"Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio?" 4
A sunny day. Our high was 89˚F, with a heat index of 95˚F.
And a more eventful one. Well, I guess yesterday at the museum was fairly eventful, but, anyway. I spent the morning writing one of the last sections to be done of MP 1.3 (unless I mean MP 1.2, I've gotten confused), the teeth. The teeth of this specimen are very, very strange. I spoke with Mike Polcyn about the teeth of the problem about 4 p.m., and the conversation went on for an hour and a half. He wants me to see if I can get permission from Yale to mold the teeth in silicone, then pull polyurethane casts. This would allow me to see the ornamentation on the enamel much better. The old school way of doing this, the way I was taught to do it in college, you "whiten" the teeth with a removable coating of ammonium chloride and graphite, then photograph them in B&W, but it's messy and not terribly healthy. So, now I have to write to Yale for permission to cast the teeth. Alas, there are not enough teeth with the specimen to sacrifice one to cross-sectioning.
---
Damn, Simon and Garfunkel's "The Sound of Silence" is becoming awfully fucking relevant again.
Anyway...
What else about today? I mean besides the crushing anxiety and fear and depression and anger? There is a Frank Turner (an English folk-punk performer I have become fond of, thank you, Z) song that kind of sums it all up. It is titled, appropriately, 1933:
The first time it was a tragedy.
The second time is a farce.
Outside, it's 1933...
But I don't know what's going on anymore.
The world outside is burning with a brand new light.
But it isn't one that makes me feel warm.
Don't go mistaking your house burning down for the dawn.
Don't go mistaking your house burning down for the dawn.
If I was of the greatest generation I'd be pissed.
Surveying the world that I built slipping back into this
I'd be screaming at my grand kids, "We already did this!"
Be suspicious of simple answers...
You can't fix the world if all you have is a hammer.
And what I see, is everyone, everywhere, on both sides of this fence we've raised, wielding hammers.
----
The talk last night with Sonya, well, I won't say it went well. It was terribly good to see her and talk with her again, but neither of us had much of anything but grim news. And I think she managed to beat me on the grim news front.
I will see her soon, in person.
Oh, today I signed the contract for Bradbury Weather (I thought I already had) and the first in a series that will allow SubPress to release all my short-story collections as ebooks. I know. I shudder at the thought of ebooks. But there are people who like them, and I ain't sayin' "no" to money.
I played some GW2. The game turns ten years old later this month, and I have been playing it that whole time.
Okay, one more thing. The Big Cartel shop. Please go have a look. My books and audiobooks and issues of Sirenia Digest, PLUS Spooky's beautiful tie-dye work, which is selling better than my books. Thank you.
Later Tater Beans,
Aunt Beast
Ain't it the goddamn truth? (12:34 p.m.)
And a more eventful one. Well, I guess yesterday at the museum was fairly eventful, but, anyway. I spent the morning writing one of the last sections to be done of MP 1.3 (unless I mean MP 1.2, I've gotten confused), the teeth. The teeth of this specimen are very, very strange. I spoke with Mike Polcyn about the teeth of the problem about 4 p.m., and the conversation went on for an hour and a half. He wants me to see if I can get permission from Yale to mold the teeth in silicone, then pull polyurethane casts. This would allow me to see the ornamentation on the enamel much better. The old school way of doing this, the way I was taught to do it in college, you "whiten" the teeth with a removable coating of ammonium chloride and graphite, then photograph them in B&W, but it's messy and not terribly healthy. So, now I have to write to Yale for permission to cast the teeth. Alas, there are not enough teeth with the specimen to sacrifice one to cross-sectioning.
---
Damn, Simon and Garfunkel's "The Sound of Silence" is becoming awfully fucking relevant again.
Anyway...
What else about today? I mean besides the crushing anxiety and fear and depression and anger? There is a Frank Turner (an English folk-punk performer I have become fond of, thank you, Z) song that kind of sums it all up. It is titled, appropriately, 1933:
The first time it was a tragedy.
The second time is a farce.
Outside, it's 1933...
But I don't know what's going on anymore.
The world outside is burning with a brand new light.
But it isn't one that makes me feel warm.
Don't go mistaking your house burning down for the dawn.
Don't go mistaking your house burning down for the dawn.
If I was of the greatest generation I'd be pissed.
Surveying the world that I built slipping back into this
I'd be screaming at my grand kids, "We already did this!"
Be suspicious of simple answers...
You can't fix the world if all you have is a hammer.
And what I see, is everyone, everywhere, on both sides of this fence we've raised, wielding hammers.
----
The talk last night with Sonya, well, I won't say it went well. It was terribly good to see her and talk with her again, but neither of us had much of anything but grim news. And I think she managed to beat me on the grim news front.
I will see her soon, in person.
Oh, today I signed the contract for Bradbury Weather (I thought I already had) and the first in a series that will allow SubPress to release all my short-story collections as ebooks. I know. I shudder at the thought of ebooks. But there are people who like them, and I ain't sayin' "no" to money.
I played some GW2. The game turns ten years old later this month, and I have been playing it that whole time.
Okay, one more thing. The Big Cartel shop. Please go have a look. My books and audiobooks and issues of Sirenia Digest, PLUS Spooky's beautiful tie-dye work, which is selling better than my books. Thank you.
Later Tater Beans,
Aunt Beast
Ain't it the goddamn truth? (12:34 p.m.)