![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Oh, the twisted irony at work here:
Beannachtaí na Féile Pádraig agat. ('10)
Mar. 17th, 2010 02:03 pmA sunny day in Providence, and the winds are calm, so it actually feels like 60F. The windows are open and we're airing out the house. Of the few things I acutally miss about the South, the climate is at the very top of the list. I never thought I would be so glad for a sunny day when the temperature is only 60F...but after the dreary, wet, freezing greyness of a Providence winter, this almost seems like summer.
I learned last night that my sf story "Galápagos" (from Eclipse 3, edited by Johnathan Strahan) is one of six works to make the honor list for the James Tiptree Award for 2010. The Tiptree press release says of the story, "...a mysterious space disaster, a terrifying alien reproductivity, a story reminiscent of the work of Octavia Butler. There can be no higher praise." And I say, indeed, and thank you. I'm flattered to be so honored. I am far more pleased, though, to see that one of the two winners of this year's Tiptree Award is Greer Gilman (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nineweaving) for Cloud and Ashes. I don't care what anyone else might say, Cloud and Ashes is far and away the most brilliant work of fantasy from 2009, and it's deserving of much more recognition than its received. By the way, the Tiptree Award is presented to works of of science fiction or fantasy that expand or explore our understanding of gender. To quote the award's website:
The award is named for Alice B. Sheldon, who wrote under the pseudonym James Tiptree, Jr. By her impulsive choice of a masculine pen name, Sheldon helped break down the imaginary barrier between "women’s writing" and "men’s writing." Her fine stories were eagerly accepted by publishers and won many awards in the field. Many years later, after she had written some other work under the female pen name of Raccoona Sheldon, it was discovered that she was female. The discovery led to a great deal of discussion of what aspects of writing, if any, are essentially gendered. The name "Tiptree" was selected to illustrate the complex role of gender in writing and reading.
And that was yesterday's bright spot. Otherwise, the day was a slick black sheen of shit and broken glass, placed just so to punctuate the middle of the month. I'd considered cataloging all the day's foulness, at length and with lots of exposition, but, honestly, I find I just don't care anymore. The good news is that all lives come with an expiration date.
I do very much want to thankaliceoddcabinet, having learned that she is the clerk at the Providence Athenaeum who is responsible for getting that copy of The Red Tree onto the shelves. Which is the only other thing, besides the Tiptree nod, that I've really had to smile about in the last couple of weeks.
Well, sure, Shaharrazad made Level 79 last night, but seeking solace and/or any sense of achievement in WoW (or Second Life, et al.), I'm aware that's pretty fucking pathetic.
I learned last night that my sf story "Galápagos" (from Eclipse 3, edited by Johnathan Strahan) is one of six works to make the honor list for the James Tiptree Award for 2010. The Tiptree press release says of the story, "...a mysterious space disaster, a terrifying alien reproductivity, a story reminiscent of the work of Octavia Butler. There can be no higher praise." And I say, indeed, and thank you. I'm flattered to be so honored. I am far more pleased, though, to see that one of the two winners of this year's Tiptree Award is Greer Gilman (
nineweaving) for Cloud and Ashes. I don't care what anyone else might say, Cloud and Ashes is far and away the most brilliant work of fantasy from 2009, and it's deserving of much more recognition than its received. By the way, the Tiptree Award is presented to works of of science fiction or fantasy that expand or explore our understanding of gender. To quote the award's website:The award is named for Alice B. Sheldon, who wrote under the pseudonym James Tiptree, Jr. By her impulsive choice of a masculine pen name, Sheldon helped break down the imaginary barrier between "women’s writing" and "men’s writing." Her fine stories were eagerly accepted by publishers and won many awards in the field. Many years later, after she had written some other work under the female pen name of Raccoona Sheldon, it was discovered that she was female. The discovery led to a great deal of discussion of what aspects of writing, if any, are essentially gendered. The name "Tiptree" was selected to illustrate the complex role of gender in writing and reading.
And that was yesterday's bright spot. Otherwise, the day was a slick black sheen of shit and broken glass, placed just so to punctuate the middle of the month. I'd considered cataloging all the day's foulness, at length and with lots of exposition, but, honestly, I find I just don't care anymore. The good news is that all lives come with an expiration date.
I do very much want to thank
aliceoddcabinet, having learned that she is the clerk at the Providence Athenaeum who is responsible for getting that copy of The Red Tree onto the shelves. Which is the only other thing, besides the Tiptree nod, that I've really had to smile about in the last couple of weeks.Well, sure, Shaharrazad made Level 79 last night, but seeking solace and/or any sense of achievement in WoW (or Second Life, et al.), I'm aware that's pretty fucking pathetic.
I just opened the blinds in my office for the first time in days. I can see no evidence of snow remaining out there. The sky is a gentle blue dabbed with swatches of white cloud, and the washed-out New England sun. It's easy on the eyes.
I know better than to look at the news, but I find myself looking, anyway. More and more often. No, I don't know why. Morbid curiosity? Anyway, I was oddly pleased to learn of a study demonstrating that teens who take those silly virginity pledges are no less likely to have sex than those who don't. And, what's more, it appears the virginity-for-Jesus crowd are more likely to have unsafe sex. Which makes sense, really, since their sexual activity is more apt to be spontaneous, and the repression of normal sexual desires will have also required the repression of knowledge about STDs and birth control. Kids, listen...just get laid. If there is some sort of great cosmic boogeyman out there, he has far bigger things on his hands than whether or not you're doing the nasty. If you want it, just do it. But, please, have the good sense and foresight to be safe about it. Anyway, back to news pollution, we have government-sponsored hatred in Tennessee, Canada has at least ruled that seals must be dead before skinning, and I'm not even going to get started on Israel and Hamas.
Yesterday, I wrote 1,112 words and finished the piece that is no longer called "Untitled 34," but is, instead, now known as "Lullaby of Partition and Reunion." It will appear in Sirenia Digest #37, along with a second vignette, which I will write over the next couple of days, based on an illustration by Vince Locke. The platypus says that the 29th of December is a truly excellent day to subscribe to the digest, by the way.
Anything else about yesterday? A last day of isolation before I am forced out into the world. It's been almost a week since I left the apartment. After the writing, there was a nap on the sofa in the front parlour while Spooky made a feast of leftovers from Saturday night's Chinese takeaway. I had a long hot bath and washed my hair. There was more WoW, Shah and Suraa still wandering the sandy desolation of Tanaris. They stumbled upon and into the Caverns of Time, which rather rocked my little ring-tailed lemur world. Later, I nibbled at Turkish delight while Spooky read to me. I got to sleep about three ayem, and didn't sleep enough.
It was a day.
This afternoon, I have the dreaded doctor's appointment.
Please do have a look at the current eBay auctions. Your bids are greatly appreciated.
And now...another day.
I know better than to look at the news, but I find myself looking, anyway. More and more often. No, I don't know why. Morbid curiosity? Anyway, I was oddly pleased to learn of a study demonstrating that teens who take those silly virginity pledges are no less likely to have sex than those who don't. And, what's more, it appears the virginity-for-Jesus crowd are more likely to have unsafe sex. Which makes sense, really, since their sexual activity is more apt to be spontaneous, and the repression of normal sexual desires will have also required the repression of knowledge about STDs and birth control. Kids, listen...just get laid. If there is some sort of great cosmic boogeyman out there, he has far bigger things on his hands than whether or not you're doing the nasty. If you want it, just do it. But, please, have the good sense and foresight to be safe about it. Anyway, back to news pollution, we have government-sponsored hatred in Tennessee, Canada has at least ruled that seals must be dead before skinning, and I'm not even going to get started on Israel and Hamas.
Yesterday, I wrote 1,112 words and finished the piece that is no longer called "Untitled 34," but is, instead, now known as "Lullaby of Partition and Reunion." It will appear in Sirenia Digest #37, along with a second vignette, which I will write over the next couple of days, based on an illustration by Vince Locke. The platypus says that the 29th of December is a truly excellent day to subscribe to the digest, by the way.
Anything else about yesterday? A last day of isolation before I am forced out into the world. It's been almost a week since I left the apartment. After the writing, there was a nap on the sofa in the front parlour while Spooky made a feast of leftovers from Saturday night's Chinese takeaway. I had a long hot bath and washed my hair. There was more WoW, Shah and Suraa still wandering the sandy desolation of Tanaris. They stumbled upon and into the Caverns of Time, which rather rocked my little ring-tailed lemur world. Later, I nibbled at Turkish delight while Spooky read to me. I got to sleep about three ayem, and didn't sleep enough.
It was a day.
This afternoon, I have the dreaded doctor's appointment.
Please do have a look at the current eBay auctions. Your bids are greatly appreciated.
And now...another day.
"Yes, and of the sinners, too."
Aug. 4th, 2008 12:07 pmErm....yeah, so....I'm not even pretending to be awake. I got to bed sometime after five ayem. Do I have a good excuse, I mean besides the tooth ache. No. Except that I discovered that Vampire: The Masquerade is loads more fun when played in Second Life than with pencil and paper on a tabletop. A new Nareth splinter came into being —— this time a wealthy, young Vietnamese woman dying of an incurable disease. She'd been an assassin, and had learned much of the art of torture, before the illness. She used the last of her fortune to find the Sabbat. Accompanied by her bodyguards (thanks Pontifex and Misi), she entered the city, and contact was made, thanks to a nervous little man, some sort of private investigator. Much time was spent sitting in the painfully over-lit lobby of the Lincoln Hotel, vomiting onto the powder-blue carpet between her feet because the morphine she'd just injected was making her sick. She speaks in French about half the time. She told the bodyguards that their final checks were in their rooms and dismissed them, then sat and waited for the Ravnos woman she been promised would find her. Every moment the dying assassin waited was agony. But the vampire came, finally, the woman named Mara, and the assassin was led to the back room of a seedy little nightclub, where she was questioned, then allowed her first taste, and promised the embrace. She was given a slip of paper with an address, and ordered not to return to her hotel room. Then her typist went the hell to bed.
That's why I'm not awake. What noisy cats are we.
After the minute brouhaha which led to my entry on Saturday, I just keep thinks (as Ceiling Cat would say), "But aren't authors supposed to be critics?" No, not book reviewers. Critics. Isn't that one of the things authors are supposed to do, comment on the work of other authors? Hell, if anything, I think I've been neglectful of that duty. Aren't we supposed to try to keep one another honest by saying what we think about the State of Literature, including the State of Genre Literature? To quote the ever quotable Dorothy Parker, "This is not a novel to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force." (quoted in The Algonquin Wits [1968] edited. by Robert E. Drennan). Is that not a duty that we have, as authors, not merely to make shows of empty, token support but when something's shit, to say so? And so when I see these followers of a hack like the wildly successful and admittedly deceased Robert Jordan, when I talk to people who can quote his The Wheel of Time chapter and verse, but who have never even read Tolkien, is it not my responsibility to get pissed off, and to say so? I think it is. Though, I should add, before hurling one of Jordan's books anywhere with great force, the reader should acquire a trebuchet, lest a shoulder be dislocated in the process.
Spooky did the Day in the Life (didl) thing a couple of days back. You can see the fruits of her labour, and quite a bit of Providence and Casa de Kiernan y Pollnac here.
Yesterday, in preparation for writing my introduction on Arthur Machen today, I read "The White People" (1904) again, my second favourite story by him. And re-read much of Wesley D. Sweetser's 1958 thesis on Machen (published in 1964), along with various other bits of criticism. I suppose that far fewer people these days read Machen than read Robert Jordan, or even Tolkien, but its their loss. "The White People" is sublime. And it has such an exquisite opening line —— "'Sorcery and sanctity,' said Ambrose, 'these are the only realities. Each is an ecstasy, a withdrawal from the common life.'"
I was saddened this morning to learn of the death of illustrator Pauline Baynes (1922-2008). When I was a teenager, it was her wonderful map of Middle Earth that adorned my bedroom wall. When I first found Farmer Giles of Ham, The Adventures of Tom Bombadil, and Smith of Wootton Major, she was the artist whose work accompanied the text.
Spooky has relisted several items on eBay, so please have a look. Also, if I fail to shill both A is for Alien and the mass-market paperback of Daughter of Hounds, the platypus will be showing me those venomous spurs.
More coffee....
That's why I'm not awake. What noisy cats are we.
After the minute brouhaha which led to my entry on Saturday, I just keep thinks (as Ceiling Cat would say), "But aren't authors supposed to be critics?" No, not book reviewers. Critics. Isn't that one of the things authors are supposed to do, comment on the work of other authors? Hell, if anything, I think I've been neglectful of that duty. Aren't we supposed to try to keep one another honest by saying what we think about the State of Literature, including the State of Genre Literature? To quote the ever quotable Dorothy Parker, "This is not a novel to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force." (quoted in The Algonquin Wits [1968] edited. by Robert E. Drennan). Is that not a duty that we have, as authors, not merely to make shows of empty, token support but when something's shit, to say so? And so when I see these followers of a hack like the wildly successful and admittedly deceased Robert Jordan, when I talk to people who can quote his The Wheel of Time chapter and verse, but who have never even read Tolkien, is it not my responsibility to get pissed off, and to say so? I think it is. Though, I should add, before hurling one of Jordan's books anywhere with great force, the reader should acquire a trebuchet, lest a shoulder be dislocated in the process.
Spooky did the Day in the Life (didl) thing a couple of days back. You can see the fruits of her labour, and quite a bit of Providence and Casa de Kiernan y Pollnac here.
Yesterday, in preparation for writing my introduction on Arthur Machen today, I read "The White People" (1904) again, my second favourite story by him. And re-read much of Wesley D. Sweetser's 1958 thesis on Machen (published in 1964), along with various other bits of criticism. I suppose that far fewer people these days read Machen than read Robert Jordan, or even Tolkien, but its their loss. "The White People" is sublime. And it has such an exquisite opening line —— "'Sorcery and sanctity,' said Ambrose, 'these are the only realities. Each is an ecstasy, a withdrawal from the common life.'"
I was saddened this morning to learn of the death of illustrator Pauline Baynes (1922-2008). When I was a teenager, it was her wonderful map of Middle Earth that adorned my bedroom wall. When I first found Farmer Giles of Ham, The Adventures of Tom Bombadil, and Smith of Wootton Major, she was the artist whose work accompanied the text.
Spooky has relisted several items on eBay, so please have a look. Also, if I fail to shill both A is for Alien and the mass-market paperback of Daughter of Hounds, the platypus will be showing me those venomous spurs.
More coffee....
The problem is, of course, the humans.
Jun. 28th, 2008 11:53 amYesterday. Like a bruise. Like a smudge. Like a stain. I don't know. While I was trying to get my LJ entry posted, fighting the headache and fear of The Red Tree, the wireless decided to go belly up (second time since we've been here), and there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth. By three o'clock, it was evident that no writing would be done, and that I was becoming far more than merely agitated. I was, in fact, livid. Over more things than I can here list, but let's pretend it was all because of the damned wireless (both the router and modem were fine, the trouble was on the service provider's end of things). Spooky ordered me to get dressed, shoved some pills in my mouth, and dragged me downstairs to the car.
We headed towards Tiverton, in eastern Rhode Island, across the bay, because I need a new athame, and there's a witchcraft shop over there somewhere we'd not checked out. It's even harder to sit in a car when one is livid than to sit at this damned desk. I plugged the iPod into the cassette adapter, and closed my eyes and listened to Radiohead (Hail to the Thief), while Spooky tried to follow the very questionable directions the shop owner had given us. I closed my eyes and listened to the wheels of the car, to the regular, metronomic pulse of pain behind my eyes and Thom Yorke. At some point, I realised we should have reached Tiverton long since, and asked Spooky where we were. She replied we were someplace called Warren, heading south towards Bristol. Which was wrong. Not the way to Tiverton at all. Getting lost in Rhode Island is just stupid. As in, almost impossible. So, I said screw Tiverton, and we headed west again, back through Providence and then down to Wickford. Now, Wickford is a beautiful town, situated on an inlet of Narragansett Bay. All antique shops and tall sail boats. My nerves were calming a bit, though the pain wasn't going anywhere.
Spooky wanted to check out a shop there called The Grateful Heart. But, as it turns out, the place was much more airy-fairy, fluffy-bunny Paganism than anything Wiccan. Still, I needed sage and frankincense (having used a great deal at Beavertail on the Soltsice), and I thought just maybe they would have the athame I'm looking for. The clerk asked if she could help me, and I asked where the athames were kept. She looked at me with a very confused expression. "The what?" she asked. And, I swear to gods, I almost said, "Are you fucking with me?" She blinked a few times, and I said, "Double-bladed dagger, black handled...?" She blinked again and said, "Oh, yeah...those." They didn't have a single one, and I'm still not sure she knew what I was talking about. But it's the sort of place that does aural photography (yes, that's what I said), so what can you expect. I read over a chart explaining the meanings of all the various colours of auras, displayed next to examples of their fuzzy aural photographs. They were all good, all happy. No bad auras. I threatened to have mine photographed, and when they told me that whatever colour they randomly assigned me, whatever happy fucking colour —— orange, purple, red, periwinkle, salmon, avocado —— I'd say that just couldn't possibly be right, not with me being a serial-killing mass murderer who eats baby foetuses and all. Spooky wouldn't let me. Killjoy. I do not have a happy, shiny aura. I refuse. On general fucking principle. I did pick up a small sculpture of Morrigan, however, that I'd been wanting. I desire to know the colour of the Morrigan's aura, please.
We tried to visit another shop called The Herb Wyfe, but it was closed. Probably for the best.
A quick stop at Whole Foods for groceries, then back home, where we still had no internet. There was a Cox truck on our street, messing around with the lines, but by the time Spooky got down there, it was gone. She called Cox, to see if there was an outage in our area, but she was told that information could only be given out to the account holder (our landlord). What the holy goddamn fuck? This inspired a new wave of anger and headache, and Spooky fed me another Valium. I fell asleep on the sofa, after finishing Chapter Three of the Triassic book. I'd tried to start Chapter Four. I awoke almost an hour later, and Spooky fed me spicy stir-fry (beef, with white mushrooms, pea pods, tomato, garlic, ancho chili, ginger, Tellicherry black pepper, cayenne, galangal, lemon grass, paprika, red curry paste, basil, and cilantro) and iced tea.
I did a few hours of Second Life after dinner. I was very hungover (still am), and the rp was touch and go. Mostly, I have realized that, once again, I'm spending far, far too much time in SL. At least in Atlanta, I had an excuse. Boredom. That excuse doesn't work here. So, cutting back as of today. I can has SL (Ceiling Cat says so), but only just so much. I did, however, get a couple of good shots of Labyrinth, the godthing that exists now in the space where Nareth once existed (NOT WORK SAFE). They're not as good as the photos thatblu_muse takes, not even close. Not even as good as Spooky's screencaps (she's getting good). Anyway, that was the train wreck called last yesterday. May it rot in hell. Photos (clouds from Spooky's birthday) and screencaps behind the cut. Oh, and any comments on the new Sirenia Digest would be very welcome today. Oh, and a big thank you to omegamorningsta for playing "Want" (Recoil) and "Destroy Everything You Touch" (Ladytron):
( Towers in the Sky and Labyrinth )
We headed towards Tiverton, in eastern Rhode Island, across the bay, because I need a new athame, and there's a witchcraft shop over there somewhere we'd not checked out. It's even harder to sit in a car when one is livid than to sit at this damned desk. I plugged the iPod into the cassette adapter, and closed my eyes and listened to Radiohead (Hail to the Thief), while Spooky tried to follow the very questionable directions the shop owner had given us. I closed my eyes and listened to the wheels of the car, to the regular, metronomic pulse of pain behind my eyes and Thom Yorke. At some point, I realised we should have reached Tiverton long since, and asked Spooky where we were. She replied we were someplace called Warren, heading south towards Bristol. Which was wrong. Not the way to Tiverton at all. Getting lost in Rhode Island is just stupid. As in, almost impossible. So, I said screw Tiverton, and we headed west again, back through Providence and then down to Wickford. Now, Wickford is a beautiful town, situated on an inlet of Narragansett Bay. All antique shops and tall sail boats. My nerves were calming a bit, though the pain wasn't going anywhere.
Spooky wanted to check out a shop there called The Grateful Heart. But, as it turns out, the place was much more airy-fairy, fluffy-bunny Paganism than anything Wiccan. Still, I needed sage and frankincense (having used a great deal at Beavertail on the Soltsice), and I thought just maybe they would have the athame I'm looking for. The clerk asked if she could help me, and I asked where the athames were kept. She looked at me with a very confused expression. "The what?" she asked. And, I swear to gods, I almost said, "Are you fucking with me?" She blinked a few times, and I said, "Double-bladed dagger, black handled...?" She blinked again and said, "Oh, yeah...those." They didn't have a single one, and I'm still not sure she knew what I was talking about. But it's the sort of place that does aural photography (yes, that's what I said), so what can you expect. I read over a chart explaining the meanings of all the various colours of auras, displayed next to examples of their fuzzy aural photographs. They were all good, all happy. No bad auras. I threatened to have mine photographed, and when they told me that whatever colour they randomly assigned me, whatever happy fucking colour —— orange, purple, red, periwinkle, salmon, avocado —— I'd say that just couldn't possibly be right, not with me being a serial-killing mass murderer who eats baby foetuses and all. Spooky wouldn't let me. Killjoy. I do not have a happy, shiny aura. I refuse. On general fucking principle. I did pick up a small sculpture of Morrigan, however, that I'd been wanting. I desire to know the colour of the Morrigan's aura, please.
We tried to visit another shop called The Herb Wyfe, but it was closed. Probably for the best.
A quick stop at Whole Foods for groceries, then back home, where we still had no internet. There was a Cox truck on our street, messing around with the lines, but by the time Spooky got down there, it was gone. She called Cox, to see if there was an outage in our area, but she was told that information could only be given out to the account holder (our landlord). What the holy goddamn fuck? This inspired a new wave of anger and headache, and Spooky fed me another Valium. I fell asleep on the sofa, after finishing Chapter Three of the Triassic book. I'd tried to start Chapter Four. I awoke almost an hour later, and Spooky fed me spicy stir-fry (beef, with white mushrooms, pea pods, tomato, garlic, ancho chili, ginger, Tellicherry black pepper, cayenne, galangal, lemon grass, paprika, red curry paste, basil, and cilantro) and iced tea.
I did a few hours of Second Life after dinner. I was very hungover (still am), and the rp was touch and go. Mostly, I have realized that, once again, I'm spending far, far too much time in SL. At least in Atlanta, I had an excuse. Boredom. That excuse doesn't work here. So, cutting back as of today. I can has SL (Ceiling Cat says so), but only just so much. I did, however, get a couple of good shots of Labyrinth, the godthing that exists now in the space where Nareth once existed (NOT WORK SAFE). They're not as good as the photos that
blu_muse takes, not even close. Not even as good as Spooky's screencaps (she's getting good). Anyway, that was the train wreck called last yesterday. May it rot in hell. Photos (clouds from Spooky's birthday) and screencaps behind the cut. Oh, and any comments on the new Sirenia Digest would be very welcome today. Oh, and a big thank you to omegamorningsta for playing "Want" (Recoil) and "Destroy Everything You Touch" (Ladytron):SF Casting Game
May. 8th, 2006 07:45 pmSo, in the spirit of faustfatale's recent "Noir Casting Game", I offer the science-fiction film casting game. It's going to be entirely surreal cyberpunk affair set in an alternate history post-WWII Berlin, after the earth has been ravaged by alien-Nazi nanotech. I will be played by Tilda Swinton.
Now. Who will play you? Also, feel free to suggest a director, screenwriter, etc. And yes, days off often lead to boredom and peculiar games.
faustfatale's recent "Noir Casting Game", I offer the science-fiction film casting game. It's going to be entirely surreal cyberpunk affair set in an alternate history post-WWII Berlin, after the earth has been ravaged by alien-Nazi nanotech. I will be played by Tilda Swinton.Now. Who will play you? Also, feel free to suggest a director, screenwriter, etc. And yes, days off often lead to boredom and peculiar games.
