"I'm a dying breed who still believes."
Well, there would have been photos today. But yesterday, when I was going to dump everything onto my iMac, I couldn't find the cameras. Spooky was out, and she knew where they were, and I could not discern their hiding place. So, maybe tomorrow.
Jesus fucking fuck, this is an inherently depressing time of year. Or it certainly has been for me the last few years. I arrive at the end of the year and look back across a vasty plain of disappointment. I give the dying, misbegotten year the middle finger. The calender roars on ahead. Christmas is depressing, but New Year's is horrific, each lost year a life in microcosm, the carbonized husk of a bee trapped in amber.
In Woodstock, the mountains and the trees kept me safe from this sun and this sky and from some of the worst places in my mind.
Toto, I have a feeling we're not in Woodstock anymore.
Yesterday, I only managed two pages of #5 of Alabaster: The Good, the Bad, and the Bird. I wrote 11, and I wrote 12, and then I hit a wall. That goddamn "What happens next?" wall that is the wages of stooping to write fiction that is not driven by characters, but rather by mere events. Anyway, I have today and I have tomorrow to finish this. Not because my editor says so. Hell, Joëlle won't even be ready to start drawing until March or April. This is my deadline. I will not drag this project with me into 2015. I should have been done with it by June, at the latest. So, I have 5 pages to write today (which means about 10 ms. pages) and five to write tomorrow. Or 10 today and 0 tomorrow. Or 6 today and 4 tomorrow. You get the picture.
Currently, it's 27˚F in Providence and feels like 23˚F.
Last night, after smoking some good strong weed, I slept almost nine hours, which almost never happens.
Let's make a list, just for the hell of it. Anything to stave off having to work on the comic. Currently, I am reading:
1. All the Pretty Horses by Cormac McCarthy
2. Bone by Bone by Peter Mathiessen
3. Cold Hand in Mine by Robert Aickman
4. Close-up on Sunset Boulevard by Sam Staggs
I actually hate when I find myself reading more than one or two books at a time, so don't ask me how this happened. And it is, I see, officially "after noon," so I'm going wrap up this laundry list of a thousand cuts and get on with what's left of today, what's left of a misspent year.
TTFN,
Aunt Beast
Jesus fucking fuck, this is an inherently depressing time of year. Or it certainly has been for me the last few years. I arrive at the end of the year and look back across a vasty plain of disappointment. I give the dying, misbegotten year the middle finger. The calender roars on ahead. Christmas is depressing, but New Year's is horrific, each lost year a life in microcosm, the carbonized husk of a bee trapped in amber.
In Woodstock, the mountains and the trees kept me safe from this sun and this sky and from some of the worst places in my mind.
Toto, I have a feeling we're not in Woodstock anymore.
Yesterday, I only managed two pages of #5 of Alabaster: The Good, the Bad, and the Bird. I wrote 11, and I wrote 12, and then I hit a wall. That goddamn "What happens next?" wall that is the wages of stooping to write fiction that is not driven by characters, but rather by mere events. Anyway, I have today and I have tomorrow to finish this. Not because my editor says so. Hell, Joëlle won't even be ready to start drawing until March or April. This is my deadline. I will not drag this project with me into 2015. I should have been done with it by June, at the latest. So, I have 5 pages to write today (which means about 10 ms. pages) and five to write tomorrow. Or 10 today and 0 tomorrow. Or 6 today and 4 tomorrow. You get the picture.
Currently, it's 27˚F in Providence and feels like 23˚F.
Last night, after smoking some good strong weed, I slept almost nine hours, which almost never happens.
Let's make a list, just for the hell of it. Anything to stave off having to work on the comic. Currently, I am reading:
1. All the Pretty Horses by Cormac McCarthy
2. Bone by Bone by Peter Mathiessen
3. Cold Hand in Mine by Robert Aickman
4. Close-up on Sunset Boulevard by Sam Staggs
I actually hate when I find myself reading more than one or two books at a time, so don't ask me how this happened. And it is, I see, officially "after noon," so I'm going wrap up this laundry list of a thousand cuts and get on with what's left of today, what's left of a misspent year.
TTFN,
Aunt Beast