The smoke came back this morning, and we awoke to the stench of distant fires. Behind the cut is a photo of downtown Atlanta taken sometime this morning. My eyes burn, my nose is running, and I'm coughing. Clearly, we have to stop sleeping with the windows open until the fires at last burn themselves out, whenever that might be.

( Waiting to Inhale )

As birthdays after -0 go, I think yesterday was probably pretty damn good. Certainly, it's the best birthday I've had since 2004. There was no unwriting yesterday. We met Jim and Jennifer (the Jennifer I've been calling "Hannah," because I did not wish her to be confused with a certain lying, incompetent, backstabbing psycho bitch who wears the same name) at Hollywood 24 for Pirates of the Caribbean: At Worlds End. We were lucky and got into the 4:45 digital screening. Spooky and I both loved it. I'm not going to go on about it, but I will say I was pleased that, unlike PotC: Dead Man's Chest, great swaths of this film did not seem to exist solely for the benefit of a videogame tie-in. Afterwards, the four of us headed to L5P to meet Byron for dinner at the Corner Tavern. The food's not as good as The Vortex, but there are far fewer people gumming up the joint. Then it was home for birthday cake (German chocolate, by request, with vanilla ice cream). So, yeah, a good birthday, and my thanks to the following folks who helped make -03 not so painful: Jada and Katharine, Jennifer Zawiki (yet another Jennifer!), Trompe Setsuled, Christine Ashton, David Kirkpatrick, Josh Muller, Chloe Yates, Rachel Keane, and everyone who offered hisherits condolences and well wishes. I know there are other people to be thanked, and as soon as I know who they are, I'll post a second thank-you list. You guys are, indeed, the draddest.

Late last night, we read more of Lemony Snicket's The Austere Academy.

I think the Mordorian Death March will officially conclude on the evening of Wednesday, May 30, and then I may have my life back and Spooky can go back to making dolls. As for the "Lay of Sindeseldaonna," this impromtu Tolkien fanfic that's been occurring between Setsuled and me, I may collect it all together, edit it and add footnotes, and plug it into an upcoming issue of Sirenia Digest, sort of an extra, supplement, freebie sort of a thing. What began as an extended metaphor has taken on a life of its own, begging for a backstory, and I have to say it's one of the things that's helped to get me through the last two+ insufferable weeks of compositional butchery. I have a feeling the Death March may be ending before we find the end of the story...unless I'm mistaken.

---

I am writing this from the scant cover afforded by a rocky gully, barely deep enough to conceal myself and Suregait. All night, we rode north across the desolate Plateau of Gorgoroth. Once, we came upon a group of orcs — a hunting party, unless I miss my guess. They gave chase, but they were all on foot and orc fiend has not yet been born that can run down a daughter of the Maeras. Suregait bore me safely away from them. We must be much nearer the caldera that was once called Mount Doom, Orodruin, Sauron's Forge, as the air is hazy and stinks of brimstone. The land here is oddly buckled, and in many places we must undertake long detours to avoid great rifts that seem to plunge hundreds of feet into the earth. We are too near the poisoned black heart of this land, Inwë, and if only my eyes could glimpse the Greenwood of Rhovanion for the briefest moment, this shadow should be lifted from off my soul.

Towards dawn, I heard the shriek of a hawk, and looking up, spotted what must certainly have been good Radagast soaring high above me. A moment later, I saw a great company of orcs to the southwest, and I was near enough to see that they were led by a man on horseback. Some of the orcs rode wargs. Unless I miss my guess, the man is setsuled, born of Rhohan and become a traitor now to his own people and all the freefolk of Middle-earth. But there was wind and much grey dust swirling in the air, and by great luck and Radagast's warning did we escape into the cover of this ravine undetected. But the man and his orcs made camp very nearby, so for now we are trapped here and waiting. If our luck holds and they move along during the day, I shall continue on my course towards the Vale. And if I should be discovered, I must trust that Suregait will bear me safely away. I will not be recaptured by the bastard, Inwë, even if I must turn my own blade against me. There is so much more I would write, but I am weary and need to rest. I shall trust Suregait to warn of the enemy's approach.

---

And I've updated Sindeseldaonna's map (behind the cut). Her progress since she was captured, up to yesterday's entry, is marked in green.

( Map of Mordor )

I've learned from Chris Ewen (he of Future Bible Heroes) that 99th Mind is shooting a video to accompany, "Twelve Nights After," my contribution to the forthcoming Hidden Variable album. I have long been an admirer of 99th Mind, so I am very excited at the news. Also, I owe lots and lots of people on MySpace replies of one sort of another. Just as soon as the unwriting is done and I shake the volcanic dust of Mordor from my clothes....

So, I slept after all. Maybe next year. I read from the Steinbeck biography until 4:45 a.m., at which point I decided I'd only be in a lousier mood than usual all day today if I didn't sleep. Here in Atlanta, the smoky skies are with us again, and I see that there's now smoke as far north as Tennessee and as far west as Mississippi. I'm trying not to think about the 400,000 acres already lost to the fire, or all the alligators and turtles and snakes and pitcher plants and anhingas and black bears that have been incinerated since that power pole fell in Waycross on April 16th and began this conflagration. I'm trying to think of the fire as a force for good, a source of regrowth, renewal, etc.. And I'm trying not to breathe, but you know how that goes.

I lied about not working yesterday. Well, maybe I cannot call it a lie since when I wrote I wasn't going to spend the day in acts of unwriting and mutilation I did mean it. However, during the bath my resolve faltered, and I ended up spending the afternoon with keyboard and scalpel and sutures. I only took a section of the Pectoralis major and the heart's right ventricle. And who needs that stuff anyway?

A good Kid Night though. Byron showed up about 7:30, and after dinner we watched Ryuhei Kitamura's Godzilla: Final Wars (2004), which was really just all sorts of awesome. Douglas Gordon, Captain of the Gôten (played by Don Frye) is my new man hero. Then we watched the episode of MST3K where the crew is forced to sit through Godzilla vs. Megalon (1973), and the three of us laughed until we were ill and dizzy.

---

I have parted from Radagast. While the wizard slept, I mounted Suregait and we rode swiftly along a steep mountain pass I was fortunate enough the espy, west of the Daemon Angren, and so there was no need to approach the watchers at Nargroth. There were no encounters with goblins or Uruks. We are now at the southern limits of Gorgoroth, and I have made camp. From the moon, I see it is almost midnight. I could ride no farther this night. Likely, Radagast watches me from somewhere on high, as a hawk, and he may yet summon the eagles and try to force me to forsake the quest. I can not say, Inwë. Perhaps I once again have made the wrong decision, but I knew he would not allow me to continue. Regardless, the mountains are at my back now, and the blasted plateau of ash stretches out before me. With Suregait, I have some hope of reaching my destination in only another four days or so, if we ride hard. I will sleep as little as I may. The sleep only brings dreams I do not wish to revisit, anyway.

But I know the man setsuled pursues me. I do not know how, nor where he might now be, but I know that...no, I will not write that down. I shall eat a bit of the lembas given me by Radagast, and I shall try to rest in the manner taught me by the elves, eyes wide open, for I am too near the crater of Orodruin to shut my eyes. It is said the mountain rent itself all asunder on the day when the ring was unmade, but in my dreams it remains a lake of fire seething below vaulted arches of stone. In my dreams, setsuled Kinslayer leads me down ancient stairs to those flames and reveals to me his dark plan for the world.

---

Okay. I need to find some food. And coffee. And then get dressed. I leave you with this Keith Olbermann clip, which better expresses my dismay and anger at the invertebrates'...er, congressional Democrats' decision re: the continued funding of President Asshole's war against Iraq than I could myself express.

So, Byron just left, and it occurs to me that one thing I've never done, in all my -03 years, is stay awake from the first second of my birthday until the last. I'm sleeping so little these days, that only means giving up about six hours of sleep, at most, and I am considering the option. Meanwhile, I've been listening to a lot of Bjork today, and this video is almost hot enough to make me reconsider transhumanism (almost):



It 2:00 a.m. EST. I only have 22 hours to go...

We awoke this morning to hazy air and the smell of smoke. I figured there'd been a house fire somewhere nearby, but it turns out all the smoke is coming from the gigantic wildfire that's been burning in the Okefenokee since April 16th. So far, more than 600 square miles of wilderness have burned, and much of the smoke has risen into the upper atmosphere. This morning, a high-pressure center brought a lot of that smoke back down on top of north Georgia. Visibility at the Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport was down to 1.5 miles. I love waking to the stink of apocalypse.

Someone asked why the Death March has to be Mordorian, instead of something pleasant, like Mirkwoodian or Eriadorian. The reason is simple. I generally don't rewrite, and yet I presently find myself forced into rewrites. I don't know why, but since I was a child, I have had zero patience with repetitive tasks. I am not exaggerating when I say that I find them physically painful. Among other things, this led to me devising a writing process whereby I do not proceed to the next sentence until I've made the present sentence as perfect as possible (or nearly so). I don't think I'm "too good" for rewriting, it's just that I cannot stand doing it. It makes me twitch. And worse. But I am presently working in a situation to which I am not accustomed, and I knew from the outset (a year ago now) that rewriting would be involved. It's just that I'd hoped I would deal with it better than I am. It does not help that, in this case, all the changes that are being demanded are genuinely arbitrary. It's not a matter of making it better, but merely making it different. And few things gall me so as having to redo a job that I know was done correctly the first time. Ergo, a Mordorian Death March. And yesterday it did become a march again, ending the frustrating Death Meander of the last few days. Spooky and I spent most of the day and part of the night on hundreds of line edits. Just piddly, little stuff. The big, scary, pointless stuff is yet to come. Also, the MDM has been extended from the 23rd, and may not conclude until sometime after the 29th. My editor at HarperCollins and I are doing everything possible to prevent it from spilling over into June.

---

These are only thoughts, and they fade as morning mist. These are only thoughts, but I send them high, that some kinder wind than that which blows across this scabrous land might carry them east to you, Inwë. When he captured me and stripped me, the man setsuled took the small book that I have been writing in, the book given me by Dernhelm the morning I departed from the fields of Dunharrow for Minas Tirith. These are only thoughts, borne aloft by the grace of the teachings of Lórien. He says that he is taking me to Seregost and seems to believe that was my intended destination. So, I may at least find some solace in the knowledge that he has not discovered nor guessed my true quest. There might yet be hope, perhaps, though it presently seems a balm too precious to dare allow myself. My hands are bound with coarse rope, and he leads me naked beneath the afternoon sun. He is always talking, either to himself or to me or unto others he imagines travel with us. I have heard it told that the man is insane, and now I do believe it so. Should I have fought him, Inwë, knowing it would have probably meant my death? The sun is a devil in the white sky. These are only thoughts, but may they rise as high as the moon, for what weight have thoughts? There is no breeze. The air does not stir. If I could but reach the river, which still shimmers on my right. Its waters move faster, as we begin to leave the plains and enter these foothills. I am a strong swimmer, and if I could reach the water...Inwë, gladly would I drown before allowing him to take me a second time. Again and again, he asks me my "true name," the name my mother gave me, and it is reassuring that he knows it not. He knows me only as the elves have named me, Sindaseldeonna, though their tongue falls from his lips like stone. I would fall like a stone, Inwë, and lie still now. He has the look of a man of the villges along the Limlaith, so it may be the rumours are true and he is...or was once...a man of Rohan. He mutters in many languages, Inwë, like the yammering Crebain who fill these skies. If I had a good horse. If I had any horse at all, I would ride away west to the lands where the sun is born. I do not know if the guardians still watch over me. I am not yet dead, and he has not guessed what was found in the ruins of Dol Guldur. He calls me beast and hound's daughter. These are only thoughts, the thoughts of a captive woman, and I free them to rise far above this blasted, sun-scarred plain.

---

This morning, I have the pencils for Vince's illustration for "Outside the Gates of Eden," and he says the final art will be along shortly. So I'm hoping to have Sirenia Digest #18 out to subscribers by Friday.

With the birthday bearing down on me, the weekend's looking busy. And this is the last time I shall post the wishlist. Always am I grateful for books and other distractions.

Last night, Spooky and I had a nice walk after dinner. I miss walking at night, which I hardly ever do these days, and when I leave the South, the summer nights are one thing I will dearly miss. There was too much light pollution to see much of the sky, just the waxing sliver of moon and Venus and airplanes. We'd spent the whole day editing, and after our walk, got back to it, working until about 12:30 a.m., when we rewarded ourselves with more Lemony Snicket.

Ah, and there's exciting news from Mars.