Entry #4,233
I sort of fell off this horse, didn't I? I'm not even quite sure why. There were a number of aborted attempts to get out of the House and venture out into Providence, which meant unusual mornings. I could blame those. My last entry was on the 14th. I'm not even sure I can recall much about the time in between. It's a blur of monotony: proofreading, not leaving the House, cold, RP, television, dust, insomnia, pain, Vicodin, sleep that's almost worse than the insomnia, wash, rinse, repeat. My eyes endlessly gazing at this screen. I've grown old in this shitty chair. I've not left the House since the 11th.
The weather is grey today, but at least the temperature's up. It's a balmy 39˚F, and they say - they being the weathermen - that we can expect 48˚F. I'm a little dubious, and I'm be content that we have a day above freezing.
"You can't conceive, nor can I, the appalling strangeness of the mercy of God." ~ Graham Greene
I neglected to mention that I had a seizure on the night of the 13th, my first since March. I take that as a warning.
Supposedly, I'm going to the Athenaeum to finish proofreading Beneath an Oil-Dark Sea: The Best of Caitlín R. Kiernan (Volume 2). We'll see if I can actually manage that. They don't open until 2 p.m. If I can get there, I'm going to try to get through all of Black Helicopters, the book's closing story.
On Friday, I proofread "Interstate Love Song (Murder Ballad #8)" for its reprint in Jonathan Strahan's The Year's Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year (Volume Nine).
On Thursday, it snowed. For a while. I suppose the last of it will melt today. I took a photo from the window of my office (cell):
That photo actually does a decent job of getting the point across. Those are the cacti I bought on Thayer Street back in...October? Kathryn and I had just gotten our flu shots a few days before, and we were feeling yucky. I remember that. Anyway, the cacti remind me green exists.
The only real news, and certainly the only good news, is that Kathryn and I will be heading back to Woodstock the last week of January, for another extended stay. This is how I will survive the winter of 2015, crouched in the shadow of the mountains, shielded by trees. The desolation of Providence in January and February can be crushing, and I crush a lot more easily than I once did.
Last night we watched Peter Medak's utterly bizarre 1994 attempt at neo-noir, Romeo is Bleeding. I'd not seen since 1994, and I actually recalled it being a much darker, more disturbing film than it is. Roger Ebert wrote of it, "an exercise in overwrought style and overwritten melodrama, and proof that a great cast cannot save a film from self-destruction." Pretty much. It was also described as "film noir camp," but I think it's far too earnest to succeed even as camp. The bst adjective I can summon is, as I said, "bizarre." But there is a fine cast: Gary Oldman, Juliette Lewis, Roy Scheider, Michael Wincott, Ron Perlman, and, the show-stealing Lena Olin. It should be seen, if only as an object lesson. And yes, the title is from a Tom Waits song.
Now, I gotta get dressed.
TTFN,
Aunt Beast
The weather is grey today, but at least the temperature's up. It's a balmy 39˚F, and they say - they being the weathermen - that we can expect 48˚F. I'm a little dubious, and I'm be content that we have a day above freezing.
"You can't conceive, nor can I, the appalling strangeness of the mercy of God." ~ Graham Greene
I neglected to mention that I had a seizure on the night of the 13th, my first since March. I take that as a warning.
Supposedly, I'm going to the Athenaeum to finish proofreading Beneath an Oil-Dark Sea: The Best of Caitlín R. Kiernan (Volume 2). We'll see if I can actually manage that. They don't open until 2 p.m. If I can get there, I'm going to try to get through all of Black Helicopters, the book's closing story.
On Friday, I proofread "Interstate Love Song (Murder Ballad #8)" for its reprint in Jonathan Strahan's The Year's Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year (Volume Nine).
On Thursday, it snowed. For a while. I suppose the last of it will melt today. I took a photo from the window of my office (cell):
That photo actually does a decent job of getting the point across. Those are the cacti I bought on Thayer Street back in...October? Kathryn and I had just gotten our flu shots a few days before, and we were feeling yucky. I remember that. Anyway, the cacti remind me green exists.
The only real news, and certainly the only good news, is that Kathryn and I will be heading back to Woodstock the last week of January, for another extended stay. This is how I will survive the winter of 2015, crouched in the shadow of the mountains, shielded by trees. The desolation of Providence in January and February can be crushing, and I crush a lot more easily than I once did.
Last night we watched Peter Medak's utterly bizarre 1994 attempt at neo-noir, Romeo is Bleeding. I'd not seen since 1994, and I actually recalled it being a much darker, more disturbing film than it is. Roger Ebert wrote of it, "an exercise in overwrought style and overwritten melodrama, and proof that a great cast cannot save a film from self-destruction." Pretty much. It was also described as "film noir camp," but I think it's far too earnest to succeed even as camp. The bst adjective I can summon is, as I said, "bizarre." But there is a fine cast: Gary Oldman, Juliette Lewis, Roy Scheider, Michael Wincott, Ron Perlman, and, the show-stealing Lena Olin. It should be seen, if only as an object lesson. And yes, the title is from a Tom Waits song.
Now, I gotta get dressed.
TTFN,
Aunt Beast