"Marching to the ocean, marching to the sea." 15
It seems it ought to be impossible for every new day to be grimmer than the day before, but that is the world now.
Sunny here, until the day turned cloudy. Thunder that rattled the hills. Then the rain. Our high was 92˚F, with a heat index of 98˚F.
A dream just before I woke this morning, uncommonly vivid, even for me. I looked up at the night sky as thin clouds cleared, revealing startling clear and near galaxies, in a thousand colors, revolving above the world.
It was not a good day. I got a little work done between 7 a.m. and 9:30 a.m. I didn't go to McWane.
The afternoon's movie was Denis Villeneuve's Blade Runner 2049 (2017). Last night we finally saw Paul Thomas Anderson's Licorice Pizza (2021) and loved it.
These two papers have exhausted me. And they are not finished, even after almost three months of doing virtually nothing else. At the rate I've been working, it could take another couple weeks, if I can figure out a bunch of Photoshop crap. If I can't, it's gonna take a lot longer. I do not have two more weeks, much less a lot longer. Any day now I have to set this all aside and write new stories for Sirenia Digest. Everything is moving very fast. I do not now have the luxury for this thing I love, but which does not pay bills.
Something I posted to Facebook very early this morning:
No one gets to tell me what I can and cannot write, what I should or should not write, what is right or wrong to write, or even what is "hurtful" or virtuous to write. No one gets to dictate do's and dont's. No one. Ever. You may choose not to buy a book. You may choose not to read me. But you get no say, beyond that, in what I do or how I do it. The creation of art is not a democratic process. In my stories, I am an absolute tyrant. When I write, I am God.
Please have a look at the Big Cartel shop.
Later Tater Beans,
Aunt Beast
4:10 p.m.
Sunny here, until the day turned cloudy. Thunder that rattled the hills. Then the rain. Our high was 92˚F, with a heat index of 98˚F.
A dream just before I woke this morning, uncommonly vivid, even for me. I looked up at the night sky as thin clouds cleared, revealing startling clear and near galaxies, in a thousand colors, revolving above the world.
It was not a good day. I got a little work done between 7 a.m. and 9:30 a.m. I didn't go to McWane.
The afternoon's movie was Denis Villeneuve's Blade Runner 2049 (2017). Last night we finally saw Paul Thomas Anderson's Licorice Pizza (2021) and loved it.
These two papers have exhausted me. And they are not finished, even after almost three months of doing virtually nothing else. At the rate I've been working, it could take another couple weeks, if I can figure out a bunch of Photoshop crap. If I can't, it's gonna take a lot longer. I do not have two more weeks, much less a lot longer. Any day now I have to set this all aside and write new stories for Sirenia Digest. Everything is moving very fast. I do not now have the luxury for this thing I love, but which does not pay bills.
Something I posted to Facebook very early this morning:
No one gets to tell me what I can and cannot write, what I should or should not write, what is right or wrong to write, or even what is "hurtful" or virtuous to write. No one gets to dictate do's and dont's. No one. Ever. You may choose not to buy a book. You may choose not to read me. But you get no say, beyond that, in what I do or how I do it. The creation of art is not a democratic process. In my stories, I am an absolute tyrant. When I write, I am God.
Please have a look at the Big Cartel shop.
Later Tater Beans,
Aunt Beast
4:10 p.m.