Sunday morning. I know it's Sunday morning because the Xtians one block over are wailing like the rapture came yesterday and none of them were taken. I have music (PJ Harvey) playing on the iMac as loud as is reasonable, trying to block out the PentecostalBaptistwhatever whooping and caterwauling. I am fairly certain there are no churches so near the new place in Providence, and if there are, they almost certainly won't be of the yodeling variety. Some nice, quiet Catholics, please, or Episcopalians or something of that ilk. Maybe a synagogue or mosque.

Asleep about 3 ayem last night, but then awake at a little before 9 ayem, after a long and unnerving series of dreams. Mild dreamsickness now, almost three hours since I awoke. I don't recall much of the bloody thing (thank you, Ambien). Even less I'm willing to put down here. But there was some bit where I was sitting on the kitchen floor with a carving knife, and all the lights were out. All the lights, as though from a power outage. It was so dark, and I sat there with the knife, gouging at the wall, listening to something moving about outside, just beneath the kitchen window, rustling through the holly bush. And another fragment, still with the knife, but I was sitting in a very brightly lit room at a sink, scrubbing at the blade. It was clean, but I kept scrubbing at it. The water from the tap was icy cold. I had nothing to scrub at the knife with but water and my bare fingers, and always there was the sensation of being watched.

---

Yesterday, I wrote 1,030 words on a new story/vignette for Sirenia Digest #30 (May; the issue after #29, the forthcoming April issue). For several years now, I've been trying to find a story to accompany the title "Rappaccini's Dragon." Sitting here yesterday, paging through Laurence Gadd's Deadly Beautiful, the story found me. It's a fairy tale, sort of, about revenge, and toxicity, and the limits of the human body as a weapon.

A rather nice little review of Threshold at Rambles.net. I figured I'd mention it, since I made such a fuss about that silly Amazon.com "review" of Low Red Moon a few days back. The comment, "It's hard to believe Threshold is only Kiernan's second book," made me smile, because, in truth it was my fourth novel. The first was The Five of Cups (though it wasn't published until 2003) and then there was the ghostwritten novel I did after finishing and selling Silk (and no, I can't tell, so don't ask). I do wish reviewers would resist this urge to summarize, and remember that book reviews are not book reports. But yes, a nice review.

Otherwise, not much to yesterday. I didn't leave the house. I packed exactly one box (books). Spooky went out and got BBQ from Dusty's for dinner (truly, I will miss Dusty's). There were splendid thunderstorms all night, it seemed. In Second Life, Spooky and I worked a bit on the new wing of the Palaeozoic Museum in New Babbage, then attended a Very Special Event in Toxia. And that was yesterday.

Ever seen a platypus brew a cup of coffee? Someday, I shall have to take photos.

I've been making myself go to bed at 2 ayem the last two nights (or mornings), and slowly I am catching up on all the sleep I've lost. Still, here it is 1:12 pm, and I'm still groggy. It's cold in Atlanta this afternoon, but we got marvelous thunderstorms yesterday, and the warm will be back tomorrow, so that's not so bad.

Yesterday. Let's see. It was all about getting Sirenia Digest #28 put together. I did the corrections to "Pickman's Other Model" that I marked when we last read through the story on the 18th, but had not yet made. I have a feeling I'm going to have to read over this one one more time before I send it out into the world. Anyway, that took about an hour and a half. Then I snurched HPL's "Pickman's Model" from Wikisource and spent a bit of time making sure the formatting matched HPL's original (there were some discrepencies), because I want Sirenia readers who haven't read "Pickman's Model" to have it on hand. I gathered up some images I want to use in the issue. I wrote the prolegomena, which is mostly about inspiration. So, it's looking like #28 will go out tomorrow. I still have to do the layout today, and I'm waiting on Vince's illustration. Oh, and this issue will also include, for all those new subscribers, one of the older stories, one of my favourites, "The Sphinx's Kiss" (from #14, January 2007). I think I will be very happy with this issue.

Also, yesterday, the contracts for the German-language editions of Threshold and Low Red Moon arrived. Of course, the IRS still hasn't sent me the forms I need to send to my German publisher to prove that, yes, I really am an American citizen (in order to avoid the hefty German taxes). The post also brought a package from Black Phoenix Alchemy Labs, because Spooky had ordered a bottle of their Baghdad for me (amber, saffron, and bergamot, with mandarin, nutmeg, bulgar rose, musk, and sandalwood), plus a bunch of "imps" (and I'm not gonna list them all, but her faves are Zombi and Séance). Baghdad is the new smell of me.

Last night, there was Manhattan-style clam chowder for dinner, followed by a pretty good episode of Torchwood and a very good episode of Angel ("Damage"). I started reading another JVP paper yesterday — "Cranial anatomy of Ennatosaurus tecton (Synapsida: Caseidae) from the Middle Permian of Russia and the evolutionary relationship of the Caseidae" — but didn't finish it.

Another casualty of the March 14th-15th tornadoes, one I have not yet mentioned, was the second of the two trees in Freedom Park that played an important role in a dream I wrote of way back on March 8th, 2006. Somewhere, there's an entry with a photograph of the two trees standing, but the journal's gotten so long, I'll be damned if I can find it. Anyway, one of the two trees was already dead and fell in storms last year. These two oaks were a bit special to me, because of the dream, and because we'd done some magick there, and they were just very fine trees in their own right (which is the most important thing). There's a photo, taken late on Thursday, behind the cut:

( Fallen )

My thanks to furrylittleprob for pointing me to more LJ icons by artist Liz Amini-Holmes.

Yeah. I hear ya, platypus. Where's my damn coffee?

Postscript (2:34 p.m.) — Thanks to cliff52 for pointing out that the photo of the two trees can be found in my March 10th, 2006 journal entry (third photo down).

A strange barrage of dreams just before waking this morning, or a barrage of strange dreams. More likely the latter. The dreams were stranger than the barrage itself. You were there, sovay. A staircase that seemed to lead unexpected places, places that it should not. A five-and-a-half-minute staircase. I really wish I could remember more of it.

I have fallen off the horse, as they say. Between the sickness, worrying about the sickness and the bills it has spawned, the exhaustion, the winter, and the easy distractions of technology, I have fallen off the horse.That is, I am not writing. I have not written since the 30th, and I have more dental surgery on Wednesday, which is helping to keep me from getting back on the horse. But...the horse is all that matters. I am now dreadfully behind on this novel — behind in the sense that it has a due date, and I can only write so fast, and I will not rush it. Regardless of my health, regardless of uncertainty, I have to start writing again. As soon as possible or sooner. It does not matter if I only want to go back to bed every day. It matters that Joey Lafaye is written and written well, as I am a writer, and a writer who does not write is no longer a writer. I suppose this is what they call a "pep talk." From me to me and aimed at no one and nothing else.

And now, that I have been shown so much generosity, and now that at least the financial worries have been greatly lessened, that's an excuse I can't use to justify the fact that I am not writing. Since I became a writer, or rather, a published author, I have written through illness and chaos, through pain and doubt, and that's all I have to do now. Something I have done plenty enough times before. What I will do so long as I am alive.

And yes, I am rather saddened by the news of Roy Scheider's death. And despite all the unfortunate films he took part in, he also made some very fine films — Jaws, All That Jazz, Sorcerer, Marathon Man, etc..

---

The eBay auctions continue. Also, if you can, please consider a subscription to Sirenia Digest. Or pick up one of the new mass-market paperback editions of the novels. Once again, here are the links to the correct Amazon pages:

Daughter of Hounds

Silk

Threshold

Low Red Moon

I think that I am beginning to favor A is for Alien for the title of the sf collection. That was my original title, and I only began to consider others because Neil released M is for Magic last year, and I sort of felt that I'd been beaten to the punch. I was probably being silly.

---

Not much else to say about yesterday. There was a walk that should have been longer, but the wind made my teeth and ears ache, so we didn't get very far at all. Last night, I tried to watch a National Geographic channel documentary on the consequences of global warming, but it was one of those cases where things had been dumbed so far down and were being stated so poorly that I gave up after an hour. We watched another episode of Angel ("The Shroud of Rahmon"). We went to bed.

Oh, and once again, the link to the transcript from Shahrazad's Water of Life ceremony, which I finally finished and posted. I tried to make this one less like a transcript, more like prose, where possible. It's sort of like writing.

And lastly, a rather nice review of the Beowulf novelization at "The Book Swede and his Blog."

A night of such nightmares, that I cannot describe myself as mere dreamsick this morning. Whatever comes after dreamsick, whatever is worse, something very near fever. But I will not write about them, the dreams, because that's likely what "they" "want," that unconscious bit of me, and after that it can bloody well go fuck itself.

Good morning.

I sent Joey Lafaye out to a few people yesterday, what there is of the novel so far. On the up side, Sonya (sovay) says she loves it. On the down side, I won't hear what my agent thinks until next week. Others, I am still waiting to hear from. And I have this quote, something I wrote regarding the release of Daughter of Hounds back on January 1, 2007, and I suspect these sentiments are at the heart of much of my current displeasure with my work:

I think this "new book" thing would not continue to be so weird, and would not seem weirder each time it happens, if each new book did not seem to come and go with so little fanfare. Were I the sort of author lucky enough (and it is a matter of luck) that I enjoyed nationwide publisher-sponsored book tours, actual publicity, reviews in the New York Times Book Review, bestselling status, and so on — if these novels were, as they say, celebrated — I think it would not seem so odd. Because then a novel would be finished, after two or three years of diligent work on it, and there would be this period following publication where it was noticed for a time, before I had to sit down and begin another. Instead, they just come and go. They accumulate like dead leaves. With luck, they sell well for a month or two, get a few good reviews here and there, and then, for me (and most everyone else), they are forgotten. I have to quickly move along to the Next Thing. I have to find the Next Thing, because the Last Thing certainly won't be paying the bills. And so it just seems weird, that there is this book, again.

Better, if one has said a thing already, and one is happy with how that thing was said, to simply restate oneself then think up some new way of saying the same thing again.

---

Yesterday, Spooky and I finally saw Joe Wright's Atonement (based on a novel Ian McEwan). And I know that studies have actually demonstrated that readers tend to perceive those who write negative reviews as being brighter people than those who write positive reviews. But, on the one hand, we are extremely selective about the films we pay to see in the theatre, and on the other, it's not like I really give a shit. And, on the third hand (it's here, somewhere), the fact remains that Atonement is a supremely beautiful and well-crafted film. And it would be absurdly disingenuous of me to pick about for some little flaw or loose thread, so that readers would think I can write "critical" or "balanced" reviews. Atonement is one of the best treatments of tragedy I have ever seen, I think. I loved the unreliability of the narrator, and the nonlinear nature of the unreliable narration, and the fact that we finally come to understand the recurring clack of typewriter keys. I truly am pleased when a storyteller says "No, that's not what actually happened. This is what actually happened." I've only had the courage to do it a couple of times ("Riding the White Bull" comes to mind). Anyway, yes, I would call Atonement one of the three best films of 2007, of those I have seen.

---

The poll regarding Part One of "The Crimson Alphabet" is still going. Please vote, if you are a subscriber and if you have read Part One of "The Crimson Alphabet," but please vote only once. I'll post the poll for Part Two of "The Crimson Alphabet" later today.

That's enough for now.

Postscript (2:50 p.m. CaST) — It looks like Tales of Pain and Wonder may soon be sold out, and Subterranean Press has posted a notice regarding the 50+ page chapbook, Tails of Tales of Pain and Wonder, which is basically, buy now or miss out. Also, this is the first time the cover montage I did for the chapbook has been posted anywhere.

This blasted cold. The meteorologists promise warmer weather this weekend and next week. But it's winter, winter in a temperate zone, and, in winter, Georgia is supposed to get a bit cold. My desire for warm weather is really neither here nor there, only a subjective matter. But as Thom Yorke wrote, "It wears me out."

A writing day yesterday, but not one I should crow about. I did a meager 560 words on Chapter Two. I understand this chapter now, and that has lead to understanding much about the novel that, previously, was misunderstood. But it is also a bit of a course change, and this is a big story to steer. It does not turn on a dime. It's rather more like turning an ocean liner, I suspect. All I need are 30 or so degrees to starboard, but that's gonna take some effort and time. The latter commodity is especially scarce. And I had to call the pyrotechnics crew I didn't think I'd need for this book and inform them that, not only do I need them, I need them in Chapter Two. My goal is to do twelve hundred words today. There is not time for this silly fumbling about in the dark.

---

The dream was back last night (other dreams, too, but I'm only sharing or inflicting this one). Last night or this morning, I am not exactly sure. A long conversation with the orange man, and now I know he has a name, but I cannot recall what it is. Most of the conversation is also lost to me, as too much has faded. But I think, in the dream, he was once my lover, though I suspect I may have only been using him in some sort of set up I have yet to fully comprehend. He kept telling me how tired I look, how thin. I know this part happened after he was shot, because he isn't wearing a shirt, and there's a large bloodstained gauze pad taped across part of his right shoulder. And later, I was in a very narrow plastic shower stall, in my cabin on the balloon, I think, and I was crying and couldn't stop. I sat down in the lukewarm spray from the shower head, and my hands were shaking, and somewhere there was something like an alarm sounding, but the noise was made muffled and indistinct by the shower and the walls.

---

I have an official date now for my upcoming appearance at the O'Neil Literary House at Washington College in Chestertown, Maryland. It will not be in April, but rather March 21-22 (Friday and Saturday). And I am also very pleased to report that I will be joined by Lovecraft scholar S.T. Joshi. It should be grand.

I am also happy to report that Shahrazad al-Anwar's Water of Life ceremony went extremely well last night. It was really an amazing thing, and I can't believe we pulled it off, and I'll post some screencaps later today, after the writing.

Now the platypus is glaring at me with a baleful eye, telling me that Ceiling Cat will not be pleased if I don't "get cracking," and, besides, I must have coffee. More later...

Postscript (1:44 p.m.): Klaus Nomi would have turned 64 today.

I swear to fuck (it's not like I can convincingly swear to god), if it just were not for sleep, this whole being alive thing would be at least hundred times more palatable. But, I'll get back to that in a minute or fifteen.

Yesterday, I did 1,003 words on Chapter Two of Joey Lafaye. Which was just enough that I didn't have to feel guilty. I'd have made 1,200, but the snow was a constant source of distraction. I think it went well, the writing. Having already introduced Ignatius and Joey on Thursday, yesterday I introduced Sweet William, who is Ignatius' brother. It's a scene set just north of Philomath on the road to Athens, and I could not help but take a jab at the South. I swore I would refrain in this book from taking the South to task for all its endless wretchedness, because I'm tired of doing that, and it's not like most of the rest of this country doesn't have it's own fair share of rednecks and scuttlefish. But, I went and did it anyway. I think it's a case of resentment. This novel was supposed to be set in Westerly and Watch Hill, Rhode Island, not Georgia. But, here I am, still stuck in Georgia, and it was such a magnificent bitch setting Daughter of Hounds in Rhode Island when I was sitting here in Georgia, I just couldn't put myself through that again. And there really is some scary-ass shit in the boonies southeast of Athens.

As for the snow yesterday, it must have started about noon and kept up almost all the way to dark (just before 7 p.m. CaST). It stayed warm enough that the road only got slushy, and we never lost power. It had actually started melting before the day was over, but at the height of the storm, we must have had at least two inches. Today, there are still patches, but they'll melt away very soon. Anyway, while I was writing, Spooky took some photos (behind the cut):

( Snow Day #2 )

A phone call from Bill Schafer at subpress this morning, and I hope I was coherent. I'd not been out of bed very long, and I was having trouble remembering how my mouth worked. But, among other things, we talked about Tales of Pain and Wonder, and the generation ship on a water planet story that might replace The Dinosaurs of Mars, and the next erotica collection. I made some grim joke about the uncertainty of life after Joey Lafaye. And so it goes.

---

After leaving me alone long enough that I was convinced it would not be back, the latest recurring dream recurred this morning. All the stuff I've mentioned before: the "space balloon," the orange man showing up with a bullet wound, me taking it out of him, the dining "car"/lounge, etc. But something new, as well. And I wish I'd made notes when I woke, because it's getting murky now. Then again, forgetting is better, most likely. I was moving down one of the balloon's narrow corridors, and there was a very pretty woman in furs and some sort of black plastic respirator fitted to her mouth and nose. It muffled her voice. She stopped me, talking about how "these flights are never on time," and slipped a foil triangle into my hand. Then she pushed past me, and I stood there holding the triangle, watching as it slowly unfolded, becoming a sort of rhomboid. In the dream, I understood what it was, and slipped it into an inner pocket of my coat. After holding it, I wanted badly to wash my hands. And then the "scene" shifted, the way dreams shift, and I was in a bombed-out concrete building somewhere, and it was so cold, freezing. Brutally cold. And the woman with the respirator was holding a knife to my throat and talking about "challenge response systems" (which I know is something I got from Bowie's Outside) and the South Korean Ministry of Information and Communication (and I have no idea where that came from). I could taste blood, and there was lightning, now and then. I sincerely wish that the Ambien had not ceased to have the dream dampening effects (or rather, the effect of causing me to forget dreams immediately upon waking) that I experienced with it for so long. Now I have this dreamsickness, and I'm trying to shake it off.

---

Please have a look at the current eBay. Thanks.

I suppose it's time to wrap this up and beg for coffee,

As some of you may have already noticed, if you've been hanging about the Subterranean Press website, the 3rd edition of Tales of Pain and Wonder has received a starred review in Publisher's Weekly. This is a Good Thing, naturally, and I am pleased, and my agent is pleased, and Bill Schafer is pleased. If you've been straddling the fence on whether or not to order the collection, possibly this review will sway you to preorder today:

"Tales of Pain and Wonder
CAITLÍN R. KIERNAN. Subterranean, $35 (345p) ISBN 978-1-59606-144-6
Each story in this "definitive" third edition of Kiernan's loosely linked collection stands alone as a visceral slice of life. While "Anamorphosis" and "To This Water" rely on the overdone menaces of pedophilia and rape, "Bela's Plot" establishes a delicate balance between the romance of decay and deliberately undercutting characters' gothic pretensions. "Glass Coffin," "Salammbô," "Salmagundi," "...Between the Gargoyle Trees" and the previously unpublished "Salammbô Redux" relate the history of sisters Salmagundi and Salammbô Desvernine and their disturbed and disturbing extended family. "Paedomorphosis" and "Rats Live on No Evil Star" approach closest to classic horror, driven by revulsion and fear of the alien, while in "Estate," a human terrorizes a supernatural creature, and "San Andreas" relies on pure human nature for its shuddery effect. Together, the impact of these stories is stunning: glancing collisions between psychics, runaways, junkies, artists and whores (who, as in Kiernan's Silk, function as a loose alternative to a family) add up to a portrait of something broken and beautiful. (Mar.)"

I love that line..."something broken and beautiful." That's really all I have ever been trying to say, in my fiction. Something broken and beautiful. Oh, and I do agree that dark fiction relies too heavily on the "overdone menaces of pedophilia and rape," but hey, I'm cutting myself some slack, as I wrote those stories way back in 1994, almost fourteen years ago.

---

The "space balloon" dream returned night before last, or, more accurately, yesterday morning. Not this morning, though. Anyway, as I did not make a proper journal entry yesterday, many of the details have been forgotten. I was lying in the upper berth again, and the orange man was talking. I do recall that he said, "Nothing like what they think," more than once, and that, later, I was standing in the corridor, watching the glittering Indian Ocean far below, and someone standing near me was talking about Stalin, the Politburo, and the "Great Purge." There was more, but I didn't write it down, and it now seems lost to me, which is probably for the best.

---

There have been some movies. Saturday night, Byron came by, and after dinner at the Vortex at L5P, the three of us watched Jeff Broadstreet's Night of the Living Dead 3D (2006). Of course, we watched it in 2D, as it was the DVD, and that's fine, cause I think 3D is a dumb gimmick, and given that I have only one functioinal eye, I can't see it, anyway. Sort of fun, in a campy sort of way. But I suspect had it not been for Sid Haig as a shovel-weilding mortician, I might not have found anything much to redeem it.

Last night, we watched the entirety of Greg Yaitanes' adaptation of Children of Dune (2003) mini-series, which originally aired on the SF Channel and is actually an adaptation of both Herbert's Dune Messiah and Children of Dune. I was very pleasantly surprised. Despite various departures from the novels and uneven SFX, I found the film thoroughly enjoyable and true to the feel and spirit of the novels, which is far more than can be said for the Lynch adaptation of Dune (1984) — and I say that as an admirer of pretty much everything else Lynch has ever done. Children of Dune benefited from a couple of excellent casting decisions, most notably Alice Krige as Jessica Atreides and Daniela Amavia as Alia.

---

I think that's about it for now. I'll toss in some Second Life stuff tomorrow, maybe some more screencaps (since those seem to have been a hit), maybe links to some of the transcripts from our Dune roleplay. The latter seems most relevant, as I did have a hand in writing them. But right now, I must find coffee.

Oh. and thanks to the lomer, who wrote, regarding JediMa Katscher's homophobia, "You should warn the homophobes, 'every time you make a homophobic comment: a straight girl goes bi.'" Oh, indeed. Though, "...a straight girl goes lesbian" might carry more threat.

Six hours sleep. Yeah, sure, I can keep going on six hours sleep. I've done worse.

I woke up feel like someone had hit me in the chest, and, an hour and a half later, the sensation has not passed. It's not so much a physical feeling, but then I don't know what it would be instead, if not physical.

Yesterday, I did 1,332 words on a new piece for Sirenia Digest which I am calling "The Bone Collector." So, not a bad writing day, really.

I did not have the New Recurring Dream yesterday morning, and so I thought maybe it was done with me. Wrong. It was back this morning. Not another visit to the "space balloon," but I was very clearly that same version of me and stuck in that same world. For one thing, there was the huge fur coat, and Spooky says this is all because David Bowie turned 62 yesterday. Who am I to argue? Anyway, yeah, what I remember of the dream was chasing someone along an endless series of wet streets, like some looped bit of film noir. There were dogs barking everywhere, and all the windows I passed seemed lit from within by neon. There was the distant cacophony of what I think must have been artillery fire. I slipped on the wet pavement a couple of times and fell. I never even caught a glimpse of who or what I was chasing. I wound up warming my hands over a fire burning inside an old oil drum (or something of the sort), listening to a crazy woman talk about all the years she'd spent trying to find a building that was high enough that she could see where the sky ended. She was also warming her hands by the fire. Later, I was breaking beer bottles against a wall, and it seemed like the artillery sounds were coming nearer.

Not much to work with.

Oh, and yesterday, cliff52 had this to say about the dreams, about my doctoring the orange man's bullet wound: Were you dressing the wound, or was there something inside him that you had to have? And upon reading that, my first reaction was something like, "Great. Thanks. Just what I didn't need." To be forced to consider that possibility, I mean.

Explosion falls upon deaf ears,
While we're swimming in a sea of sham.
Living in the shadow of vanity,
A complex fashion for a simple man.

David Bowie, "The Motel"

I took Spooky out for sushi last night. She was feeling blue, and sometimes sushi helps. It has been very warm here, and there was a thunderstorm before I went to bed.

We still have auctions going, and you might also have a look at Spooky's latest doll, whose name is Clarra.

Also, a new study by by the Commonwealth Fund found "the United States dead last, in providing timely and effective healthcare to its citizens, according to a survey...of preventable deaths in 19 industrialized countries." Didn't we know that already, and, also, if it's called "Yahoo news," does that mean it's news for yahoos?

We're getting the fist cool weather of the year here in Atlanta. Last night, we turned the heat on for the first time since April.

Yesterday, I did 880 words, because 880 words were all that was required to find THE END of "The Madam of the Narrow Houses." And if you don't know already, the story will appear in Sirenia Digest #23, along with whatever it is I'm going to be writing next.

Sometime this morning, I dreamed that I was watching an abominable film adaptation of Daughter of Hounds, and for some reason it had been done as a comedy. You know, because ghouls and lost girls are just so goddamn funny. And then, afterwards, I got a call from my agent, because there was a publisher who wanted me to write a novelization based on the screenplay based upon my novel, and the advance was a buttload of money, and, well, I'm not sure what happened next, but I sincerely hope that dream me told the publisher to go fuck herhimitself.

I'm just not up for blogging this morning. Time to make the doughnuts...

So, let me see if I can make something like a halfway decent entry this morning. Maybe I just need to start making my entries in the evenings, instead of in the mornings, as the pills I'm taking to try and keep the insomnia at bay are clearly interfering with my ability and my desire to make journal entries before I start working for the day.

The last two days have been spent reading through and making corrections to the manuscript for the forthcoming edition of Tales of Pain and Wonder from Subterranean Press. Every time I come back to it, the length of this collection surprises me. And how it manages to so perfectly encapsulate a time and place in my life, 1994—1999, that surprises me, too. Well, 1994-1999, that's really two times and two places. Monday, we did "Glass Coffin" and "Breakfast in the House of the Rising Sun," both written in 1996. Yesterday, we did "Estate," "The Last Child of Lir," and "A Story for Edward Gorey," which got us halfway through 1997. Fortunately, we proofed "Salammbô" back on August 18th, so we're now midway through the book. I hope to be done with this read-through by Friday. It's not easy, reading these stories I wrote ten years ago, not easy trying to see through the eyes of someone I no longer am. More ghosts back that way than I care for, especially given how many ghosts still inhabit my present. I feel like I'm going through a box of dusty old photographs, and almost all the faces I see are dead now, or gone; dead or simply lost to me.

We're taking our walks late in the evening, towards midnight, when it's cool enough for walking. It is much better at that hour, anyway. Very few other people, more silence. I will reclaim myself from this atrophy.

There was a dream this morning, shortly before I woke. Waking overlapped with the dream, so it ended or went on without me, or merely went on without my perceiving it. All these options work for me. In the dream, I knew what thunder tasted like. I was inside gigantic house, trying to find a window, but all the rooms seemed to be interior rooms, no matter how far out from the center of moved. The floor was submerged in several inches of filthy water, and I was barefoot. I heard voices behind some of the doors, and was always too afraid to open those, even though I suspected they were the ones that led to windows. The floor of one room was a great black cataract or waterfall, a pit into which the house was draining, and I stood in the doorway, watching the spray and mist and the blackness at the center of that hole.

Okay. The platypus just said, "Enough dilly-dallying." When the platypus starts using strong language, I know that it's time to do as sheheit says. We have to get through Tales of Pain and Wonder so I can get to Joey Lafaye and Sirenia Digest #22. No rest for the wordy.

Dreamsickness of the first order today. I'm pretty sure most of me has yet to disconnect from whatever unconscious world I slept my way into.

And since it's Sunday morning, from my office I can hear the Xtians waiting through loudspeakers from some point not too far away. It sounds like someone's hurting them. Religion pollution.

Yesterday, we read over "Salammbô," which, near as I can recall, was written sometime in 1996, maybe early 1997, ten or eleven years ago. It needed to be proofed for the new edition of Tales of Pain and Wonder, and I needed to hear myself reading it aloud before I begin the new story. It will be set somewhere in 2007, and that means that Salammbô Desvernine will be 51 years old (or -11, to speak more kindly). I have to somehow fill in the blank space between the postcard that Salmagundi received from Los Angeles in 1973 and now, all those 34 years that have elapsed, and in my head, Salammbô was always the one who got away, but now I begin to suspect she didn't truly get away, after all.

Each in herhisits respective world, authors are Nature or the gods or demons or the sleeping mind set loose to perceive, and, as such, writers can be the most merciless bastards in the whole universe.

The heat continues, though we did get clouds and a little rain yesterday. At 3 a.m., the temperature had fallen to 81F. If I were a saner beast, I would spend the day, hardly moving, in a cold bath with colder bottles of beer, or glasses of iced coffee and shots of absinthe. Not so far to the south, Hurricane Dean spins, a cat. 4 already, roaring across the Caribbean.

More than eight hours sleep, thank the gods of 21st-Century generic pharmaceuticals. But it left me filled with dreams (mostly of Mordor, apocalypse, and collecting Triassic archosaurs) and disoriented — pause here, because Bill Schafer of Subterranean Press called, and we talked a bit. Er, where was I. Okay, who cares. Next.

Yesterday, I wrote 1,073 words on "In the Dreamtime of Lady Resurrection," without absinthe. I hope to finish it tomorrow. I would be finishing it today, probably, but Spooky has proclaimed that we will be seeing Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix today, and I can think of no compelling reason why that should not be so. Nymphadora rocks my socks (worry not, any spoilers will be placed behind cuts, at least on LJ). And after the film, we have dinner with Byron, who we have not seen in a couple of weeks.

Good walk last night, though the humidity was a monster. I erected my first attempt at a building in Second Life, just to start getting the hang of construction. Two adjacent walls, a first and second floor, a bit of roof, and then I tore it all down again. Before I can actually begin the Palaeozoic Museum, I must sit down and draw out a plan (based somewhat on Hawkins' sketches). Spooky's learning Wings 3D, a sculpting programme that we will be using to build the actual dinosaurs and such. Oh, and she's talking a trilobite stained-glass window for the atrium. My concept is sort of a steampunk cathedral dedicated to 19th-Century paleontology. Meanwhile, of course, there are the the rp travails of Nareth Nishi, which is that other part of my Second Life and which you may follow by reading her journal.

In this First Life, Spooky has just about finished her second Elizabethan owl sculpture (a commission), which you may get a peek at here.

Oh, and another episode of Deadwood last night before bed, "No Other Sons & Daughters."

Okay, I need coffee and a bath, so I think that's it for now. Other than a reminder of the current eBay auctions.

Seven hours sleep last night, so I can thank the Ambien for that. But, on the other hand, it seems to have ceased to ease my transition from the dreams to wakefulness and seems, also, to no longer be helping me to quickly forget the dreams. So, this morning, which is actually fucking afternoon already, I am dreamsick and angry and disoriented.

Only 505 words written on The Dinosaurs of Mars yesterday. But I needed time to think. Sometimes writers have to do that. It's not all word counts and crumpets, you know. There's little or nothing else to say for yesterday. It came and went, as days do. I have one bit of news, one bit I'm pleased with, but I can't make that announcement just yet. Maybe by Monday. A decent enough walk late yesterday. The sky was full of swallows. Later on, another episode of Deadwood. But that's about it.

The dreamsickness is with me today, fluttering behind my eyes. And I can only grit my teeth and wait for it to fade and remember this: My past does not haunt me; I haunt myself with my past. Consciously and unconsciously.

I am fairly certain this is the longest genuine vacation I've had in...well, in just about fucking forever. Years, certainly. To be perfectly perspicuous, a vacation that is not a working vacation. On Wednesday evening, I let my lit agent and producer D, my editor at HC and the folks at subpress, know that I would be out of touch until at least Monday and maybe until Tuesday. I do believe that it is doing me some good. I surely hope that it is.

I have a couple or three more belated birthday thank yous: my thanks to my mom, and to Larne Pekowsky and Gordon Duke. I hope I have forgotten no one. And this reminds me, Spooky's (humglum) 37th is coming up fast (June 24th!), and she also has an Amazon wishlist, if anyone is so kindly disposed.

We had a longish walk yesterday. The sky was threatening rain, weighted with the dark grey-blue fringes of Barry. Alas, all we got yesterday was a sprinkle or two, and this morning the sun and smoke are back. But the walk was good. There was a cool, rain-scented wind, and I saw a bluebird. We walked through Freedom Park, as far west as Oakdale Road, before turning back for home. Spooky made her yummy pasta salad for dinner, plus marinated mushrooms, and later I even got a little reading done — "Reassessment of the Early Cretaceous sauropod Astrodon johnsoni Leidy 1865 (Titanosauriformes)," by Kenneth Carpenter and Virginia Tidwell.

Otherwise, the day was all Second Life. I spent most of it trying to get into trouble with blu_muse, wandering places that were far tamer than their names would lead one to believe. Then, last night, I...well, Nareth Nishi...got the job, pole dancing at a place called the Dark Goddess. If you're a Second Lifer (or decide today to become one), drop by tonight between the hours of nine and eleven (EST; six to eight PST) and give a girl a tip. How else will you ever see me fire-dancing semi-nude? Not in this First Life, that's for sure. I have to try to score some new clothes today, so I won't be dancing every evening in the same outfit. Oh, and Spooky has also taken a Second Life alter-ego, name of Artemisia Paine. But she's kind of a punk.

Tomorrow, maybe I'll make an actual writing post, as there's something writerly I've been meaning to talk about and it will be time to start thinking about First Life work again...

By now, Sirenia Digest subscribers ought to have #17, which Spooky sent out at about one a.m. this morning. However we had at least five bounces, so if you are a subscriber and you have not received #17, you should promptly e-mail Spooky at crk(unnderscore)books(at)yahoo(dot)com. I'm very pleased with how this issue came together. Comments encouraged, as always.

Yesterday was sort of a day off. But not really. Byron called about 11:30 and we joined him for "brunch" at Grandma Luke's. Yesterday was Byron's birthday. He has not yet reached the dreaded -0, so it was not a day of mourning for him. I had blueberry pancakes. Yum. Spooky had the banana bread French toast, which she says isn't nearly as heavy as it sounds. I am not accustomed to being out and about so early (or eating such huge breakfasts); the whole thing was sort of weird.

Otherwise, yesterday was spent finishing up #17 and getting it off to thingunderthest for PDFing. The part of the day I didn't spend resting and having half a day off. Last night, we finished re-reading Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse-Five, which impresses me more with each reading. It's that sort of brilliant.

And here it is the day before Beltane. Perhaps I'm missing the spirit of the thing, the liberty of isolation, but I find being a "solitary practitioner" of Wicca incredibly annoying. But. And on the other hand. I have intentionally steered clear of covens, because I know I would only piss everyone off after they exchanged the favour (or whatever). Ah, but to be in Edinburgh tonight, where they do this sabbat up right. Spooky proposed we set the four burners on the stove to high and dance about it naked, waving wooden spoons. Likely we shall not.

My thanks to sovay for pointing me to a positive mention of Daughter of Hounds in STLtoday.com, which is the website for the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. An article (or column, I'm not sure); "Genre Fiction" by Dorman T. Shindler. I was especially pleased that Mr. Schindler notes that Threshold and Low Red Moon are "not so much prequels as novels linked by characters and theme." Anyway, you can read the whole of the article here.

Today I have to do the Edward Gorey interview, and I have a meeting with D at 5 p.m., so I have to go over all my notes on the "Onion" screenplay again. And I need to get "The Ape's Wife" started. There are also the signature sheets for the PS Publishing edition of The Day It Rained Forever, which I need to sign. They arrived here on Saturday, and Bradbury has already signed them.

A peculiar dream this morning. Turned out, I'm not the alien. Rather, I'm one of the last surviving earthlings, and almost everyone else (including Spooky) are the aliens. But I'm not buying that for a second.

I woke this morning from red-orange dreams filled with apocalypse. Is it any wonder? The one image that most stands out in that mad rush of terrible things, the thing I most remember, was turning to watch a bloated white moon rise and then set again only a minute or so later. The world was ending. This world. I wish I could convey the things I felt inside that dream without resorting to the narrative. There was sorrow and regret, more than any sort of fear.

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A good writing day yesterday. I did 1,025 words on the new story for Sirenia Digest #17. As predicted, it has become a full-fledged short story. Right now, the total word count stands at 5,942, and I think it's going to come in at about 7,000 in the end. THE END, which I do hope to find sometime later today. If you liked Low Red Moon and/or Daughter of Hounds, you will probably be pleased with this piece. It's set in January 1999. A couple of years before the events of Low Red Moon, about eleven years before the events of Daughter of Hounds. Just a little while after the events of "So Runs the World Away," and it provides an intersection for all three (and, no doubt, numerous others). But it needs a title. Usually, I find the right title before I start the story, but not this time.

Yesterday, the postman brought me my contributor's copies of Weird Tales #344, which includes my non-fiction piece, "Notes from a Damned Life." It also includes a very amusing Darrell Schweitzer review of the gawdsawful Eragon film.

Kid Night last night. We walked to Videodrome, getting the night's movies and the day's exercise both at once. We watched Joe Carnahan's deliriously violent Smokin' Aces (2007), which probably shouldn't have qualified as a genuine Kid-Night movie, but being who we are, it worked that way for me and Spooky. I don't know what critics thought of this film, but we both loved it and I sort of wish we'd seen it in the theatre. We followed it with a 1959 Swedish sf gem, Terror in the Midnight Sun (aka Rymdinvasion i Lappland). Truly, this movie is almost as charming as Reptilicus (1961), and for almost all the same reasons. The gigantic furry alien steals the show, calling to mind some bizarre ur-Muppet and the abominable snowman of Rasputina's "The New Zero." Virgil W. Vogel later added a lot of superfluous footage and John Carradine, and re-released the film in America as the far less charming and utterly nonsensical Invasion of the Animal People. A very good Kid Night, indeed.

Before bed, I read two by Edward Gorey — The Other Statue and The Headless Bust.

Okay. Now I must find coffee. And then, THE END. And a suitable title.