Caitlín R. Kiernan

Thunderstorms last night. Lightning reflecting off the snow. This morning, the sun's out, it's 41˚F, and the melting seems to have begun in earnest. I feel like we've been locked in a hard freeze for a solid month or longer. Of course, now there's the ugliness of the melt, because humans and snow are a bad mix, and there's the threat of flooding.

Spooky's been down with some sort of crud much of the past week, and yesterday it finally grabbed hold of me. Right now, I feel pretty crappy. But there's work, and I have to try to keep moving.

All of yesterday was spent pulling Sirenia Digest #62 together. It went out to subscribers last night, and hopefully everyone has it who should have it. I'd very much like to hear feedback on the first chapter of The Drowning Girl: A Memoir. Also, if you're not a subscriber and would like a sneak preview of the novel in progress, subscribe and you'll get #62.

For some damn reason, I get sick and my head fills with random thoughts. Usually, with random, unpleasant thoughts. It's as if a troll with a bucket of nails has been turned loose in my head. Nails and snot.

For example, never, ever, ever call me "hon." I get this on Second Life constantly, and on WoW, and other places, and it makes me want to wretch. Or, here's another moderately random thing: Yesterday, I read that the average American household includes thirty "always on" appliances. Stuff that never gets shut off. Thirty. Spooky and I sat and counted up our "always on" crap, and we could only come up with eight things*. So, how the hell do people manage thirty "always on" electronic (non-battery operated) appliances? Beats the hell out of me.

When I was done with the digest yesterday, once it had been sent away to be PDFed, I spent some time on Two Worlds and In Between. Mostly, I tried not to think about getting sick, or how it might affect my ability to get all this work done. Later, there was rp in Insilico...which was very good...and comic books, and cookies, and more Krilanovich, the thunderstorm and snuggling with Hubero. And here's a question, while I'm being all random and shit: Why do so many comic-book readers get annoyed at "funny books" when "comic books" means pretty much exactly the same damn thing? I grew up reading funny books, and I usually still think of them as funny books— even after having worked for DC/Vertigo all those years —and I just don't get it.

Ugh.

The platypus says stop here, and I think maybe that's not such a bad idea. Comments welcome, because Sundays suck even when I'm well.

In Phlegm,
Aunt Beast

* fridge, stove, microwave, an alarm clock, coffeemaker, water heater, modem, and router.

Yargh.

So, after a couple of days of dismally wet and genuinely cold weather, today we were hit with what the meteorologists are calling a heat wave. Yesterday, the highs in Providence were in the low 70s F, today, in the mid 90s F. And this house — built in 1875, and designed for New England winters — is great at keeping heat in. Whether it's summer or winter. So, we had a sauna today. Hours and hours of unpacking books in a sauna. Finally, partway through sorting out my paleo' books, I wandered away to the bedroom, sweat-soaked and half-delirious. I lay down, and Spooky set up a fan in the doorway, so that tepid air blew about the place just a bit. But. There's really not a lot of difference between stagnant sauna and circulating sauna. Anyway, I think that was about 4:30 pm. She lay down, too, and I dozed, feverishly. I think Hubero even joined us. Then Spooky got up, quite some time before I did. I must have lay there at least an hour. Pretty much miserable, half dreaming. I tried to do some more unpacking afterwards, but the thermostat (for the baseboard radiators) was reading 81F (around 5:30 or 6). So, I said screw it, and we got in the car and headed for Point Judith, where, as it turns out, the weather was quite wonderfully chilly. Really, at the most, low 70s, maybe 60s, a cold breeze blowing off the Atlantic.

We stopped at Iggy's for doughboys, just as they were closing up for the night. If you've never had a doughboy, they're a little hard to describe. A bit like the beignets you get at Café Dumont in the French Quarter in New Orleans (and, presumably, elsewhere), only slightly saltier, and, instead of powdered sugar, they're coated with granulated sugar. Fried, and somehow fluffy and dense at the same time, they are delightful. We ordered a half dozen and headed for Harbour of Refuge, a mile or so farther south. Literally, "land's end." We sat there, first in the car, then out on granite boulders near the jetty. I closed my eyes, taking in the surf, the foghorns from the Point Judith lighthouse and maybe, distantly, from the lighthouse on Block Island. The crashing waves. A bell buoy. There was an undercurrent of beach roses beneath the high-tide smell of the sea. To me, the ocean so often smells like sex, which seems very appropriate. Only a waxing sliver of moon in the sky, but it was bright off the breakers and the pale stone. Before long, we were shivering, our teeth chattering, and we headed back to the car, and then home again. Amazing. No more than thirty miles, and we went from sweltering to shivering. I will note that we could smell the sea long before we left the city, which was the first time I'd noticed that.

Tomorrow, sauna or no sauna, unpacked boxes or no, I have to, in some capacity, go back to writing. Whether it's something for Sirenia Digest #31 or The Red Tree or the introduction for Joshi's Machen collection, I will work on something. I have written nothing of substance since May 20th (!).

There's a thought that has been going round and round in my head, because of all this moving, weeks of being confronted with two people's lifetime accumulation of furniture and books and clothes, dishes and papers and knick-knacks. Make of it what you will. When you buy something, it becomes your responsibility, so long as you are alive, and, for that matter, even after you are dead. Whether it is an end table, a plastic straw, an action figure, an envelope, a dictionary, or a tank of gas, once you have bought it, it belongs to you. All this stuff. You are responsible for whatever impact it may have (or has had) on your environment, your world, forever. In a sense, it was made for you, after all, even if the manufacturer did not know that you, personally, would be the buyer, the owner. And when we buy a thing, or give a gift, we should do so with this responsibility in mind. We may consider a paper cup or a ballpoint pen or even a DVD player "disposable," short term or long term. But, the truth is, you own it, whether it's in your home or taking up space in a landfill somewhere. In this paradoxically materialistic, throwaway society, responsibility does not end when our need or desire for an object ends. And like I said, just a thought.

I believe that I will live here, in this house, until I am at least -15 (which would be 16 years from now). I think it suits me. I know it suits Spooky.

Oh. New address, finally. You may now contact me at, or send packages to:

Caitlín R. Kiernan
P.O. Box 603096
Providence, RI 02906 USA

Yeah, so, as days off go, yesterday was so-so. It began well enough. We went to Piedmont Park, not remembering that this weekend was the frelling silly Dogwood Festival, and instead of just sitting and watching birds flit about Lake Clara Meer, we spent an hour or so wandering amongst the hoard of people who'd been drawn out for all the arts and crafts and whatnot. All I wanted was the park. Anyway, afterwards we drove up to Sandy Springs, to the Phoenix and Dragon, because there was a Celtic (read Irish, Scottish, Manx, Welsh) cookbook that Spooky wanted. I finally got a new hematite ring to replace the one I broke way back in 2000 or so. I'd bought it in the French Market in New Orleans many years before, and I still have all the pieces. Anyway, on the way back home, there was too much traffic and I got way too much sun, which left me ill and achy.

The editorial letter for Daughter of Hounds came yesterday, and, for now, the less said about that, the better.

I'd resolved to have a genuine Kid Night last night, as we've almost abadoned the ritual the past two or three months. So, we'd stopped by Videodrome and picked up Star Trek: The Motion Picture and Star Trek: The Wrath of Khan (the directors' editions). We ate, meaning to watch the movies next, but I was so woozy from the heat and sun, I dozed off and slept an hour or so on the sofa. Spooky finally woke me, in time to see Dr. Who, and, afterwards, we watched four hours of Star Trek. For all it's flaws, ST:TMP still makes me "oooh" and "ahhh" over VGER. And I think ST:TWOK has held up quite well. We didn't get to bed until after four, and then got up and watched Wallace and Gromit: Curse of the Were-Rabbit this morning, dragging Kid Night out into the light of day. And now all the fun and games are over, and I must proof "For One Who Has Lost Herself" and Alabaster. I am not in the mood to read me today. Not at all.

My thanks to activistgirl for today's icon. It's cool, and that was very sweet of you.

And I must announce that sovay is my New Favourite Reader, because of the following comment (re: Jimmy DeSade) to the entry I wrote yesterday morning, because sometimes there's nothing on Earth more important than knowing that at least one person understands what I've said:

I love that he's everything from a Gothic monster to a badass antihero to a genuinely tragic figure: the boy who pours brandy for Elgin Murray and the motherfucker who turns out the lights on Tam and Magwitch and the twins, and the prince who comes through the thorns just a little too late; a fall and no redemption. ". . . Between the Gargoyle Trees" is heartbreaking; he is terrible and terribly sympathetic.

And to answer to her question, will there be more Jimmy DeSade stories, well, I've learned never to say never and all that, but I don't intend for there to be. As far as I know, Jimmy went up with that old movie house. It was the kindest ending I could find for him.

Oh, and I've been confirmed for Dragon*Con, my first con since Fiddler's Green in Minneapolis in late 2004. I cannot yet say whether or not Nar'eth shall also be in attendance. We'll just have to see.

The sky is grey today, and instead of 82F, we get 69F with rain.

Anyway. The red pen awaits. But there are three or four memes I've been meaning to do (why not), so I'll likely make more entries, later today.