greygirlbeast: (new newest chi)
2011-10-04 01:00 pm

"Black blood, red sky, and a belly all full of fire."

I didn't work again yesterday. Somehow, taking one day off made me so tired that I needed two off. Which is odd, as I left the house on neither day. I think this is one reason I so rarely bother to take days off. Not only do I not have time, and not only do days off make me twitchy (no matter how much I need them), they also seems to make me tireder.

On this day a year ago—right about now—we were flying out of Portland, vaulting eastward, homeward, over a range of towering, snow-capped volcanic peaks, and little did we suspect the hell of air travel snafus and "we don't give a fucks" awaiting us in Minneapolis and beyond. Still, even for that, it was great trip. But I'll never fly again, unless I can't avoid it, or it means I get to cross the Atlantic.


Words I find I live by more and more:

Business as usual is unacceptable. If this is the best you can do, do better. Or do something else. Do not expect me to slow down so you can catch up. No one cares, and no one is coming for you. Desire does not equate to talent, and there is too much neglected talent for anyone to have to endure mediocrity born of even the most passionate, talentless desire. Yes, it's true that honey catches more flies than does vinegar, but fly paper catches far more than either. You're dying, already. Do not ask my opinion, unless you're willing to take a chance that I might disembowel your dreams, and no, it's not worth taking the chance.

I know how it looks. Or sounds. But all we have left to us is the truth. Lies are for the World At Large, for The Machine, for Them, the Faceless Corporate Rapists of the World. And the men and women who serve them, the men and women so filled with fear and self-loathing they only know how to believe and consume and hate. The willfully ignorant. If the truth is Hell, and Heaven a lie, give me Hell. That's the only sane choice (sane being an admittedly subjective term) .

This is what happens when I don't work. I bleed thoughts. Ugly thoughts. Like, "When did America cease producing adult human beings?"


I have received word from Subterranean Press that Two Worlds and In Between: The Best of Me (Volume One) will be arriving in the subpress warehouses today, BUT, Bill Scahfer says they "have a number of titles slated to hit the door before its turn, and half my shipping department is out sick. I don't think we'll be shipping for 1-2 weeks. " So, be patient, kittens. It's coming. It will be my Samhain gift to thee.


Nothing much happened yesterday. I took a long hot bath. There was washing-machine drama in Pickman's Basement. The new Journal of Vertebrate Paleontology arrived. I received a biography of Arthur Machen (coincidence?) I've not read as a gift from [ profile] ashlyme in far-away England. Small thank yous are often the nicest. Not always, but frequently. I've been playing a lot of Rift again. Not RPIng, just playing. The guild is actually still alive, which sort of amazes (put pleases) me. Selwynn abandoned Meridian, sick of watching the Guardians and Defiant squabble over science and religion while Regulus destroys the world; she now slays demons on her own terms. There were sandwiches for dinner. We read, and then I read to myself, K. W. Jeter's (the man who invented the term "steampunk," April 1987) "Riding Bitch," from the Halloween anthology. Not bad, really. But I stayed up too late reading.

Spooky's Hallowe'en Sale (!!!) in her Etsy shop, Dreaming Squid Dollworks and Sundries—20% off on everything—continues. Only two necklaces and a bracelet left, and who knows when she'll have time to make more. You snooze, someone else wins.

Now, back to the donut mines...

For the Moment, Guileless,
Aunt Beast
greygirlbeast: (chi (in all her fears))
2006-06-05 10:36 am

safe in my arms

Yesterday was as decent a writing day as I needed to finish "The Black Alphabet." I did 987 words, W through Z, and reached THE END. The total for pt. two presently stands at 4,210, making it slightly longer than pt. one (3,674). The two parts together come to a total of 7,884 words. I'd thought that pt. two would take me two days, as did pt. one; instead, it needed six days. And that's just the way it goes sometimes.

There were thundershowers late yesterday, which was nice. Not much else to report. We had a short walk. Spooky did a lot of work finishing up the new doll, whom I've named Snapdragon. You can see her here. Turns out, she has a part to play in Joey LaFaye as well. Watched The Sopranos. Read Chapter 14 of Hutton's The Triumph of the Moon ("The Wider Context: Reinforcement"). Did some work with the Ogham deck (and griped about the silly pseudohistory and pseudoarchaeology at the back of Liz and Colin Murray's book which accompanies the deck). I also got out my Victorian Tarot, which was a birthday gift from [ profile] grandmofhelsing back in 2003, but which I've not worked with in years. I think I got to sleep about two and was awake this morning about 8:45. Some nightmare I cannot now recall, and that, at least, is something of which to be glad.

Today, we're taking Spooky's iBook to the Apple Store at Lennox, an annoying drive in the heat and light and traffic that we've been putting off for months. We both suspect the problem is the logic board. Later this afternoon, I'll be proofreading.

At some point between the acceptance of the final draft of Murder of Angels and now, Penguin changed its policy regarding "fair use" of song lyrics for epigraphs from two lines equal "fair use" to zero lines equal "fair use." Which means I now have to contact the Decemberists and try to obtain permission to quote two lines from "Of Angels and Angles," which I've used as the opening epigraph in Daughter of Hounds. I fear that in the future I shall restrict my use of epigraphs to those things which are firmly and indisputably in the public domain.

Right. Well, that's enough for now. The day's impatient.