"Little Lamb. Smile." (Four Vicodin)
Yesterday was an utter failure as a day off. The main problem is that Spooky's had a migraine since last Thursday night, which prevented us from doing...well anything. She's better today, but there was no planning yesterday. So...we're here, with incoming thunderstorms.
I've extended the "vacation" (hahahahahahah) until Friday, in hopes that tomorrow might yet bring some relief from the monotony.
Why am I still keeping this journal. No, yeah...I know you read it. You don't have to remind me that you do. But the blog is dead. Long live Facebook and Twitter and Tumblr! Long live the shortest imaginable attension span! You have a hundred friends! Less more is more! Who has time for blogs? How wasn't that true ten years ago? Fast! Speed! So little time! That toxin "quick and easy" wins over substance!
Where are you going in such a hurry?
Day before yesterday, my two contributor's copies of Centipede Press' Arthur Machen volume arrived. I wrote the afterward. Fuck, it's a beautiful volume, limited to two-hundred copies (I was given actual numbered copies). Seeing it lit a fire under my ass to get CP everything they need for their edition of The Drowning Girl. They have the revised manuscript...but there's still a lot of other stuff. As the book came about as the result of a deal between CP and Penguin and I'm not being paid for it, I've had to keep it low on my list of priorities. The afterward, by the way, was actually written for a Bloodletting Press edition of Machen stories, but was, inexplicably not used. My thanks to CP and S.T. Joshi for seeing it found such a spectacular home.
The Machen book is really the only news I have. I did, last night, finish Richard Ellis' superb Singing Whales and Flying Squid. The upshot of the book, concerned largely with marine fishery statistics, is that the seas - from which Homo sapiens derives most of the protein it consumes - aren't just dying from our depredations. They're almost dead. Ah, and for some reason I tried to watch Tom Holland's 1995 TV mini-series adaptation of The Langoliers (1995). The only good thing I can say about this mess is that it actually was better than Stephen King's awful novella. Still, I was just barely able to make it through half of it.
I now return you to the cataclysm that is the world, already in progress.
Smile,
Aunt Beast
I've extended the "vacation" (hahahahahahah) until Friday, in hopes that tomorrow might yet bring some relief from the monotony.
Why am I still keeping this journal. No, yeah...I know you read it. You don't have to remind me that you do. But the blog is dead. Long live Facebook and Twitter and Tumblr! Long live the shortest imaginable attension span! You have a hundred friends! Less more is more! Who has time for blogs? How wasn't that true ten years ago? Fast! Speed! So little time! That toxin "quick and easy" wins over substance!
Where are you going in such a hurry?
Day before yesterday, my two contributor's copies of Centipede Press' Arthur Machen volume arrived. I wrote the afterward. Fuck, it's a beautiful volume, limited to two-hundred copies (I was given actual numbered copies). Seeing it lit a fire under my ass to get CP everything they need for their edition of The Drowning Girl. They have the revised manuscript...but there's still a lot of other stuff. As the book came about as the result of a deal between CP and Penguin and I'm not being paid for it, I've had to keep it low on my list of priorities. The afterward, by the way, was actually written for a Bloodletting Press edition of Machen stories, but was, inexplicably not used. My thanks to CP and S.T. Joshi for seeing it found such a spectacular home.
The Machen book is really the only news I have. I did, last night, finish Richard Ellis' superb Singing Whales and Flying Squid. The upshot of the book, concerned largely with marine fishery statistics, is that the seas - from which Homo sapiens derives most of the protein it consumes - aren't just dying from our depredations. They're almost dead. Ah, and for some reason I tried to watch Tom Holland's 1995 TV mini-series adaptation of The Langoliers (1995). The only good thing I can say about this mess is that it actually was better than Stephen King's awful novella. Still, I was just barely able to make it through half of it.
I now return you to the cataclysm that is the world, already in progress.
Smile,
Aunt Beast