Spooky just told me that the foreclosure rate in the US has jumped 112%, on average more than doubling over the last year, with Nevada, Florida, and California being the hardest hit. Actually, the increase in California was 213%. And so it goes.

So, yesterday I was Distraction's bitch. You know Distraction, right? One of the nine of the Seven Deadly Sins of Writing. Anyway, I think I left myself wide open by getting up too late, then spending too much time on my LJ entry. After that, well, there was the lease for the new place in Providence (mailed off yesterday), and there was research I should have done days and days ago, and there was lunch, and there were questions about when the moving company is coming to give us an estimate, and there were hydrothermal vents on Mars, and there was news of the new Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds album — Dig, Lazarus, Dig!!! — and there was email, and there was a sudden obsession with figuring out which of my British Museum prehistoric animals had come from Philadelphia in 1986 and which from London in 1997. And so forth.

The research, for "Rappaccini's Dragon" (for Sirenia Digest #30) concerned tracking down the following quote from Robert Burton's very, very lengthy The Anatomy of Melancholy, What it is: With all the Kinds, Causes, Symptomes, Prognostickes, and Several Cures of it. In Three Maine Partitions with their several Sections, Members, and Subsections. Philosophically, Historically, Opened and Cut up (1621):

“Mithridates by often use, which Pliny wonders at, was able to drink poison; and a maid, as Curtius records, sent to Alexander from King Porus, was brought up with poison from her infancy.”

Now, I knew that bit about Porus (Parvataraja) sending the tainted woman to Alexander came from Burton, but finding my way through that maze to discover that, in fact, it came from the First Partition, Section 2, Member 2, Subsection 1, that was another matter. And I start reading, and I keep reading, even when I know Distraction has intervened and I am no longer seeking the relevant passage, but just reading. Oh, and on top of Robert Burton, there was also a related bit from the Hindu Pranas I needed to find, and that led down another avenue of Distraction. In the end, I wrote a meager 268 usable words yesterday.

Then I took a damn bath. I did not leave the house yesterday. Spooky made a pot of chili for dinner, and we watched the eleventh episode of Millennium. And then, despite AADD-afflicted Leetspeaking dumbasses who choose names like Ferretfart Frog (I'm not making that one up), I spent a few hours on Second Life, rping with Pontifex and Ardere. Imagine a film co-directed by Alex Proyas, David Lynch, and Joss Whedon, in which demons congregate in a deserted nightclub in 22nd Century Tokyo, throw in lots of blood and a trippy cyberlounge soundtrack, and there's the rp we did last night. I think the MMPA would have rated it Z. But, I was a good nixar and made it to bed by 2 ayem. I think I was asleep well before three. Go me.

One of the very few good things about packing is finding things you'd thought you'd lost. A few days ago, it was my copy of Animal Ghosts, a book I ordered from one of those Scholastic Books fliers back in 1973 or '74, when I was in fourth grade. The book was actually published in 1971 by Xerox Education Publications, and produced by Walt Disney. Its an odd mix of actual and fanciful paleontology and neobiology, with a smattering of cryptozoology thrown in. I think what made it one of my favourite books for several years were the better than average black-and-white illustrations — lots of old-school dinosaurs and such, often portrayed in rather dynamic (if sometimes absurd) situations. Anyway, yeah, book not lost. There are a couple of scans behind the cut (but, again, I warn you that they are LARGE):

( Animal Ghosts )

Also, Spooky just (humglum) posted her photos of the dinosaur-washing ordeal of Sunday, which you can see here. And yes, that is the magical Liopleurodon that can show us all the way to Candy Mountain (hiding behind the Brachiosaurus).

So, for the past three days now, while I've waited to be told what has to be changed, waiting for news that might not come for another week but which might also come at any moment, I've thought I can at least not let this time go to waste. I can't get started on The Dinosaurs of Mars or Joey LaFaye or the "Onion" screenplay, because I can't begin something long knowing that I might have to set it aside immediately and return to editing and rewriting the product of the Forced and New Reconsolidated marches of January and February. But for the past three days, during which I have only struggled to write a simple, brief vignette, I've been drawing blanks. Yesterday, I did write — 121 words, a single page — but it was another dead end. Finally, I decided to proof "Houses Under the Sea" for The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror, so that I could say I'd done something productive with the day.

I suspect the problem here is threefold: 1) After 18 issues of the digest since December 2005, and all the pieces that were done specifically for Frog Toes and Tentacles and Tales from the Woeful Platypus, it's simply getting harder to think of things I have not done at least once already; 2) I am terribly distracted, waiting for news from HarperCollins, to be told what unpleasant editing lies ahead; and 3) I'm truly, deeply exhausted, as I've been writing and editing without any significant sort of break or vacation or what the hell have you since we got back from Rhode Island way back at the end of August (I'm not counting that short and mostly miserable trip to Alafrellingbama). Any one of these things is enough to confound me.

The platypus is looking thin in the skin.

But I will try again today. The Mordorian Death Meander (née Death March) is threatening to become no more than a Mordorian Death Crawl.

---

In the hazy distance, I can glimpse low ridges and deep gullies where Núrn ends and the volcanic peaks of the Mithrim Spar begin. But I feel no sense of accomplishment at having survived this long or having come so far. I am too weary for such exertion as lie ahead of me and can only hope that I may yet be allowed some rest before I must attempt to find the road and the winding pass through the mountains and past the baleful walls of Seregost, as well. And even should I make make it that far and pass the old garrison undetected. all of Gorgoroth will still stretch out before me. And I may have more immediate problems. In the night, as I trudged north alongside the river, I spotted a large and shaggy crow on the path in front of me. Remembering the black bird who betrayed me to the pirates, I picked up a convenient rock to hurl and, with luck, kill the pest. But it laughed, the way crows laugh, and told me it was of the Crebain, that old crowstock from Dunland and Fangorn. "Then you have named yourself my enemy!" I shouted back at the beast, but it only laughed again. "The Eye is passed away," said the bird. "And Saruman the White and the Black Riders, too. Old allegiances have been broken or are fast breaking. And I bring you news." "Then speak whatever ill tidings you bring," I replied, resuming my search for a good throwing stone. The crow watched me and said "You are being tracked, Sindeseldaonna, by one in the service of the black Easterling—"

"How can this be?" I demanded. "The Nine were utterly destroyed with their master when the Ring was unmade." The crow pecked at the parched ground a moment, then stared up at me. The stars were fading in the west as the morning sun began to spill into Mordor. "Nay. One of them still walks," spoke the Crebain. "Khamûl, Shadow of the East, the last of the Nazgûl. And in his service is a madman I have heard the orcs call setsuled Kinslayer, and he has tracked you—" Then I told the bird I knew full well who the man was, but my head reeled with the crow's revelation, that one of the Nazgûl was still abroad in the world. Was this some Crebain trick? A deceit of my pursuer, meant to drive me still nearer to despair and surrender? "It is only the truth, daughter of Rohan whom the elves call Sindeseldaonna. And he will have you soon. You will not ever outrun such as him." And then, before I could ask why I was being told these things, the great crow cawed and spread its wings and flapped away across the river and west, as though chasing the vanishing night towards the distant Caran Road and the plains of Lilithlad.

---

Anything else about yesterday? No, not much. Spooky took me out for Thai. We finished The Children of Húrin, which we both loved, so thanks again, Rachel. We began Lemony Snicket's The Miserable Mill. Oh, and we lamented the near total absence of a goth scene here in Atlanta. There was one, long ago, but it mostly withered away rather inexplicably about 2001 or 2002. Now there's nothing but the Hot Topic kids in the exburbs. Spooky misses Portland and Boston, and I miss what Atlanta once had.

I should wrap this up. Here's the wishlist, for anyone else who might be interested in helping to relieve the imminent sting of -03. Thanks. Okay. Later, kiddos.

In defiance of Reason, the New Consolidated March continues apace. Yesterday, I wrote a very respectable 2,105 words.

Dreamsick this morning, and if I believed in such things as "souls," I'd say soulsick, as well. I would kick against the pricks, only it seems my legs have been firmly bound, and I can but continue to drag this plow forward.

Late yesterday, Vince sent a preliminary sketch for "Untitled 25" (the werewolf story) which is to appear in Sirenia Digest 15 later this month.

A very kind and somewhat intriguing e-mail yesterday from Jacob Garbe, regarding Daughter of Hounds

I have no idea what my opinion is worth to you (this is Jacob, I comment occasionally on your blog) but I wanted to tell you that Daughter of Hounds is the best I've read from you so far, and the best writing I've read for a long time from anyone. Your book was so good that anything distracting me from picking it up after a day of pencil-pushing was met with annoyance and many times outright dismissal. It's been a long time since I've been absorbed like that, and for that I must thank you.

Your characterization in this novel is easily its strongest point. Your attention to detail borders on the taxidermical, but critically rings that bell of truth for the reader. Amazingly, your writing is still rapidly maturing, which is wonderful.

It would be easy for me to believe you've put more of yourself into this piece than any before. I can draw pale conclusions based on your journal and the work itself: the fight between reductionist logic and scientific skepticism, your characters' struggle through a world constantly threading them along an unknown path, shadowed by events caused by forces just outside of their reckoning. For what it's worth, this piece struck a particularly resonant chord with me because of a strange period in my life punctuated by dreams of a pale woman with yellow eyes (others called her the Sphynx) and a grossly overweight, completely hairless man. The influence of dreams in the work, along with the descriptions of Esmeribetheda and the Bailiff, gave me a Jungian pause. Cool.

Thanks for the good art, and thanks for opening it up through your journal. As a writer myself, I appreciate it.

Thank you, Jacob. The opinions of intelligent readers are always of interest to me. And to everyone else reading this, if you have not already purchased a copy of the novel, I would ask you please do so ASAP. If your local bookshop does not have it in stock, they will order it for you. All you have to do is ask. It is also available all over the web. You may get it from Amazon.com for a mere $11.20 + postage and handing. In this blighted future of ours, we do not have to rely on the books stocked in any given bookshop. There's always the web. Anyway, I cannot stress enough how much my continued existence as a novelist depends on the performance of Daughter of Hounds. Please pick up a copy (or three).

We had a good walk yesterday, as far west as the intersection of Sinclair and Elizabeth, where we discovered the Inman Park Petworks, a very fine little pet supply shop that will help us stay clear of the big-box chains. There was still more of a nip in the wind than I'd have preferred, but the air was warm — 49F when our walk began, 56F by the time we returned home. Today is overcast, and we'll not be walking. At least it's warm (presently 52F, with a forecast high of 57F).

Late yesterday, when the writing was done with me for the day, I went with Spooky to Whole Foods (where shadows are permitted) to get stuff for dinner. First we stopped at Borders, to get Mitch Cullin's A Slight Trick of the Mind and Book Two of Jim Butcher's Dresden Files series, Fool Moon. As for the former, Cullin may be my new favourite author. As for the latter, the TV series has prompted me to give the novels a try, and there were no copies of Book One in stock, so I figured I'd just start with Book Two. After dinner and Heroes, we read more of The Terror, chapters 42-45, which gets us to an unknown latitude and longitude on 4 July 1848. By then Spooky was sleepy, but I needed something more to put me down for the night, so I read Chapter Nine of In the Wake of Madness ("That Direful Madness"), which did the trick.

But now it's time to march.

Ah, I almost forgot. The new round of eBay auctions.

So, yeah. Spring forward, fall back, thank you very much, Benjamin frelling Franklin, but for the fourth year running, we shall be ignoring that nonsense, preferring, instead, the consistency and stability of Caitlín Standard Time.

I think kava (Piper methysticum) is my new best friend.

This is going to be a rambly sort of entry. The last three days have been sort of rambly. They certainly have not proceeded in a straight line. Of course, few things ever do, but the minds of women and men and the other genders would often have you think that they do. Me, I like wavy lines, and curlicues, and the Golden Curve of an ammonite's shell.

Spooky just came back from the p. o. with a check from Candlewick Press for the sum of $738.14. This is yet another payment for "The Dead and the Moonstruck," which I wrote for their YA anthology Gothic: Ten Original Dark Tales, way back in July 2003. I've lost track of how many times I've been paid now for this story (this latest seems to be for the sale of a British bookclub edition), but I think I can safely say I've made more from this single short-story sale than I have from any other. If only every short-story sale were this lucrative, the poor platypus would not always be in such a foul mood. Or perhaps sheheit would. Perhaps platypus are foul-tempered beasts, no matter how much or how little they must get tarted up and walk the streets. You should pick up the anthology, by the way. It also includes stories by Neil Gaiman, Lemony Snicket, Gregory Maguire, and Joan Aiken (and, yes, many others), and there's a trade paperback edition now. Money from the sky, that's always a good thing.

My apologies for the October issue of Sirenia Digest still not having gone out. I'm waiting on Vince's finished illustration for "The Ammonite Violin (Murder Ballad No. 4)," which I hope to receive this afternoon. Your patience is much appreciated.

Ah...what else? Rushing through House of Leaves, so soon we'll be back on track with Only Revolutions (unless The Road gets me further sidetracked). Last night, I saw Grey Gardens, the 1975 documentary on Edith Bouvier Beale and her mother and their squalid 28-room mansion in East Hampton, New York. I cannot even begin to comprehend the sort of mentality that could turn such a horror story into a broadway musical, much less a feature film starring Jessica Lange and Drew Barrymore.

I finally saw Michael Cimino's Heaven's Gate (1980), which, I think, just goes to prove that the failures of some are more wonderful by ten than the successes of most. I found the film beautiful and brilliant throughout, and whatever rough spots there were are likely the product of Cimino having been forced by United Artists to reduce his original cut, which ran 5 hours and 25 minutes, to a 3 hour, 39 minute version (the cut I saw). I would dearly love to see the original full-length film.

We had dinner with Byron Friday night, which is always a good thing. Then Saturday, I received an unexpected invitation to an early Samhain gathering. Spooky decided she wanted to stay home and sleep because she was feeling a bit under the weather, so I went alone, returning home late yesterday afternoon. It was, overall, a generally positive experience and included my first skyclad group work. I spent half the night wandering peacefully alone through the woods, hearing owls and coyotes and other things, and watched the sunrise for the first time in ages. There was a wonderful conversation I can now only partly recall, concerning the "divinity" of non-conscious Nature and the goddess as abstraction and metaphor. My great thanks to my hosts. Spooky and I will be doing our own Samhain thing tomorrow night, of course, once the trick-or-treaters have been fed.

Okay. Time to make the stupid doughnuts. At least the headache I woke with has begun to fade.

Okay, so sovay went and tagged me for this...so...here goes:

Instructions:
1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the next 4 sentences on your LJ along with these instructions.
5. Don't you dare dig for that "cool" or "intellectual" book in your closet! I know you were thinking about it! Just pick up whatever is closest.
6. Tag five people.

1. Bradbury's A Medicine for Melancholy, 'cause it's right here on my desk, 'cause I'm still fretting over my introduction for The Day It Rained Forever.

3. Page 123, fifth sentence, reads: And he drove away.

4. The next four sentences are to be found on p. 124, and they read: The thought was three days and three nights growning. During the days he carried it like a ripening peach in his head. During the nights he let it take flesh and sustenance, hung out on the silent air, colored by country moon and country stars. He walked around and around the thought in the silence before dawn. On the fourth morning he reached up an invisible hand, picked it, and swallowed it whole.

6. They will likely curse me for this, but okay, I tag mistressmousey, faustfatale, corucia, brokensymmetry, and mevennen. There. I've done the deed. Back to the damn doughnuts.

Colleen Mondor has written a very nice review of Alabaster for Bookslut. And yesterday, Bill Schafer of subpress e-mailed to tell me that the book is selling well. Now, if only my books from Roc would sell as well as my books from subpress; remember, you can order Daughter of Hounds with Alabaster from Amazon.com for only $27.20.

Yesterday went well enough. I wrote until 5:28 p.m. and did another 833 words on "Untitled 23," which I hope to finish today. I read more Angela Carter, "Peter and the Wolf" (1982), and we made a trip over to Emory's Woodruff Library. I came back with Lizzie Borden: The Legend, the Truth, the Final Chapter by Arnold R. Brown (Rutledge Hill Press, 1991), Lovecraft at Last: The Master of Horror in His Own Words (Willis Conover, ed.; Cooper Square Press, 2002), and The Cult of Alien Gods: H. P. Lovecraft and Extraterrestrial Pop Culture by Jason Colavito (Prometheus Books, 2005). The latter is proving a delight, as it examines the connection between Lovecraft's mythology of alien "gods" visiting earth and shaping the course of human history with the ancient-astronaut and lost-civilization "theories" of various New Age and pseudosceintific crazes. Later, after warming up Tuesday's stoup, we watched Mythbusters and Project Runway. At last, finally, we are rid of Vincent! I loved Jeffrey's dress, and Uli's, too. Later, I read yet more Angela Carter, "Master" (1974), followed by Thomas Ligotti's "The Shadow at the Bottom of the World" (from Grimscribe: His Life and Works, 1991). I adore this tale, with its sublime language, masterful suggestion, and echoes of Lovecraft's "The Colour Out of Space." If ever I were to edit a collection of the most important Weird tales of the late 20th Century, "The Shadow at the Bottom of the World" would definitely be included. Anyway, that was yesterday.

Spooky worked on the Barker. I think she got his pants made. He's proving a difficult old fart to dress.

Oh, I was informed by Robert Morrish that Thrillers 2 should be out from Cemetery Dance Publications before the end of the year. It includes two long stories by me, both "Houses Under the Sea" and "The Daughter of the Four of Pentacles".

Also, I wanted to link to this article from LiveScience.com, which sclerotic_rings was good enough to point out, concerning continuing and conflicting claims by creationists of the discovery of "Noah's Ark." I recall when I was teaching BY 104 at UAB, back in '86 and '87. I'd begin the first lecture of each quarter by stating that there would be absolutely no discussion of creationism, as the domain of the course was evolutionary biology, not religion. Once, a student protested, insisting that "Noah's Ark" had been discovered by scientists on Mt. Ararat in Turkey. I asked her which particular time she was referring to, as my familiarity with creationist lit allowed me to site three or four separate "discoveries" made on entirely different parts of the mountain. She looked embarrassed, shut up, and the subject was not raised again.

Anyway, the time has come to find THE END. Again. Actually, it's sort of like finding "Noah's Ark," now that I think about it. No matter how many times I claim to have found it, THE END will always turn up somewhere else, farther along.

The weather forecast has been growing a little less pleasant with each day. Now it's predicting that Saturday's high will only be 64F, and the highest high forecast over the next ten days is only in the mid-seventies. Blegh. May should feel like May, not March.

Yesterday proved to me that I had good cause to fear those notes I'd made during the most recent Daughter of Hounds read-through. Fortunately, I had Spooky here to keep me focused and moving ahead. But it was the very definition of tedium. About 4 p.m., we took a break and drove over to Springvale Park (the setting for Sirenia Digest's "Bridle"). But it was raining, and there were mosquitoes, and we didn't stay very long. A got a Red Bull and headed home again and back to the ms. pages. We were at it until after 6 p.m. And we almost managed to finish with that set of notes. When we finally stopped, only a few things had not been checked off. Unexpectedly, I found myself expanding the last scene before the epilogue, which still has me a little nervous today. Anyway, speaking of today, I'll get to what I didn't get to yesterday and try to get through the old notes from the first read-through back in January/February. Ugh. I haven't abandoned hope that tomorrow can be my last day with this ms., but I still have the appendices to proof.

The best part of yesterday was the mail, which brought a book I'd purchased on eBay. A Snake-Lover's Diary by Barbara Brenner (1970, Young Scott Books). This is the book which began my fascination with herpetology, particularly snakes, and led to a period late in elementary school and early in junior high where I stopped wanting to be a paleontologist and decided, instead, that I would be a herpetologist (much to the chagrin of my snake-hating/fearing family). When I almost stepped on the DeKay's snake last month, I remembered this book, which I'd not read (or even seen) since at least 1979 or so. But I found an ex-library copy cheap on eBay (formerly of the Mission Glen Elementary School, Houston, Texas). Anyway, I scanned the cover:


While we were having dinner, around 7:45, the power went out and was out for an hour or so. An hour at the most. It was kind of nice actually. I lay in bed listening to the rain.

Last night, we finally finished Margot Adler's Drawing Down the Moon: Witches, Druids, Goddess Worshipers, and Other Pagans in America Today. All in all, it's the best book on Neo-Paganism I've read so far, but it is dated and does have its shortcomings. The first few chapters are the best, and then Adler seems to lose focus and the book begins to meander and double back upon itself. She relies far too heavily on quotes. Still, the scholarship is much better than average. Most importantly, Adler's book has reassured me that I can call myself Wiccan and think of myself as Wiccan without having to succumb to superstition and gender polarity, dogma and "magical thinking." I rather liked this line from the epilogue, where Adler is writing of George Mylonas' work on the excavations at Eleusis:

What little we know of the Mysteries [of Eleusis] seems to indicate that these rites emphasized (as the Craft, at its best, does today) experience as opposed to dogma, and metaphor and myth as opposed to doctrine. Both the Mysteries and the Craft emphasize initiatory processes that lead to a widening of perceptions. Neither emphasizes theology, belief, or the written word. (p. 441)

Having finished Adler, we began Ronald Hutton's The Triumph of the Moon: A History of Modern Pagan Witchcraft, which promises, I think, to be superb.

Okay. The platypus is a lonely hunter. Time to get back to the pages...

By now, everyone should have Sirenia Digest #5. Feedback welcome. I need to sit down and read over "To One Who Has Lost Herself" again. On the final read-through, the final one before the digest went to thingunderthest for conversion to PDF, I only read "pas-en-arrière" aloud, looking for errrors, because I hadn't read it since sometime in March, right after I'd finished it. But...what day was this?...it was Tuesday. Tuesday, I wasn't in the mood to read my own material. This happens a lot. Once a piece is written, I rarely read it again. It's like, having written it, I need distance, and then I move on to other things and just never get back to whatever it was I've just written. So, on Tuesday, Spooky did the read-through on "To One Who Has Lost Herself" for me. And now I'm wanting to read the story again for myself. Anyway, if you'd like to get #5, all you have to do is subscribe today. Right now. A mere $10. And all April subscribers get a free and signed copy of Silk, which I will be happy to personalize if you so desire. And your name will go into the drawing for a copy of the Italian-language edition of Threshold. And, of course, you'll also be eligible for the next Monster Doodle Sculpture give-away. Just click here, read the FAQ (which should probably be updated), then subscribe.

Yesterday, when my work was done, no actual writing, just the busyness of writing, Spooky and I decided to visit Books Again in Decatur, where we still have credit because of all the books we took there just before the move here from the Kirkwood loft in December '04. It seems we only go on rainy days. It's a nice place to be on a rainy day. Anyway, we weren't there as long as usual, but I came away with the following:

A Field Guide to the Atlantic Seashore by Kenneth L. Gosner (Peterson Guides)
Atlantean Chronicles by Henry M. Eichner
Unfinished Tales by J. R. R. Tolkien
Dinosaur Tales by Ray Bradbury
The Land That Time Forgot by Edgar Rice Burroughs
Small Blue Dot by Carl Sagan
The Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway (a nice hardback from Scriber's, circa 1950s)

The Eichner book was a real score, a delightful bit of crackpottery, and I'll probably write more about it later. I needed the copy of Unfinished Tales, a hardback, because I only ever had a paperback and someone borrowed it years ago and never returned it (this has happened so many times I've ceased loaning books). And I already had a copy of Dinosaur Tales, but only in paperback, and this is the hardback with William Stout's wonderful cover. But. The real find was the 1962 Canaveral Press edition of Burrough's The Land That Time Forgot, which also includes the two sequels, The People That Time Forgot and Out of Time's Abyss, with beautiful illustrations by Mahlon Blaine.

And here's where the day got a little odd. I was browsing through the sf/fantasy books and Spooky emerges from the adjoining aisle with this volume of Burroughs and asks me if I have it, if I want it. I told her I only had the books in paperback, the Ace editions from the late 1970s, but that the Canaveral Press edition was the one I read as a child. There was a copy in the Leeds Public Library. I must have taken it out a hundred times between 1973 and 1978 or so. I was telling her all this, and as she handed me the book I noticed that it was a library discard...from the Leeds Public Library. Not believing that this could possibly be the very same copy I read as a child, I flipped through the pages, dumbfounded. I looked at the little slip of paper pasted into the back with return dates rubber-stamped on it, many of them from the 1970s. And then, on page 126, I found a note scribbled in the margin. In blue ballpoint. In my handwriting. Generally, I didn't write in books. It's one of those things my mother had managed to convince me was some sort of minor sin, like talking with my mouth full or making farty noises which my armpits. But here I had written in this book. It doesn't much matter what, and I can only guess the year. It was astounding. Like a note I'd left for myself, and here I was now, in Atlanta, all these lifetimes away, looking back across more than three decades and 130 miles and somehow that book had made the journey from the Leeds Public Library to this little bookshop in Atlanta. And I was holding it again. It's almost a ghost story, and I am ever impressed at the inevitable occurrence of such great unlikelihoods. Why the frell should anyone ever need goddesses greater than simple Chance and Happenstence?

Maybe I'll scan that page and post it here later.

Not much else to say about yesterday. I lay on the couch and read Unfinished Tales, "The Istari." Spooky made a wonderful sort of curry and coconut soup last night, with fresh basil, shitake, porta bellas, broccoli, and garlic, served over udon noodles. Then we watched Sergio Leone's Once Upon a Time in the West (1968), because she'd never seen it and after Titanic and Patton I was still in the mood for big movies. I love this film, but it's impossible not to make fun of Claudia Cardinale's ridiculous false eyelashes. I called them windshield wipers. Spooky called them tarantulas. I suppose tarantula's are more in keeping with the film. I didn't know until last night that Dario Argento worked on the script.

Oh, also, Spooky had a Coke Blak (Coke et coffee) yesterday and pronounced it "the nastiest thing I've ever put in my mouth." I only sniffed it, and that was more than enough to convince me she was right. Anyway, time to bake the doughnuts and flog the platypus and leave more notes for myself to find decades further along.

Snurched from docbrite, because I never do book memes and thought it might be interesting.

( book meme )

It's a rather odd lot of books, what with all the Dan Brown (gag) and Rowling and not even one book by John Steinbeck or Shirley Jackson. If you ask me.