Yes, Virgina, humans are ig'nant.
Well, the good news is that cigarette sales have fallen to a 55-year low. On the other hand (there always has to be that damned other hand), a recent Gallup Poll indicates that 50% of Americans "reject an evolutionary explanation for the origin of humans and believe that God created humans at one time 'as is.'" What's interesting about the latter, though, is that the poll also found that "Those with lower levels of education, those who attend church regularly, those who are 65 and older, and those who identify with the Republican Party are more likely to believe in the biblical view of the origin of humans than are those who do not share these characteristics." This should only come as a surprise to those who haven't been paying attention, but additional confirmation of the obvious is always comforting.
Yesterday, Spooky scored a sampler previewing the new Dresden Dolls album, Yes, Virginia, due in stores on April 25th. Thank you, Criminal Records. Me, I spent most of the day attending to writerly loose ends. A bunch of stuff I need to send off to Steve Jones in England, e-mails that needed writing and answering, editing "Untitled 20," writing a rough draft of the prologue for Sirenia Digest #4. It was a details sort of day. We did have a nice walk. The tulip trees are all in bloom. On the way back from the p.o., I saw Robert, who did my labret, in the parking lot at Sevananda (our local organic foods co-op). He's the latest thing to make me wish I'd commit to putting my hair in dreads. The day was warm and bright and good. Spooky made cheese ravioli and broiled asparagus for dinner.
And yeah, Santino didn't win. But I honestly think he deserved to win. I'm not just sayin' that because he rocks my socks. He had the best line. Yes, it was more refined than many of his earlier pieces, but how many times have the judges and Tim Gunn told him to listen to what they're saying? And the clothes were absolutely frelling gorgeous. Going into the final three, with Nick inexplicably out of the running, I figured Daniel was a sure bet. And, given his performance all season, I figured he deserved it. However, his line wasn't up to his own standards. Still, it was better than almost everything Chloe did. Chloe's victory is yet another triumph of mediocrity and blandness over vision and individuality. This is the way the world works, and me, I'm still Santino's tralk and Michael Kors can bite my skinny grey ass.
Wait. Ewww. No, he can't. But Santino can. Anytime.
The insomnia is back. I'm not having trouble getting to sleep. Spooky was trying to read Dracula to me last night, and I couldn't stay awake for more than a few pages. But I'm waking up too early for the time I'm going to sleep. This morning I was awake at 8 a.m. (that's 7 a.m. EST to anyone not on Caitlín Standard Time). I blinked at the iBook for a while and then rewrote the Wikipedia entry on the basal nodosaurid Cedarpelta bilbeyhallorum. I've got to watch this not sleeping or I'll wind up back in the state, mentally and physically, I was in towards the end of all the Daughter of Hounds editing. At least I've had to avoid the embrace of the Green Fairy since Saturday, while the labret's been healing (no alcohol). I am taking today "off," as I've been working eight days straight and beginning to feel it.
I wanted to say thanks to the people who've commented on yesterday's dream entry. Especially mockingbirdgrrl, who wrote, Your statement, "Magic is communication. Magic is the one-way communication between any living organism and the cosmos. We speak and the cosmos doesn't listen, but we speak because there's nothing else we can do." resonates soundly. I kept rereading it, thinking I'd heard that somewhere before. Here it is, from Simon Black's The Book of Frank: "Because in reality, there is no response to our howling, not here. But that fact is intolerable. The mind invents a response." I've never read Simon Black, but yes, exactly. Consciousness cannot help but howl. I know I've been howling my head off for my whole goddamn life. And, so far, the only response beyond wishful thinking has been the beauty and profundity of Nature and Art* that's right here for anyone who'll but open their eyes and see the small fraction that's visible. I know my howling consciousness will always long for something more, some two-way communication, but I'm beginning to accept (in the words of Elizabeth Bear) the apparent truth that "Nobody is coming for you." My dream was fascinating and helpful, but it was only me talking to me, my unconscious and perhaps a Jungian collective attempting to aid my clumsy, fretting conscious mind. Of course, it was also the voice of the "goddess," the Dark Mother and Father and Divine Androgyne (thank you, morganxpage), but only because I am a part of the cosmos, as are you and that lightning-struck tree and the crows and everything living and non-living, every molecule and atom and sub-atomic speck and particle and wave...and, well, I think you see where I'm headed with this. Sagan said it best. "Star stuff."
Postscript: Thanks to everyone who's sent me a chat invite on gmail, but I honestly don't have time for any additional internet activity. Really. Already, I'm allowing LJ/Blogger to eat great mouthfuls of it.
*Truthfully, though, Art is merely a subset of Nature.
Yesterday, Spooky scored a sampler previewing the new Dresden Dolls album, Yes, Virginia, due in stores on April 25th. Thank you, Criminal Records. Me, I spent most of the day attending to writerly loose ends. A bunch of stuff I need to send off to Steve Jones in England, e-mails that needed writing and answering, editing "Untitled 20," writing a rough draft of the prologue for Sirenia Digest #4. It was a details sort of day. We did have a nice walk. The tulip trees are all in bloom. On the way back from the p.o., I saw Robert, who did my labret, in the parking lot at Sevananda (our local organic foods co-op). He's the latest thing to make me wish I'd commit to putting my hair in dreads. The day was warm and bright and good. Spooky made cheese ravioli and broiled asparagus for dinner.
And yeah, Santino didn't win. But I honestly think he deserved to win. I'm not just sayin' that because he rocks my socks. He had the best line. Yes, it was more refined than many of his earlier pieces, but how many times have the judges and Tim Gunn told him to listen to what they're saying? And the clothes were absolutely frelling gorgeous. Going into the final three, with Nick inexplicably out of the running, I figured Daniel was a sure bet. And, given his performance all season, I figured he deserved it. However, his line wasn't up to his own standards. Still, it was better than almost everything Chloe did. Chloe's victory is yet another triumph of mediocrity and blandness over vision and individuality. This is the way the world works, and me, I'm still Santino's tralk and Michael Kors can bite my skinny grey ass.
Wait. Ewww. No, he can't. But Santino can. Anytime.
The insomnia is back. I'm not having trouble getting to sleep. Spooky was trying to read Dracula to me last night, and I couldn't stay awake for more than a few pages. But I'm waking up too early for the time I'm going to sleep. This morning I was awake at 8 a.m. (that's 7 a.m. EST to anyone not on Caitlín Standard Time). I blinked at the iBook for a while and then rewrote the Wikipedia entry on the basal nodosaurid Cedarpelta bilbeyhallorum. I've got to watch this not sleeping or I'll wind up back in the state, mentally and physically, I was in towards the end of all the Daughter of Hounds editing. At least I've had to avoid the embrace of the Green Fairy since Saturday, while the labret's been healing (no alcohol). I am taking today "off," as I've been working eight days straight and beginning to feel it.
I wanted to say thanks to the people who've commented on yesterday's dream entry. Especially mockingbirdgrrl, who wrote, Your statement, "Magic is communication. Magic is the one-way communication between any living organism and the cosmos. We speak and the cosmos doesn't listen, but we speak because there's nothing else we can do." resonates soundly. I kept rereading it, thinking I'd heard that somewhere before. Here it is, from Simon Black's The Book of Frank: "Because in reality, there is no response to our howling, not here. But that fact is intolerable. The mind invents a response." I've never read Simon Black, but yes, exactly. Consciousness cannot help but howl. I know I've been howling my head off for my whole goddamn life. And, so far, the only response beyond wishful thinking has been the beauty and profundity of Nature and Art* that's right here for anyone who'll but open their eyes and see the small fraction that's visible. I know my howling consciousness will always long for something more, some two-way communication, but I'm beginning to accept (in the words of Elizabeth Bear) the apparent truth that "Nobody is coming for you." My dream was fascinating and helpful, but it was only me talking to me, my unconscious and perhaps a Jungian collective attempting to aid my clumsy, fretting conscious mind. Of course, it was also the voice of the "goddess," the Dark Mother and Father and Divine Androgyne (thank you, morganxpage), but only because I am a part of the cosmos, as are you and that lightning-struck tree and the crows and everything living and non-living, every molecule and atom and sub-atomic speck and particle and wave...and, well, I think you see where I'm headed with this. Sagan said it best. "Star stuff."
Postscript: Thanks to everyone who's sent me a chat invite on gmail, but I honestly don't have time for any additional internet activity. Really. Already, I'm allowing LJ/Blogger to eat great mouthfuls of it.
*Truthfully, though, Art is merely a subset of Nature.