"And although I was burning, you're the only light."
Almost two hours ago (more now), I woke from strange dreams of Florida. I dream of Florida much more often since Kathryn and I visited Jacksonville back in January 2004. That trip, we went to be near the sea and find all the places where I'd lived as a child and to collect Pliocene fossils on Neptune Beach (bits of bone, along with the teeth of horse and bison and a fragment of mammoth tooth). Anyway, I woke two hours ago (much more now), and I had to lie still maybe two minutes or so before I realized I was awake and this was real. Before the bedroom was a known, familiar place again. Everything I'd just left behind was far more real. The betrayal by someone who long since betrayed me and went away (to whatever well-deserv'd hell I hope she's found), a dream of broad, clear rivers flowing slowly beneath canopies of cypress and oak, white sand and mossy stones, black fossil bones that could be plucked from the water, the maps that led me there. And there was a journey through an increasingly narrow granite passageway that pinched down so small I eventually had to turn back, just as I glimpsed light at the end. There was something like a Playskool version of a Buck Rodgers raygun that helped me find fossils. There were endless digressions and delays, constant frustration. There was a siren, her hair black and pomaded, slicked back from a pale face. She sang at the center of what seemed like a Busby Berkeley kaleidoscope of women. And there was so much more, but it's lost to me now. I got out of bed and realized that it wasn't snowing. Only rain.
It's trying to snow now, and we're still being told snow is coming.
The fucking headaches continue, almost definitely related to there being something wrong with my fucking neck.
---
Yesterday, I realized almost immediately that I couldn't spend another day shut away inside this house, trying to write and not writing, not doing much of anything, really. So, we left, and Spooky dropped me off on Benefit Street at the Athenaeum, then went to run some errands. I sat upstairs in the library, making two pages of notes for what will be my At the Mountains of Madness story. I hate the original title so much, I've traded it for "Iris," but that may not be right, either. I sat and stared at the spines of books many times older than me. I browsed through geology, astronomy, archaeology, and paleontology texts that the Athenaeum has had since before Lovecraft was born, wondering if he'd ever read any of them, those actual copies. Certainly, he must have.
I found a copy of Two Worlds and In Between in the new arrivals section, which was nice. I get an especial pleasure from seeing my books in public libraries. I don't know exactly why. Oh, and a special thanks to aliceoddcabinet.
Kathryn came back, and we left the library just before five p.m., as they were getting ready to close for the evening. It had grown colder outside. Walking to the van, south down Benefit Street, I shivered and listened to the wind in the bare limbs. We stopped by the market, then Acme video, and then Fellini's pizza, gathering up all the makings of a proper Kid Night, which we've both badly needed for some time. We started with Stan Winston's Pumpkinhead (1988), which was much more enjoyable than I remembered, and then proceeded to one of our favorites, James Gunn's Slither (2006), which we followed with a dangerously ridiculous number of episodes of Home Movies. Oh, and there was pecan pie.
Also, there are photographs behind the cut to prove I actually braved the Outside yesterday:
The Providence Athenaeum (founded in 1753), Benefit Street.
The view from the old school desk where I worked.
An amazingly beautiful volume from the late-middle 1800s, inscribed "Charles M. Salisbury, Grace Church S. S.. Christmas 1872."
Yep, that's me. One day, we will trim my bangs again.
Spooky reading a book on William Morris and the Arts and Crafts Movement.
Yep, that's me, again. My book, where Lovecraft and Poe walked.
So, walking back to the van along Benefit Street, we came upon this sight. Undeniably eerie. It put me in mind of two things. Firstly, an unwritten Edward Gorey story (and I believe there is an existing Gorey illustration that's almost identical to this). Secondly, I recalled "King of Pain" by the Police: "There's a black hat caught in a high tree top." Yeah, I know this is not a black hat.
Acme Video, our favorite movie place, at the corner of Transit and Brook (view to the south).
Inside Fellini's, on Wickenden Street, waiting for our double cheese, pepperoni, and mushroom, with which to initiate Kid Night. I was sucking on an Atomic Fireball (free, from Acme Video), and the woman at the counter said I smelled like cinnamon.
Two more days, two more daily posts. Comment now, kittens. Time's short.
Home Again, Home Again,
Aunt Beast
It's trying to snow now, and we're still being told snow is coming.
The fucking headaches continue, almost definitely related to there being something wrong with my fucking neck.
---
Yesterday, I realized almost immediately that I couldn't spend another day shut away inside this house, trying to write and not writing, not doing much of anything, really. So, we left, and Spooky dropped me off on Benefit Street at the Athenaeum, then went to run some errands. I sat upstairs in the library, making two pages of notes for what will be my At the Mountains of Madness story. I hate the original title so much, I've traded it for "Iris," but that may not be right, either. I sat and stared at the spines of books many times older than me. I browsed through geology, astronomy, archaeology, and paleontology texts that the Athenaeum has had since before Lovecraft was born, wondering if he'd ever read any of them, those actual copies. Certainly, he must have.
I found a copy of Two Worlds and In Between in the new arrivals section, which was nice. I get an especial pleasure from seeing my books in public libraries. I don't know exactly why. Oh, and a special thanks to aliceoddcabinet.
Kathryn came back, and we left the library just before five p.m., as they were getting ready to close for the evening. It had grown colder outside. Walking to the van, south down Benefit Street, I shivered and listened to the wind in the bare limbs. We stopped by the market, then Acme video, and then Fellini's pizza, gathering up all the makings of a proper Kid Night, which we've both badly needed for some time. We started with Stan Winston's Pumpkinhead (1988), which was much more enjoyable than I remembered, and then proceeded to one of our favorites, James Gunn's Slither (2006), which we followed with a dangerously ridiculous number of episodes of Home Movies. Oh, and there was pecan pie.
Also, there are photographs behind the cut to prove I actually braved the Outside yesterday:
The Providence Athenaeum (founded in 1753), Benefit Street.
The view from the old school desk where I worked.
An amazingly beautiful volume from the late-middle 1800s, inscribed "Charles M. Salisbury, Grace Church S. S.. Christmas 1872."
Yep, that's me. One day, we will trim my bangs again.
Spooky reading a book on William Morris and the Arts and Crafts Movement.
Yep, that's me, again. My book, where Lovecraft and Poe walked.
So, walking back to the van along Benefit Street, we came upon this sight. Undeniably eerie. It put me in mind of two things. Firstly, an unwritten Edward Gorey story (and I believe there is an existing Gorey illustration that's almost identical to this). Secondly, I recalled "King of Pain" by the Police: "There's a black hat caught in a high tree top." Yeah, I know this is not a black hat.
Acme Video, our favorite movie place, at the corner of Transit and Brook (view to the south).
Inside Fellini's, on Wickenden Street, waiting for our double cheese, pepperoni, and mushroom, with which to initiate Kid Night. I was sucking on an Atomic Fireball (free, from Acme Video), and the woman at the counter said I smelled like cinnamon.
Two more days, two more daily posts. Comment now, kittens. Time's short.
Home Again, Home Again,
Aunt Beast