you know, stuff about my writing. My entry this ayem set off a conversation about Lady Sylvanas Windrunner, the Banshee Queen. I've been reading her backstory over at the wowiki. I love that you can actually read the lyrics of the song she sings at the end of the "Journey to Undercity" quest, "Lament of the Highborne," in Thalassian:

Anar'alah, Anar'alah belore
Sin'dorei
Shindu fallah na
Sin'dorei
Anar'alah
Shindu Sin'dorei
Shindu fallah na
Sin'dorei
Anar'alah belore
Shindu Sin'dorei
Shindu fallah na
Sin'dorei
Anar'alah belore
Belore

or

By the light, by the light of the sun
Children of the blood
Our enemies are breaking through
Children of the blood
By the light
Failing children of the blood
They are breaking through
O' children of the blood
By the light of the sun
Failing children of the blood
They are breaking through
O' children of the blood
By the light of the sun
The sun

Oh, and there's this video montage, released by Blizzard, which uses the song as a backdrop to the story of the fall of the High Elves, the coming of the Scourge, and of Sylvanas' death and resurrection, and so forth.

Okay. I'll stop now. Oh, wait, by the way, in related news, Blizzard is now offering FREE, though irreversible, sex reassignment for only $15. Hell, that's cheaper than Tijuana, and without the risk of gangrene!

So, I need to make this short, as today we're haded out to Newcomb Hollow Beach in Wellfleet, on Cape Cod. Last year, the remains of a 19th-Century ship washed ashore there, and I need to see them, and the day is going to be warm (57F) and sunny. There will be photos.

Good news from an editor this morning, regarding "The Colliers' Venus (1893)," so, you know, "Booya!" and all.

If you have not received Sirenia Digest #36, and are, in fact, a subscriber, then you need to email Spooky at crk_books(at)yahoo(dot)com, and she'll figure out why not and see you get your copy. But, by now, everyone should have the issue.

I have decided to print out all the issues of Sirenia Digest and have them bound. It's weird that I have none of them printed. But I do it all on the iMac, and printing them has always seemed a waste of paper. But I'd like, now, to be able to hold them and put them on the shelf.

Yesterday, not much of anything. I tried to just rest. And I suck at just resting. So, instead, mostly I listened to Joy Division and the Editors and wandered back into WoW. I'd not played in several days. I leveled my blood-elf paladin, Hanifah, from 15 to 17, all in Tranquillian, in the Ghostlands south of Silvermoon City. Spooky helped a little, with her Tauren shaman, Usiku (Swahili for night). But I continue to lose interest in WoW. I think, given that it is only a game and not useful for rp that I can only judge it as a videogame (and no, hanging out in a tavern and chatting in lolspeak and Renfairese while teen elf sluts, who, in RL, are mostly all boys, dance semi-clad on tabletops doesn't count as rp). And it's just not a terribly good videogame. It's pretty. A lot of hard work has gone into the world building. I see all that. But it kind of bugs me that, when all is said and done, the game is probably the most popular computer game in history because anyone and everyone can play it. And play it equally well. Assuming that you can afford to buy the game and pay the monthly charge (and that you have a computer that's compatible, and aren't blind), WoW is about as level as any playing field will ever get. I stare at the screen and use keystrokes and click my mouse. The only way that I'll not make it as far in the game as it's possible to make it is if I cease to play. There is simply no skill, of any sort, involved in playing. So, after a while, it becomes pretty damned repetitive. It's making me miss Tomb Raider, where, you know, there are puzzles, and hand-eye coordination is actually a factor. We'll see.

Yesterday. Well, I took a long, hot bath. I downloaded the most recent iTunes update. I did a tiny bit of housecleaning. Spooky made a wonderful dinner, that included asparagus, so yay. We watched last year's Xmas episode of Doctor Who again ("Voyage of the Damned"), and I'm still ticked that Astrid didn't become the new companion, or Sally Sparrow, or anyone but Donna. Then we watched two more eps of Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles. I was especially impressed with the non-linear, fractured narration of ""Mr. Ferguson is Ill Today." Lena Headey is growing on me.

Okay. Gotta go. The platypus is chomping at the bit.

Marvelous weather in Providence tonight. There's a wind, 21 mph, gusting to 41 mph (it was gusting to 50, earlier). It's howling around the eaves of the house. There's been rain, off and on, downpours so loud it's hard to be heard over the sound of the rain hitting the windows and roof. We actually have a tornado watch. It's 68F. Anyway, no, I'm not being sarcastic. I love this weather.

And I think I'm going to formulate a WoW-related list, "101 Ways to Know That Someone Just Really Can't Be Bothered."

1. If they've named their blood elf character "bloodelfph."

2. If they've named their human Death Knight character "Badknight."

I actually saw these tonight. And I just have to wonder, is this 1) a complete absence of imagination, 2) total indifference, 3) people who don't grasp the concept of proper nouns, 4) or miserably failed attempts at humor? I'm going to go 1, though, I suppose, all four might apply.

Now, I return to my storm, already in progress.

I've been fairly quiet on the matter of the election —— aside from those Sarah Palin cartoons —— but, today, I am going to permit a degree of latitude to wax political. No, nothing especially insightful. Cheap shots, mostly, and all at the expense of the septuagenarian billionaire and the former beauty queen. Like this (thank you, Darren):



As for yesterday, the chapbook to accompany the limited edition of A is for Alien has finally been put to bed. Ironically, I have lavished more time and attention on the chapbook, B is for Beginnings, than on the actual collection. But most of the day was spent pulling Sirenia Digest #35 together, because there were about a thousand loose ends. Regardless, it went out late last night, and, by now, all subscribers should have a copy. I apologize for the fact that there is no artist interview this month. There was a last minute mix-up regarding our need for images, and they never arrived, so the interview has been bumped to #36, by which time we will hopefully have the images we need. Still, it's a very solid issue, I think. I especially hope that people enjoy seeing more of Joey Lafaye. Next month (which is actually later this month), expect more explicitly erotic material than this month. Two new vignettes is my plan. Oh, you'll also note that, at the last minute, as I was laying out the issue, I changed the title of the new story from "The Boon of Salmacis" to "I Am the Abyss and I Am the Light," after a favorite painting by Charles Sims.

Last night, after spaghetti and artichokes, there was WoW (of course). Shaharrazad can now summon a felsteed as her mount, complete with molten hooves and flaming nostrils, which is just too damn cool. I have my very own hell pony! Oh, and she made Lvl 31. I fear I am beginning to favour Shah over Voimakas and poor Mithwen. Anyway, she and Suraa slew humans at the Lordamere Interment Camp for a time, until certain magical artefacts were recovered. Then we headed east to the Arathi Highlands, where we took our orders from a Horde orc commander at the Hammerfall garrison, and so slew ogres and renegade trolls. Everything is easier on horseback. Suraa also has a pony, a warhorse, but he doesn't snort fire, or scald the earth when summoned. He likes carrots, though.

Tomorrow, the plan is to go to Boston, though I hear it's going to rain. So what. Rain beats this blue sky, any day.

Okay. The platypus says we gotta go vote now, then come home an obsess over the exit polls some more. Oh, don't worry. The anti-McCain/Palin jabs will only get nastier as the day wears on.

Yes, it's a long entry.

A good —— if somewhat unnerving —— writing day yesterday. I did 1,540 words on The Red Tree. I fear I have bound myself too closely to Sarah Crowe. And now, as I let her fall, the world seems unstable beneath my feet; as her sanity tatters, mine seems even less stable than usual. This feeling became a tangible anxiety yesterday. There will be so many readers who say that she is "unsympathetic," or that they can't empathize with her, or what the fuck ever. Here I am, so deep into her I can hardly tell where she begins and I end, or vice versa.

I was able to start writing before 12:30 p.m. yesterday, and finished up sometime between three and three thirty. Which meant we had time to head for Beavertail on Conanicut Island. We didn't even read the day's pages first, as we always do. After all, I said, they would be here when we got home. I dressed quickly (and gods, I have to buy some clothes, because, really, we're talking rags at this point) and we headed out of Providence on I-95 South, to Route 4, to Route 1, which we took to Route 138, crossing over the western passage of Narragansett Bay, over the bridge to the island. All along the highway, the trees have gone brilliant shades of autumn, colours beyond recounting in mere words. I need to get photos before they fade. Fortunately, there were enough clouds, and it was late enough in the day, I did not find the sky too very disquieting.

In Jamestown, we stopped at McQuade's Market, where we usually stop, because we were both feeling peckish. While looking for a pack of cheddar goldfish, we were assailed by the market's stereo with "Sweet Home Alabama." Jesus fuck, I was pretty sure I'd never have to hear that ignorant, racist song again. I'd have thought it would be the last thing I'd ever have to hear playing in a small New England grocery. Wrong. Anyway, past Mackerel Cove, it's a straight shot south to Beavertail. We parked on the western side of the point, deciding to explore the rocks on that shore, for a change.

The tide, though coming in, was still very far out, and we were able to see some beautiful tide pools. In amongst the wildly contorted Proterozoic strata, we spotted small fish, an assortment of hermit crabs (Pagurus spp.), small spider crabs (Libinia spp.), and a number of different taxa of cancroids, including juvenile Rock crabs (Cancer irroratus). Spooky found the first starfish we've seen in Rhode Island, though it was dead. I'm pretty sure it was Asterias forbesi. There were all the usual snails —— periwinkles, dogwinkles, and whelks, along with an abundance of slipper shells. Barnacles, and kelp and dozens of other seaweeds. Dense beds of tiny blue mussels. We found a couple of pebbly beaches in the rocks, and spent an hour or so before sunset searching for beach glass. There's not nearly as much here as out at Fort Wetherill, farther east, but we both found some interesting pieces.

We stayed until the sun was vanishing behind mist and clouds, and the cold began to settle in for the night. We'd traveled maybe 350 yards over the shore (approx. 41°27'1.94"N, 71°23'59.75"W to 41°26'56.77"N, 71°23'58.08"W.). As the evening came on, we sat below the lighthouse, looking out towards Whale Rock (about a mile and a half out into the Bay, southwest from Beavertail). There was a little lighthouse on Whale Rock once, but it was destroyed in the Great Hurricane of 1938 and the keeper was killed. All that now remains is the foundation, clearly visible from Beavertail. So, I got my time with Panthalassa yesterday, and I'm better for it now. There are photos, which I'll try to post tomorrow.

It was almost dark by the time we got back to the car, and my ears were freezing because I'd used my tobaggan cap to hold shells and beach glass. I played Sigur Rós on the iPod, and dozed on the way home. Back in Providence, we picked up some dinner from Phoenix Dragon Restaurant on Broadway —— just fried rice and steamed dumplings —— takeaway because we were both so tired.

No movies last night. After dinner, a lot of World of Warcraft. I played Shaharrazad, my blood-elf warlock, who has reached Lvl 23, and headed back to the Ghostlands to finish up some quests there. Spooky was along as her blood-elf paladin, Suraa (Lvl 22). We slaughtered undead and trolls, and it was great fun. We entered Deathholme ("Little Mordor") and assasinated the four lieutenants of Dar'khan. We invaded the forest troll village Zeb'Nowa and brought the head of Kel'gash back to the Farstrider Enclave. Though, I have begun to feel sorry for my poor minion. Half the time I summon Zhar'los, he moans, "I don't like this place." I take that to mean that the Ghostlands are actually less pleasant than the Underworld. For demons, anyway. We headed to bed a little after 2 ayem, and Spooky read to me from Poe's "Descent Into the Maelstrom" (1841).

And that was yesterday. Oh, here's the link to the current eBay autions. Now, the platypus....

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.

So, as promised earlier, and at the expense of my unblemished reputation as a paragon of all that is wholesome, scandelous elf pr0n. Exclusive to LJ, by the way, because I'm too tired to bother crossposting this to MySpace and Blogger. Behind the cut. Big photos. You've been warned. I'd turn back now, if I were you...

( last chance to look away )

Postscript: For some reason, we had a particularly hard time matching the prosthetics to my skin tone last night, and the photos made it worse. Ah, well...