greygirlbeast: (chi 5)
Whatever this entry might have been, it's going to be this entry, instead. And you can thank Monsieur Insomnie for that, for keeping me up all night and into the day with his deviant shenanigans. I said deviant, not devious.


Trip recounting Part Two. Yeah, well that's not really going to happen. Or it's not going to happen the way it would have, had I slept. Insomnia's sort of like time travel. Shit still happens, but it happens differently than it would have, because the worldline's been altered.

Day Two. We went to the American Museum of Natural History. I have many fond memories of the AMNH. The last time I'd been there was May 2001, and I was there as a paleontologist researching mosasaurs. I sat in the dusty attic, filled with cabinets of fossils and labels written in Cope's own spidery hand, and worked on a project that I was never able to finish. The museum's changed a bit in the last ten years. Mostly not for the better. And these are the two things that cycled through my mind repeatedly while we were there on Wednesday.

In the Hall of Biodiversity, I sat down and made some notes about how natural history museums are - partly by necessity, partly by way of wrongheaded educators - going the way of the dinosaurs they display. Funding continues to dry up, and museums have to find ways to stay afloat. So, they become more and more like theme parks. It's called "infotainment," which requires "interactive" gimmicks, instead of hands-off exhibits with, you know, words and stuff. Add to this a maze of gift shops. I gag on that sickly portmanteau, "infotainment." Anyway, in my little black notebook, I wrote:

More and more, the old museum has been lost to the ravages of "infotainment." And to that add hundreds upon hundreds of screeching children*. The sense of sanctuary has been lost, that secular Cathedral to Science and Nature that was once the hallmark of good museums. The quiet dignity. I watch the people, and they file past, hardly even pausing to actually look at anything. Video monitors everywhere, sensory overload. Very sad seeing this.

Okay, I feel bad enough without harping on the Death of Museums right now. I'll come back to it some other time.


"Fake Plastic Trees" has sold to Ellen Datlow and Terry Windling for their post-apocalyptic YA anthology, After. I suppose, at this point, everything that postdates tomorrow is post-apocalyptic.

Also, while I have decided to write Blood Oranges before Blue Canary, it's not what I actually want to do. Many factors come into play. Blood Oranges is a peculiar lark of a book. Blue Canary is my future (I hope). By the way, with my agent's blessings, I'll be writing the latter as Kathleen Rory Tierney. Or Kathleen R. Tierney. But the R will stand for Rory, whether people know it or not. Someday, I may write another novel like The Drowning Girl or The Red Tree. We shall see. Time will tell. Regardless, all this is a change of direction of my choosing., I signed 600+ signature sheets for Two Worlds and In Between (which required two hours and forty-five minutes). I emailed stories to two editors for two anthologies. I answered email. The REAL mail came, and there was a chunk of granite (brick red with grey phenocrysts) from Ryan Obermeyer, which he picked up on the shore of the Red Sea, at Hurghada, during his recent trip to Egypt. Actually, the stone came from out of the water of the Red Sea.

My foot hurts like hell. If hell hurts, and they tell us it will.

Last night, good rp in Rift. The guild grows, and its story begins to unfold.

And I'm going to hit myself in the face now.

Aunt Beast

P.S. -- My birthday soon. Please give me stuff.

* Once, when I was young, children actually knew how to behave in museums. Now, the teachers chaperoning field trips have probably been bullied by helicopter parents to the point that they're afraid of telling kids to keep it down, for fear of lawsuits charging them with stifling self-expression or some bullshit. So, we get these fucking brats with a sense of entitlement.

May 17-18, Part Two )
greygirlbeast: (Barker)
Comment, kittens!

It's not just the innate creepiness of the "praying hands" and swirly lights aspect of the present LJ banner, it's the nigh unto vomitous pale orange/melon-colored scheme. And I have to see it while I compose a journal entry. Someone ought to have to hurt.


Meanwhile, another bout of "not enough sleep" last night, despite my being a good little drone to the Queen Bee of 21st Century Pharmaceutical & Invalidism Culture and having refilled my "sleep aid" script. I think I almost, maybe, slept six hours. And it all just fucking figures. I'm working my ass off, and I'm mostly sleeping well. Often eight hours a night. Then, I force myself to take time off which is, essentially, necessary, and – KERBLAM – no sleep. Write or die. Dance until your feet bleed, or die. Don't stop dancing.

Yesterday was a Very Bad Day, and I don't have those very often anymore. Because I'm a good drone and take my meds and spend the day making honey and all. But yesterday, slip, and there's a Very Bad Day of the sort we've not seen in...quite some time. More than a year. We did leave the house and drive aimlessly about Providence for a while. The weather was too unpredictable to make an attempt at reaching the shore. Sunny, but a chilly wind. It's so green out there, but still it doesn't feel like May. I make the honey, like a good bee, and still the warmth doesn't come, and if I ever dare to stop and catch my breath, then there's no sleep, and the rage returns, and the noise, and the wish for self-annihilation, and no, no, no, you don't know what I mean.

Also, I just accidentally took my morning and afternoon pills at the same time. Booya.

The good news? Spooky just found my riding crop. It vanished when we moved here from Atlanta three years ago, and I despaired of having another so fine, without ponying up (hahahahahahahaha) a tidy sum at a tack shop. But no. Spooky found it.

While we were out, we stopped by Acme Video, and in a desperate effort to quell ye olde inner dæmons, I went hog wild renting comfort movies. Five of them. Movies where the wold is soothingly black and white and grey. Last night we watched two of them, George Cukor's The Philadelphia Story (1940, one of the most perfect films ever made) and John Ford's The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance (1962). It helped, as long as the movies were playing. They ended, and the curtain came down again.

All I need is a reliable supply of opiates, enough for a couple of good doses a week. Paregoric would be perfect. Or laudanum. Or Vicodin. Anything.

In a couple of weeks, I turn 47. There are no words for how utterly fucking fucked up this is. Not just the "Woe is me, I'm getting old" part. That's obvious. No, it's the time dilation. The surreality of having lived from Then until Now, and through the shitstorm in between. It's a wicked sick excuse for a joke, and there's not even a god to blame it on. Only Chance and Probability and all those other rational, empirical anti-gods of Science.

I do have a wishlist at Amazon. You can look at it if you wish. I'm not adverse to gifts this time of year, even if they're of the non-opiate variety.

Oh, and you may now see the complete, final cover of Two Worlds and In Between, just by clicking here. Okay, it's not complete complete, as it still lacks the text of the flap copy. But it's mostly complete. Pay close attention to the book the painting me holds on the front cover. With a larger canvas, infinite regression could have been mimicked. Lee and Kyle are geniuses. They have wrapped my words in folds of zebra flesh and bergamot and vetiver and claret velvet.

Judge the book by its cover. Please.

Yesterday, [ profile] stsisyphus commented how Kathe Koja still has a thing for the "love is doom" motif we saw in Skin (1993) and Strange Angels (1995) and Kink (1996). Okay. He didn't name all those books. I filled in the gap. I don't know how Kathe feels about this (I may ask her), but, for my part, is mostly doom. Exceptions are few and far between.

Listing to Starboard, Hardly Yar,
Aunt Beast
greygirlbeast: (Default)
The sun's shining in a too-blue sky, but it's chilly.

Sirenia Digest #64 went out to subscribers last night, and everyone should have it by now.

Apologies for not including a link for The Book Thief yesterday.


If there's any more abominable phrase than "online social networking," I'm unaware of it. It reduces the concepts of friendship and acquaintance to a software-enhanced array of dendritic fingers, desperately probing the void for connections, aggressively seeking to supplant (or act as surrogate to) actual, face-to-face contact between human beings.

Or maybe I'm the only one who sees it that way. Or at least, it may be I'm in the minority. To quote Anaïs Nin, "We don't see things as they are, we see them as we are.” (Thank you, E. Harrington.) Regardless, there's no place for me on either Facebook or Twitter, and I'm going to write that on a piece of paper in big black letters and tack it to the office wall. Because, apparently, I keep forgetting. I've no interest in "online social networking." I find it as strange and toxic as plastic soda bottles.

I began this journal to record the process of writing, what that process is like for me (which, of course, is not the way it will be for much of anyone else). And, obviously, to promote my work. Then MySpace, Facebook, and Twitter came along, and I allowed myself to be seduced into believing that these sites would be as useful to me as has been LiveJournal, and before that, Blogger. But they're not. I cut MySpace loose a long time ago. As for Twitter, it just seems...harmlessly ephemeral. Too much so to serve any actual purpose I need it to serve. And as for Facebook, I can't take the assholes who think I'm there to be engaged in what they mistake as witty reporté. Not since the Bad Old Days of Usenet have I had to contend with as much rudeness and idiocy on the net as I've had to contend with on Facebook. Yes, granted, the troublemakers are a small fraction of the people who follow me there. But it only takes one or two or three persistently asinine individuals.

Those people are not "my tribe." I had a tribe once, but that was long ago.

No one is entitled to anything, and we all suffer alone, and, if we are honest, we all suffer.

These are bad days and nights, and I'm not well enough to get the writing done that I have to get done, much less banter with people who actually seem to believe there's nobility of purpose in lolspeak.

I need to be writing, and I need to be Outside, and everything else is irrelevant. Or worse.


The greatest compliment I can ever pay a band or musician is to say, "This is my new suicide album." At the moment, my suicide album is Radiohead's The King of Limbs.


People say, "You're so unhappy," and they clearly mean it as an insult. Or they think my unhappiness is an affront to what they believe is their happiness.

Funny thing is, I actually hate coffee.

Adrift in the White Noise,
Aunt Beast
greygirlbeast: (Barker)
I need a caffeine enema.

It's raining here in Providence. It will rain for two days more, say the weathermen. Then, supposedly, spring will return. I've not left the House since March 23rd, which makes six days. Not good, but nowhere near my worst. Work and the weather and fear of human contact conspire to make a recluse of me. But, Spooky has sworn I have to leave the house this evening.

Subway bombings in Moscow. Thoughts of the feel-good travesty that is "Earth Hour." The sinking of a South Korean vessel by a North Korean mine. The fact that, as of yesterday, the US war in Afghanistan has lasted longer than Vietnam, and takes its place as the longest "active" US war ever. These thoughts, all this news pollution that I cannot effect nor dismiss, beat about my eyes and ears and slow me down. They would shut me down, were I only a little more sane.

Yesterday, I had every intention of getting Sirenia Digest #52 laid out, including writing the prolegomena. But I only managed to proofread "Houndwife" and deal with the line edits to the story. Spooky had gone down to Saunderstown to her parents place, because her sister, Steph, was up from Brooklyn with our two-year-old-nephew, Miles. I stayed behind and tried to work. But after the proofreading...everything just sort of came apart. I puttered. I dithered. I read a small bit. I did nothing in particular, except think about how I ought to be working. Spooky made it back sometime after 5:30 p.m. I have a photo of Miles (Copyright © 2010 by Kathryn A. Pollnac):

So after having that marvelously unproductive day, we didn't get to bed until after 3 a.m., because we are bad kids who do not know when they've had enough WoW. Then, to make the day perfect, my insomnia kicked in (though I'd been all but nodding off at the iMac) and I had to take an Ambien. I think I didn't get to sleep until almost five. And that was my yesterday.

Oh, I did propose, via Twitter (*shudder*) that "steampunk" might be salvaged from an inevitable and imminent demise (thanks to hipness and assimilation by the masses) if we take to calling it "coalpunk." Someone kindly pointed out this title disregards wood-powered engines and suggested "smogpunk." And, actually, it was a rather fine suggestion. Come to think of it, I have never written steampunk. I have, however, written a bit of smogpunk. "Smogpunk" can help us divest steampunk of its peculiarly romantic overtones, that idealizing and redemption of the Industrial Revolution, that short-circuiting of what ought to be dystopian, by drawing attention to the true byproduct and consequence of all that steam...namely smog. It's not about the steam, clean and billowing, but the pall of smog in which any steampunk world would be shrouded.

No one will notice this nomenclatural coup, but there you go.

Have you preordered The Ammonite Violin & Others? Well, then, please do so. Thank you.

Okay. Must awaken. Must work....
greygirlbeast: (Starbuck 3)
1. I went to bed about four ayem. Sometime after five I got up again, wide fucking awake. I went to bed the second time a few minutes past six and managed to sleep until noon. I hurt with sleeplessness.

2. Yesterday, I wrote 1,061 words on "Apsinthion" (which I'm still considering titling "αψίνθιον," if only because I know it would tick off jackholes like B.R. Myers). This is going to be a very solid issue of Sirenia Digest, including "The Eighth Veil" (illustrated by Vince), a fragment entitled "Persephone Redux," and this latest piece, "Apsinthion" (i.e., "αψίνθιον").

3. The signature sheets for The Ammonite Violin & Others arrived. UPS left them on the the pouring rain. Fortunately, the pages were double boxed and shrink wrapped, so nothing got wet except that outer box. But, you know...they might have fucking knocked. Or rang the buzzer.

4. I say if the Canadian women's hockey team wants to celebrate winning the gold by lingering on the ice to smoke cigars and drink booze, it's their own goddamn business, and they've earned the right, and people need to reserve their outrage for that which is genuinely lazy UPS delivery men who clearly cannot be bothered.

5. A few interesting comments, and my comments to those comments, regarding Laura Miller's idiotic advice to writers (courtesy regarding style. [ profile] myownpetard summed up Miller's complaints as "I notice it, but I don't get it, so no one should do it." Which I think is pretty much on the mark. [ profile] catconley wrote, "Just... wow. That's like saying, 'Yes, I know I've never flown a fighter jet, and I never intend to do so, but jeez, pilot, I think you're headed into that loop-the-loop a little too slow, don't you? Isn't the whole purpose of your job to entertain loads of people at air shows and stuff?'" To which I replied, "Looking at that bit you excerpted, I'm tempted to think this all comes down to the belief that writing is about product, or at best, entertainment. That the idea of Art is just too passé for the early 21st Century, and too many people are marginally literate, but completely ignorant of the true benefits of literacy. It just makes me hurt...." In the end, of course, I blame the internet, because these sorts have always been with us, and always will be, but the internet has given them an easy-to-use worldwide soapbox, so now they make a lot more noise than they ever were capable of making before. Oh, and blame is shared with psychology and lousy parenting, because in the end this is all about some bizarre sense of entitlement. Fuck the bozos, I say. Life's too short, and this job sucks enough without whining readers who've misunderstood the age-old horse/cart relationship.

6. Today will be spent dealing with line edits for "Apsinthion" (i.e., "αψίνθιον") and "The Eighth Veil." Which is always tedious— dealing with line edits, I mean —but will be much worse because I haven't slept nearly enough. I see Red Bull and Camel Wides in my immediate future. Maybe more coffee, too. Oh, and Spooky has to be at the dentist in a couple of hours to have her mouth drilled upon, so I'll be all alone with the cats and the tedium.

7. I did one shortish scene in Insilico last night, in which Fifth and Victoria (Xiang 1.5) discussed her future, vendettas, and the place of droids in a droid-hating world. And I played some WoW with Spooky and Hyasynth (a friend from Chicago). We slaughtered humans in Hillsbrad and giggled and made off-color jokes about troll sex.

8. And here's the next set of photos, these from our second day at Beavertail, which was Monday:

22 February 2010, Part 1 )
greygirlbeast: (Ellen Ripley 2)
Very, very not awake this morning, and stricken with dreamsickness. It's become an issue again. I wonder if Sarah Crowe is to blame. Of course, if she is, that means I'm to blame.

I suppose I'm over the hump as regards my self-imposed "catching-up" trick of doing at least 2k words per day for three consecutive days. Yesterday, I did 2,190 words on Chapter Eight. I'm thinking, at this point, I am no more than six thousand words from the end of the book. That's probably 4-5 days, which will just leave me enough time to get Sirenia Digest #35 done. Maybe in November I can take a very short breather. But, more likely, not until December. I have to get all the final corrections to A is for Alien off to Subterranean Press sometime in the next two or three days, because the book goes to the printer late in November. The time just melts around me.


Theres a problem; feathers, iron,
Bargain buildings, weights, and pulleys.
Feathers hit the ground before the weight can leave the air.
Buy the sky, and sell the sky, and tell the sky, and tell the sky.


I think I failed to make myself clear when I made the addendum entry yesterday regarding time displacement. For one thing, I wasn't saying that this is a new phenomenon. And, looking back at the bit I took from Wikipedia, I think that's fairly clear (though the wiki article only carries it back to television, really). I would say this is, obviously, a process that has been at work for millennia (Why the hell does LJ not know how to spell millennia?), so long as human beings have been devising ways to employ technology to fritter away "spare" time and alleviate boredom. Before the internet, television. Before television, telephones, movies and radio, before movies and radio, mass-printing books, and so forth. But, to me, it seems as though there has also been a process of acceleration at work, and that the problem is not so much one of kind as one of degree. The Culture of Distraction has been with us for ages. However, it is, I think, experiencing a sort of exponential growth now. The internet, I suspect, changed the rules a bit. And I was certainly not pointing any fingers yesterday, unless I was pointing one at me.

I do not wish to live my life in mass media, or on the web, taking social interaction via virtual contact. I wish to live it in the world. However, the world is very, very hard for me (and we need not go into all the whys), and here is this great seduction, making it so easy for me not to make the huge effort required to step out into the real, external world. And, for that matter, not to buy clothes that aren't rags, or get enough sleep. This is my journal, and here I am speaking most emphatically to me. I spend far too much time online, hiding from the world. I am striving to do better, because I would like to see myself consciously work against time displacement in my own life. I do not see it as an acceptable alternative. It is nothing I desire. For my part, I'll take beaches and city streets, libraries, forests, crowded bars, and comfortable parlors filled with genuine conversation between people I actually know. Those are the things I have to find my way back to, and those are the things that this computer so successfully serves to substitute. But, in my eyes, it is no fit substitute. It's a tool that needs to be treated as a tool, and as an occasional source of entertainment.

As for others, as regards time displacement, I am not here to either validate or invalidate how other people choose to live their lives. Maybe I should be, but I'm not.

And that's what I meant to say.


We have eBay auctions ending today. Please, please take a look. Thanks!


Postscript (1:40 p.m.): I was pleased, by the way, to learn of Colin Powell's strong support of Obama's bid for presidency. I was also pleased by this bit I just read in [ profile] curt_holman's blog: Colin Powell seemed particularly angry about the accusation, stoked by some McCain supporters, that Obama is a Muslim--and not only because it's inaccurate: "The correct answer is 'He's not a Muslim. He's a Christian.' ... But the really right answer is, 'What if he is?' Is there something wrong with being a Muslim in this country? The answer is 'no.' That's not America. Is there something wrong with some seven-year-old Muslim-American kid believing that he or she can be president?" Booya!
greygirlbeast: (Early Permian)
Trying to get back into The Red Tree, I spent yesterday reading (and proofreading) Chapter Three. There's no escaping the fact (and I say this again) that this novel needs several more months. Be that as it may, I have this month to finish it. And that's all the time I have to find THE END of The Red Tree. Yesterday, mostly, I was looking for loose threads that I do not wish to remain loose. The murders of 1922-1925, for example, or Sarah's having contacted someone at URI about taking Dr. Harvey's unfinished ms. off her hands. That sort of thing. I sat in a chair in the front parlour while I read, and the sun made me very, very sleepy, and made my eyes burn.

Later, Spooky cajoled me into getting dressed and go with her to the market on the Eastside (to get stuff for chili), then to the Dexter Training Ground to pick up our weekly CSA produce bag. It was chilly and windy out, but not unpleasant. The trees are looking more autumnal. So, yes, I left the house yesterday.

Later still, we watched Rob Minkoff's The Forbidden Kingdom, which we both found quite entirely delightful. I wasn't sure what to expect, but the film comes off a bit like a retelling of The Wizard of Oz, only instead of Oz, we get a mythic version of Medieval China. Jet Li and Jackie Chan are great. Yifei Liu (Golden Sparrow) and Bingbing Li (Ni Chang) are great and hot. Michael Angarano even managed to make a pretty good Dorothy Gale. As Spooky said, "It's a very sweet movie, and there aren't enough sweet movies these days." Indeed. Later, there was World of Warcrack, of course, and Shaharrazad made it to Lvl 14, while Mithwen struggles though the first part of Lvl 23. I am beginning to fear that WoW may actually force players to form groups, in order to advance, and that it's very, very hard to get anywhere as a loner. Which would suck.

Please have a look at the current eBay auctions, which will be ending late this afternoon. Bids are appreciated.


So, there's this whole revelation I've had about the Culture of Distraction, as it pertains to the life of an author. It's a very painfully obvious sort of revelation, the sort that I should have had long ago. But I can be slow about these things. We are deluged, as a society, and probably as a planet, with distraction. With the means of easy distraction, easy entertainment, and endless forms of socializing. It pours in via our computers, TVs, cellphones, PlayStations, X-Boxes, iPods, and what have you. There is easily enough here to drown anyone. As it stands, no one ever has to exist in a moment of silence. Solitude is easier to avoid than to find. That greatest of all human fears, greater even than the fear of death —— the fear of being alone —— can be avoided. Oh, everyone is still alone, at the end of the day, but the ceaseless noise is there to make it seem otherwise. There's almost an expectation that one has a duty to engage in electronic social multi-tasking every moment of the day. And how can anyone be alone when you can simultaneously talk on your cellphone, and text talk, and IM, and Twitter (gagh), and yammer on LJ and MySpace and Tribe and Facebook and Skype and what the hell ever? Can't find RL friends or lovers? Well, there's always SL, or cyber on WoW (or so I am told), and aren't surrogates better than nothing at all?

Point is, as an author, I must have solitude. Even though, mostly, it frightens me. I hate the sound of my own mind in the absence of all other sound. It is a dreadful roar. And so, especially over the last year and a half, I have fled into the arms of this plethora of services that help to dampen the noise. It's not so very different than the trouble I've had, on and off, my whole life with pills and alcohol. Something to take the sharp, gleaming edge off being alone with myself. When, in truth, being alone with myself a little more often is exactly what I need. It's what any author must have. It's no good to have a room of one's own, if you then fill it up with unending interaction with Others. Looking at it all now, it sort of horrifies me. This constant need I see for interaction, for contact, for "peer to peer" reassurance. So, I'm withdrawing from the Distraction, and yeah, that was one of many reasons that I bowed out of the Howards End sim (and SL, in general). I'll keep the LJ (and the MySpace account, which is only there to function as a mirror of this journal). I'll play genuine games, like WoW, but I will a) never forget they are only games, and b) I will play them in moderation.

For better or worse, this is what I am, a writer. And so I must sometimes —— often, really —— just sit and stare out the window at the wide carnivorous sky. Or walk along the shore and hear the sea. Or read a book. Or listen to Spooky reading to me. Or stare at the woodgrain of the floor while daydreaming. Or listen to music. Or drift for half an hour in a tub of hot water. Sometimes, I must go for days without any significant contact with other people. I must seek out friends in the "real world," when I have need of the company of friends. "Networking" is a thing I do when I cannot avoid it. I must watch people, whether I like them or not. I must unplug far more often. I must be content with the noise in my head, and stop trying to drown it with the Noise of the World.
greygirlbeast: (talks to wolves)
Not quite awake, though I bloody well ought to be. What good is raisin/cinnamon toast with organic cream cheese and a glass of Gatorade if it doesn't wake you up?

Yesterday, I wrote 1,083 words on Chapter One of The Red Tree. Mostly, how Sarah Crowe met "Amanda Tyrell."* I think this is the last scene in the chapter. Another day or two of writing. After the writing, I packed eight boxes of books, before admitting I was too tired to pack anything more.

But the office is damn near done. I've never written in an empty office before, all the shelves bare of books. Almost all of them. Only fourteen days left until M Day. Fourteen Days. Two weeks. Two of those days will be lost to a couple more day trips to Burningspam (to see my doctor, then to retrieve my belongings from the storage unit), so, really, we have only twelve days remaining in which to pack, etc. And I have only six writing days left before the move. Wow. Fourteen days. 336 hours. Well, no, because it's already 11:30 ayem, so more like 324.5 hours. 19,470 minutes. 1,168,200 seconds (give or take). Spooky's gonna smack me when she sees this breakdown.

It rained all day yesterday.

Later, sometime After dinner, we...well, never mind that part. But after that part, we watched a whole bunch of the special features on the Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street DVDs. Helena Bonham Carter is cuter than anyone has a right to be. Later still, Spooky read to me from House of Leaves — mostly the section on Karen Navidson's short films What Some Have Thought and A Brief History of Who I Love. I still find the Hunter S. Thompson comments priceless. Then Spooky fell asleep, and I read to myself from Ronald Rainger's biography of Henry Fairfield Osborn — Chapter 6, "The Museum, the Zoo, and the Preservation of Nature" — until about 3 ayem.

And I'm two doses into the antibiotic, and, of course, they frell with my stomach. Stupid tick.

Oh, and before I forget again, I post the following for the kindly, T-shirt making aliens over at Ziraxia (who brought you the Stiff Kitten Ts):

Reynolds/Washburne 2008

Shiny! You must have one. You must. And right now, they're on sale for only $12.99 (through Monday, when the price goes back to $16.99). Though, I will say that I think "No Power in the 'Verse" would be a better campaign slogan. Maybe we can use those on the bumper stickers and yard signs.

* We never learn "Amanda's" true name in the book, as Sarah only uses a pseudonym when referring to her.
greygirlbeast: (Default)
These lyrics have been going round and round in my head all damned day. Which is to say, I may as well post them. Apologies to him who holds the copyright. My intentions are good.

You know the way that things go
When what you fight for starts to fall.
And in that fuzzy picture
The writing stands out on the wall,
So clearly on the wall.

Send out the signals, deep and loud...

And in this place, can you reassure me,
With a touch, a smile, while the cradle's burning.
All the while, the world is turning to noise.
Oh, the more that it's surrounding us,
The more that it destroys.
Turn up the signal.
Wipe out the noise.

Send out the signals, deep and loud...

Man, I'm losing sound and sight
Of all those who can tell me wrong from right,
When all things beautiful and bright
Sink in the night.
Yet there's still something in my heart
That can find a way
To make a start.
To turn up the signal.
Wipe out the noise.

Wipe out the noise.
Wipe out the noise.
You know that's it.
You know that's it.
You know that's it.
You know that's it.

Receive and transmit.
Receive and transmit.
Receive and transmit.

You know that's it.
You know that's it.
Receive and transmit.
You know that's it.
You know that's it.

Receive and transmit.
Receive and transmit.
Receive and transmit.
Receive and transmit.


greygirlbeast: (Default)
Caitlín R. Kiernan

February 2012

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