white
Over the last two or three weeks the fear and anger and depression have been far more prominent, and have been so for a more extended period of time, than they have since the Spring of 2010. I find myself sleeping at odd hours of the day and have little desire (to which I can here confess, decorum being what it is) to do anything other than sleep. The insomniac's irony. Sleep is, I discovered long ago, a sort of time travel (so long as you have no fantasies of traveling backwards). My consciousness is allowed to leapfrog ahead, skipping many hours at a time (dreams aside), blacking out great swaths of empty time that would be filled only with, in this case, anger and depression. Monsieur Insomnia hates this, this escape hatch, and he is ever at war with my time traveling, but there you go. Anyway, it's for the best that I'm not keeping a day-to-day blog. There's almost nothing left to say.

You keep typing or you die.

At the end of February, my agent and I decided that legalese should be called LeLe, and applauded its efforts to make language entirely incomprehensible.

I've almost finished the steampunk story I first mentioned on March 16th, and which, on March 17th, I said would be titled "The Benefactions of Demons MM. Newcomen, Watt, and Boulton (1900)." Turns out, it's titled "Goggles (c. 1910)." Actually, I tossed out the three thousand words I'd written on "The Benefactions of Demons MM. Newcomen, Watt, and Boulton (1900)," and began writing this story, instead. That may be the only sound decision I've made this month. But were I ever to write "The Benefactions of Demons MM. Newcomen, Watt, and Boulton (1900)" (which I shall not ever do), it would set the stage for "Goggles (c. 1910)." On Saturday, I wrote 1,113 words on the story, and another 1,022 yesterday. Before that, it's all sort of hazy. I'll finish it this afternoon. But this is my LAST steampunk story. The last Cherry Creek story. This is my post-apocalyptic swan song to that world. It's also my comment on the bizarrely rosy worldview beloved by steampunk devotees, as they embrace their revisionist Victorian world, almost always ignoring the hideous price tag it would bear. This is the world some indeterminate number of years after the first – and last – world war. Three children and three bullets and a pack of wild dogs. To quote Public Image Ltd, This is what you want, this is what you get...here now, ending, one life, one knife.

The weather went to fuck again. Here in Providence, we had a few days of what I would call genuine spring, and now we're back to cold spring.

There's more I would say, but no good would come of it. I will, however, leave you with this, Iron Sky (I'm pretty sure Rick Santorum is behind this):



Don't blame me,
Aunt Beast

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