"If I puked up some sonnets, would you call me a miracle?"
Something like an hour and a half sleep last night. I fell asleep about 5:30 a.m., and I awoke at about 7:00 a.m. (times CaST). But I didn't take Seoquel. Yesterday was, I'm quite certain, the most awake I've been in at least a year. It was the first time I hadn't taken Seroquel since I started coming off the Lamictal. Jesus, I've been in a fucking fog. It's no wonder I hardly wrote jack shit this past year. It's good to be getting my mind back, even if it's the same broken mind I had when I entered that fog.
That said, lying awake in bed this morning, staring at the ceiling, the profundity of my displeasure with my life became apparent. A more perfect understanding of something I knew well enough already.
Yesterday, I spent about three hours reading over "The Prayer of Ninety Cats," which will be appearing in a another forthcoming "year's best" anthology. It's a story I can look at and be proud of what I've done. It's one of, say, ten things that I've written that I know are well and truly very, very good. Decades of work went into creating that story.
Since June, a folder of photos from the New Orleans trip has been sitting on my iMac's desktop, because I knew I'd reach a point this winter when I needed the summer and Birmingham and Birmingham in the summer. I left it there so that when that day came I could pull out a few photos and post them here to remind myself of something better. So...these were taken at the train depot downtown, between Powell Avenue South and Morris Avenue:
12:44 p.m. (CDT)
12:44 p.m. (CDT)
12:40 p.m. (CDT)
12:39 p.m. (CDT)
Photographs Copyright © 2013 by Caitlín R. Kiernan and Kathryn A. Pollnac
Other than the tiny amount of work I've been able to get done, as my newly awakened brain fizzes and hums and thrums, I've been trying to hide in RP, in The Secret World. Only I'm fairly convinced that all the other players loathe me. No, seriously.
Wanna trade? Well, only if you live somewhere warm.
Thrumming,
Aunt Beast
That said, lying awake in bed this morning, staring at the ceiling, the profundity of my displeasure with my life became apparent. A more perfect understanding of something I knew well enough already.
Yesterday, I spent about three hours reading over "The Prayer of Ninety Cats," which will be appearing in a another forthcoming "year's best" anthology. It's a story I can look at and be proud of what I've done. It's one of, say, ten things that I've written that I know are well and truly very, very good. Decades of work went into creating that story.
Since June, a folder of photos from the New Orleans trip has been sitting on my iMac's desktop, because I knew I'd reach a point this winter when I needed the summer and Birmingham and Birmingham in the summer. I left it there so that when that day came I could pull out a few photos and post them here to remind myself of something better. So...these were taken at the train depot downtown, between Powell Avenue South and Morris Avenue:
12:44 p.m. (CDT)
12:44 p.m. (CDT)
12:40 p.m. (CDT)
12:39 p.m. (CDT)
Photographs Copyright © 2013 by Caitlín R. Kiernan and Kathryn A. Pollnac
Other than the tiny amount of work I've been able to get done, as my newly awakened brain fizzes and hums and thrums, I've been trying to hide in RP, in The Secret World. Only I'm fairly convinced that all the other players loathe me. No, seriously.
Wanna trade? Well, only if you live somewhere warm.
Thrumming,
Aunt Beast