One of the marvelous things about having two consecutive days off is, on that second day I can blog about anything I want, and it doesn't have to have anything to do with writing, unless I decide that it will. For example, the fact that Spooky made toasted slices of raisin-cinnamon bread with cream cheese for breakfast. It's as relevant in this moment as anything else.

I can, for example, take another moment to mention Panthalassa, which is the name I have chosen to signify the sea "goddess" whom I shall use to encompass all sea goddesses and all non-anthropomorphic features of the sea. In paleogeography, Panthalassa ("all seas") is the name given the world-wide ocean that surrounded the ancient supercontinent of Pangaea. In the NeoWiccan/Neopagan system I'm working on, Panthalassa will function as one of my primary godforms, and will never be given any single physical form. I arbitrarily refer to Panthalassa as "she," and even as "goddess," but, in truth, Panthalassa is by definition without gender (though she contains all genders and all forms of reproduction), as she is without any single form. I would be equally justified in giving her the form of a trilobite, a stone lying on a beach, a water molecule, a kelp forest, a seal, a great white shark, a sailing ship, a hurricane, or a mermaid's purse. She is equally all these things. Within her is contained all true and useful myths of sea deities and beings: the Oceanids, Poseidon, Amphitrite, Oceanus, Tethys, Triton, Proteus, Rán, Ægir, the nine daughters of Ægir, Pontus, Nereus, Doris, the numerous Nereids, Varuna, Manawydan, Manannán mac Lir, Arnapkapfaaluk, Idliragijenget, Nix, Susanoo, Bangpūtys, Tangaroa, Yemaja, Neptune, Phorcys, Ceto, et al. Panthalassa, though not factual, is true, in that she is the avatar for my reverence of the sea, the focal point of my devotion and meditation. From space, the world is blue, and blue is the colour of Panthalassa, but so is black and all shades of brown and grey and green and the white of sea foam and clouds and water spouts. She is as colourless as she is colourful. It's an idea I've been working on for some time, and it seems to satisfy my needs for a central, infinitely faceted godform tied to something which evokes awe in me (magick being the willful evocation of awe). All life on Earth comes from Panthalassa, and all rain, snow, all rivers and swamps and marshes and deltas, the act of sedimentation, salt, plate tectonics, and so on, all these things are merely expressions of Panthalassa. Panthalassa is indifferent, non-conscious, unfathomable, and endlessly seductive. The choice of name was made largely for personal aesthetic and symbolic reasons; Mother Hydra would work just as well. So far, it's only an idea, an appealing, functional idea filled with contradiction, but it's a start.

As for yesterday, a good day off. Spooky and I drove up to Roswell, to the Phoenix and the Dragon, the witchcraft shop we've used for years now, because we knew we'd likely not have another chance before the move to Providence (not counting today, we have about 26 days until the move). Spooky got me a new hematite ring to replace the last one I broke, and a pretty little Pierre Shale ammonite, Jeltzkytes nodosus I think. Oh, and a night light for the bathroom in the new apartment, translucent porcelain with the moon and a mermaid. The traffic up Peachtree and back down Piedmont was awful, but the day was cloudy and not too warm. I packed four boxes. My tooth hurt less than the day before. I read Chapter 8 of The Hunt for the Dawn Monkey ("Ghost Busters," mostly about the Duke University primate origins conference in the early '90s). After dinner, we watched two more episodes from Season One of Millennium (1-17 and 1-18, "Walkabout" and "Lamentation"). Later, there was a bit of Second Life, and when we went to bed about 1:30 ayem, I read McElligot's Pool to Spooky, which is unusual, because she usually reads it to me. I got a remarkable 8 hrs. sleep. That was yesterday, pretty much.

Oh, two screencaps from SL last night, courtesy omegamorningsta. The first one should put Sirenia Digest subscribers in mind of "Flotsam." Behind the cut:

( Omega and Nareth )

And speaking of Sirenia Digest #29, my thanks to scarletboi for the exchange yesterday on "Regarding Attrition and Severance." One of my greatest fears about letting people read the piece was that it would be misinterpreted as mere "torture porn," that they would miss the Cosmicism that is critical to understanding the story's intent. He wrote, "I'm glad you chose to share it. It was graphic and horrific (in the original meaning) and brutal. But it was also beautifully written and deeply involving. To be honest, I probably shouldn't have read it until my current work is finished, because I have a feeling it's going to affect the mood of it...I understand the worry. The narration is indifferent enough to be almost clinical, academic. If it took more glee in the proceedings it might edge toward the torture-porn of Saw or Hostel. But I think it came across more elegantly than that, and I hope other readers pick up on the cues as well." Too which I can only add — me, too.

Whoops. I went and fucking wrote about writing. Ah, well. Blame the neglectful platypus for not yet having brought me coffee.

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).

Not a very Samhain or Hallowe'en sort of sentiment, I know. But it's true, and it's the subject line that popped into my head. Hubero, brawny little fellow that he is, says Byron is his Daddy, so it's all okay.

Lots of chaos and fuss hereabouts, getting ready for our house guests, who will be arriving Thursday from Arkansas and Alabama, and also getting ready for the Trick-or-Treaters tonight. I was so, so brave yesterday. Not only did I go outside, I went to bloody, frelling Target. Because the little bratlings must have candy, though I rather like my idea of handing out tiny packets of salt and black pepper, ketchup and mustard and whatever else we could scarf up for free at fast-food places. I mean, condiments are sort of like candy. Sort of. Alas, Spooky said no, so we went to Target. And I did not scream, though the combo Pizza Hut/Starbuck's was almost more than my mind could endure. Oh, and we carved pumpkins yesterday. There are some photos (behind the cut) of this year's jack-o-lanterns. In the photo of the two together, I carved the uppermost one:

( Pumpkolanternia )

Some good thoughts regarding Joey Lafaye yesterday, which is to say that I'm working on the novel, even if I'm not quite working on it at the keyboard yet...

Tonight, if you are so inclined, you are invited to join me in the Second Life steampunk milleau of New Babbage for a Samhain bonfire behind the Abney Park Laboratory. The Professor will be making a brief appearance, just long enough for the ceremony, as she has been busy elsewhere recently...on an extended cuttlefishing expedition. Well, that's the cover story, should anyone ask. I do not have a hard-and-fast time for the event, but the bonfire will be sometime between 9:30 and 10:30 EDT, probably. I may post an update later with a more precise time. As for how to find Abney Park, if you teleport into Babbage Square, the good Professor's laboratory is the first building east of the train depot. I'm trying to decide whether or not I can get away with doing it "virtually" skyclad. Sheesh, last year I celebrated Samhain in the woods around a real bonfire, getting real bug bites in unmentionable places because I was not merely virtually skyclad. The invitation came again this year (thank you, once more), but there was just too much going on to get away. Here's a quote regarding my experience last year which I came across this morning, a response to a question as to why I found working skyclad so liberating:

To put it as simply as I can, I suspect that the reason I found the experience so very positive arose mainly from the knowledge that I stood there before the whole universe, that vast and largely unfathomable cosmos, and nothing stood between me and it. No clothing, no walls, no rooftops. The star-dabbed wheel of the sky, the brilliant waxing quarter moon, our chants, the cold air, the crackle and smoky smell of the bonfire, the knowledge that I stood as all creatures throughout all galaxies have ever stood, naked in every sense, in every way, as perfectly devoid of barriers as I am presently able to be. There was a grand giddiness, an ecstasy. For me, ecstasy is at the heart of Neo-paganism. Ecstasy and celebration and communion, and Saturday night was my most...what word, what word...my most complete experience of all three to date.

Yep.

One of the weird emails from Monday morning was someone wanting me to grant them a "free option" to adapt "Bela's Plot" to the screen. I dutifully passed the request along to my lit agent, Merrilee, and my film agent, Julien, though I knew the default answer to all "free option" inquiries is a polite "no." Here's the deal: If you can scrape up the money to make a film, even an ultra low-budget one, you can also scrape up the cash to pay the author some pittance upfront for your use of the source material.

I'd still love to hear more thoughts on Sirenia Digest #23. My thanks to setsuled for this bit yesterday:

Both stories seem concerned with unspoken communion. I was reminded of the Japanese aesthetic concept of Yugen, the idea that certain concepts or emotions can only be transmitted without words. Obviously the "voiceless communion a hundred million years older even than the coming of mankind" in "The Bed of Appetite" would remind me of yugen, but it's also in the mysterious objects left by the ghosts in "The Madam of the Narrow Houses," and the peculiar explanation the ghost offers for the protagonist's state of health.

Both stories deal with characters unmoved or irritated by false affections; the character in the first story is contrasted with the people who don't really care for their own children, yet nonetheless wonder why she doesn't marry. A character is described in the second story as never casually handing out praise. Both characters seem to seek transcending the false world by strange avenues. That the second story is concerned with art is significant, as is the fact one character insists that he doesn't attempt to find a publisher for his writing because he writes for himself. One might say the purpose of art is to find means of expressing what's otherwise inexpressible.

Okay. The year is turning, and there's mischief to be made. Come on, platypus. Let's get to it...

Postscript (5:44 p.m. EST): My modest Second Life Samhain ceremony in New Babbage will begin at 10:30 p.m. EST (which is 7:30 SLT/PST). Hope to see you there.

One of the very good things about keeping journals — both the pen-and-paper sort and this other, virtual sort — is the ability to look back at a given past date in my life, whether it's one year ago or ten years ago, and measure how much I have changed from that time. Or not changed, as the case may be. It's like my personal fossil record, a reckoning of my own psychological evolution, whether gradualistic or of a more punctuated tempo. Yesterday, I came across this paragraph, from my 3/9/06 entry. It was heartening, as I can read these words now, a year later, and not be embarrassed by them, by the sentiment they express, which, if anything, I feel more strongly now than I did a year ago:

I wanted to say thanks to the people who've commented on yesterday's dream entry. Especially mockingbirdgrrl, who wrote, "Your statement, 'Magic is communication. Magic is the one-way communication between any living organism and the cosmos. We speak and the cosmos doesn't listen, but we speak because there's nothing else we can do.' resonates soundly. I kept rereading it, thinking I'd heard that somewhere before. Here it is, from Simon Black's The Book of Frank: 'Because in reality, there is no response to our howling, not here. But that fact is intolerable. The mind invents a response.'" I've never read Simon Black, but yes, exactly. Consciousness cannot help but howl. I know I've been howling my head off for my whole goddamn life. And, so far, the only response beyond wishful thinking has been the beauty and profundity of Nature and Art* that's right here for anyone who'll but open their eyes and see the small fraction that's visible. I know my howling consciousness will always long for something more, some two-way communication, but I'm beginning to accept (in the words of Elizabeth Bear) the apparent truth that "Nobody is coming for you." My dream was fascinating and helpful, but it was only me talking to me, my unconscious and perhaps a Jungian collective attempting to aid my clumsy, fretting conscious mind. Of course, it was also the voice of the "goddess," the Dark Mother and Father and Divine Androgyne, but only because I am a part of the cosmos, as are you and that lightning-struck tree and the crows and everything living and non-living, every molecule and atom and sub-atomic speck and particle and wave...and, well, I think you see where I'm headed with this. Sagan said it best. "Star stuff."

I would add, now, that "Magick is the willful invocation of awe," but I sort of suspect that more recent statement is only a refinement of "Magic is communication. Magic is the one-way communication between any living organism and the cosmos." Also, while I'm on the subject, this bit from the LJ of morganxpage yesterday:

I strongly believe that the subjugation of sexuality is the root of all evil in the world. It causes every complex, it starts every war, it is the only perversion. Sex is the all-pervading force that animates the Universe, to try to bridle it is disgusting. My Gods are Orgasms, we all are orgasms. Really, think about that: you are the fruition of someone's orgasm. Your whole body, your entire personality, everything about you is someone's orgasm. The whole Universe is one big orgasm.

While I would not go so far as to state that the repression of sex is the only perversion or "evil" (personally, I continue to identify wasteful acts as the greatest crimes against Nature), I wholeheartedly agree with the general sentiment being expressed here. As a child, I was raised in some odd twilight, halfway between the Roman Catholic Chrurch and the United Methodist Church. But, either way, there was that constant message, explicit or implicit, that sex was the reason for "the fall" from some imagined grace, the route by which "sin" entered the world, that, indeed, sex was such a vile act that the Xtian saviour had to be born asexually, sort of like a bacterium or a sponge. Only by spontaneous generation could a "pure" man be born. And I say now, all these years later, that one of the lights Neopaganism could, in theory, retsore to humanity is the knowledge that sex — straight, gay, bi, poly, auto, pretty much whatever floats your boat without sinking someone else's — is part of that thing which we would call sacred, magickal, divine. Anyway, just thoughts going round in my head.

Today, I expect to finish "In View of Nothing" for Sirenia Digest #16. Today, I write the last two sections — "08. The Book (II)" and "09. Exit Music (The Gun)" and find THE END. The dream in back of this story has not recurred over the last couple of weeks, and I hope that when I am done with this story, I will be done with the dream and it will be done with me.

Not much to yesterday. A day off. Last night, we watched Paul Rachman's documentary American Hardcore (2006), which was quite fine.

The platypus says it's time the make the doughnuts, and who am I to argue?

*Truthfully, though, Art is merely a subset or expression of Nature.

Yesterday, I wrote 1,048 words on the sf story/dream cycle that is still, for the time being, called "In View of Nothing." At this point, I'm so far into the thing, having already spent three days on it, that I may as well see it through to The End. Spooky likes it. To me, it just seems like I'm working extra-extra hard and coming nowhere close to what I'm trying to say. I will be amused, in a sad, sick sort of way, if I finish this literal "telling" of the dream, only to discover that the metaphorical approach of "A Season of Broken Dolls" worked better. Imagine that you have met someone who has been blind since birth, and they were also born without the ability to taste or smell, and yet you must explain to them all the subtle colours and flavours and aromas of a lime. That's what this feels like, exactly. Also, I have done something which I never do — I have gone so far as to produce an outline for this short story. It will be divided into nine sections. Anyway, it will appear in Sirenia Digest #16.

I should have had a walk yesterday, but I didn't. The weather is beautiful. All the way up to 70F today, and it's all I can do to make myself sit at this frelling chair and frelling type when I could be out there.

But I will at least have a walk.

Not much else to yesterday. Spooky and I played Scrabble. We watched Howard Hawks' The Big Sleep (1946), which I love despite the almost unfathomable convolutions of the plot. Then bed and reading until about 3 a.m., when I finally laid the book down and faced the ugly necessity of sleep. Oh, TCM is airing four of the Basil Rathbone Holmes films tonight, beginning, I think, at 9 PM (Eastern). If you're into that sort of thing. I used to carry such a torch for Basil Rathbone.

Meanwhile, More than 30 Vermont towns passed resolutions on Tuesday seeking to impeach
President Bush, while at least 16 towns in the tiny New England state called on Washington to withdraw U.S. troops from Iraq. While it seems extraordinarily unlikely this will ever have much effect on President Asshole, it's still some shade of heartening. Then again, Sauron never worried himself too much about the Shire...

Also, because I apparently needed something else to piss me off today, we have further proof here that the editorial standards at WitchVox remain as low as ever, and that witches and pagans can be just as hateful and prejudicial and wrongheaded as Xtians. My thanks to morganxpage for the link. Frankly, I stopped reading WitchVox many months ago, as, more often than not, I find the "articles" are barely literate, rarely thoughtful or well researched, and frequently serve only to illustrate the many ills of Neopaganism. I think I'm actually less annoyed by this idiot's crypto-heterosexism, transphobia, and fear of androgyny than by his insistence that some murky idea of "spirit" must be the focus of paganism, his belief that he is anything more than carnal, anything grander than a meatbag held back by too much wishful thinking. Mind and body are one; "mind" is a function of brain. I see no evidence that there exists anywhere a "spirit" or "soul" or "lifeforce" divided from the flesh. And if the Divine Androgyne exists, then I say it exists most genuinely in temporary corporeal incarnations, not some sterile, intangible abstraction. Okay. Enough ranting for now. Time to stroke the platypus, that fine old androgynous whore.

Dreams this morning that put everything I've ever written to shame, though now only shreds and shards remain. I've been sitting here since...I don't know for sure...10:30 a.m., I suppose. Trying to push it all away. Trying not to remember. Dreamsick. Dazed. Testing this reality, looking for flaws. Though there are never flaws in the dreams, so why should I look for them here?

Yesterday, I wrote 1,598 words on a new sf story for Sirenia Digest #16. The working title is "In View of Nothing," but I think I can do better than that. This is the story I mentioned in the prefacing remarks to Sirenia Digest #15, another go at the white room, the "Laugh Motel," the legless albino. "A Season of Broken Dolls" was a nice try, but it's like looking over my shoulder at the dreams and then only through some distorting filter. Somehow, in "A Season of Broken Dolls," I wrote about the dream without ever actually writing about the dream. Because I do not generally "write out" my dreams. They often have a great influence upon what I write, but I rarely literally write them out (see "Metamorphosis A" for a rare example). That's what I'm trying to do now. So, yesterday I sat and stared at the screen and the keyboard, sipping absinthe and looking for the first few words, which turned out to be:

My breasts ache.

Then it seemed to come with relative ease. But, hours later, when I'd finished the first eight pages and after Spooky read them back to me, none of it felt quite exactly right. Like a word lost on the tip of my tongue. And there is a nagging feeling that I should not be doing this, that this is a sort of exhibitionism that even I would do well to avoid. But I am doing it.

Not much else to be said for yesterday. I thought last night's episode of Battlestar Galactica was brilliant, the best in ages, maybe since the first season. We read more of Mitch Cullin's "A Slight Trick of the Mind" (chapters 13 and 14), and I read Chapter Four of Bones of Contention: Controversies in the Search for Human Origins ("The Taung Child: Acceptance"). Also, I read "Posture and stance of Triceratops: Evidence of digitgrade manus and cantilever vertebral column" (Garstka and Burnham, 1997). I didn't leave the house; I'd rather wait for the warmer weather to return than go back to bundling up for walks. I had a late, rambling conversation with Spooky about the general absence of — and need for — critical thought in Neopaganism and magick. I suspect I have begun making notes for two books that I will never write: The Skeptical Witch and The Rational Witch. And that was yesterday.

These comments yesterday by setsuled:

"I finished reading the new Sirenia Digest last night—I very much enjoyed it. The influence of Bowie's Outside on "A Season of Broken Dolls" is very visible. The voice, and the journal style, reminded me quite a bit of Nathan Adler's diary excerpts included with the album. Though I think your stitch freaks came off more credibly than Bowie's art-crimes—which is not to disparage the Bowie album, which is also my favourite these days.

"As stsisyphus mentioned in his commentary*, you do a good job of rendering the day to day reality of a world after some of the greater ravages of global warming. I was sort of reminded of the new Children of Men movie as both it and 'A Season of Broken Dolls' manage to unobtrusively convey a society wherein everyone's fully aware of the world's end approaching, but everyone still must go on about their business. These layers of credibility serve to heighten the eeriness of the number 17 idea, which is a sort of tugging, peripheral dream intruding frighteningly on reality, as though reality weren't frightening enough.

"I also enjoyed 'Skin Game.' I loved the backstory of the mother—it felt much like a fairy tale gone psycho. Like a morality tale with alien morals."

I have always felt that when writing a first-person narrative from some imagined future date, an author should speak of things as they would perhaps be spoken of by someone native to that time. For example, if I write a story set in 2007, I do not waste a lot of time explaining laptops and the world wide web and the Hubble telescope. While these things might seem extraordinary, unbelievable, or even incomprehensible to a reader from 1923 or 1940, it would be artificial and destroy the realism of the narrative to explain them for 2007 readers. So, if I am writing as a journalist writing in her private journal in 2027, then many things which might now seem fantastic may be mentioned only in passing or in the normal, matter-of-fact way she would speak of them. It does not matter if the reader does not fully understand the details of that 2027. For me, the integrity of the narrative as a fictional artefact is more important, and I also avoid those annoying infodumps so common to sf. More important still, I do not fetishize the future or technology, a mistake I think many sf writers make. Good sf is not about science and tech or future politics, it's about the characters.

* You may read that commentary here.

Mr. Spock and me, we go waaaaay back...

( Mr Spock )

Yesterday, I wrote 1,934 words, which makes yesterday my second-most productive writing day during this forced march to THE END. Not bad, nixar. Now, see if you can't do better today.

I've decided to extend the offer of a FREE signed copy of the trade paperback of Silk to new Sirenia Digest subscribers. The offer is now good until midnight on January 31st, as it seems to be attracting new subscribers, and new subscribers are always welcome. Also, new subscribers need to e-mail Spooky (crk_books(at) yahoo(dot) com) their snail mail addresses. Otherwise, we cannot send the FREE book.

A decent enough Kid Night last night. We rented Terry Jones' mostly marvelous Erik the Viking (1989) from Movies Worth Seeing (where it seemed I'd not been in ages). I'd seen the film two or three times, but Spooky hadn't, and I have a soft space for it in my heart. Sadly, Sony canceled the DVD release last year, so we had to go with VHS (pan and scan, urgh) and chase the spiders out of the VCR. Very quaint. Anyway, I'd not realised until last night that Jim Broadbent has a cameo/bit part at the very beginning, when Erik is "raping" Helga. It's a very funny movie, except when it isn't, and that's about the best I can ask of anything these days. Then I played a couple hours worth of Final Fantasy XII, at last managing to escape the Draklor Laboratory in Archades and defeat Cid and his four little robot thingies. Afterwards, we went to bed, and I read Sonya's new story for Sirenia Digest #14 — "A Voice in Caves" — which has turned out to be a very nice counterpoint to my own "The Sphinx's Kiss." For those of you who've been wanting to see more gay male fiction in the digest, this issue's for you. Later still, Spooky made me cocoa. It was after three a.m. (CaST) before I found sleep.

Oh, and yes, as implied above, I did leave the house yesterday, for a full hour or so. I have become quite intrepid.

I see there will be a new VNV Nation disc — Judgment — out on March 7th. Good news I needed.

—————

Honestly, I'm seeing very little in the way of negative criticism regarding Daughter of Hounds. Though I have noticed a few complaints about there being too much dialog (???) and too many "dream sequences." The latter complaint, which I should add my agent has also voiced, follows in part, I think, from a misunderstanding of the nature of "reality" in much of what I write. There are a few genuine dream sequences in Daughter of Hounds, but a lot of what I think some people are reading as dreams were intended as something else. They may appear dreamlike, but only because certain consensus assumptions are held so dear about "waking reality." At any rate, I find both these criticisms rather specious and am paying them little heed.

—————

I have spent almost my whole life living inbetween. It's what I do, mostly, existing in transitional zones and connecting hallways. But lately (meaning since sometime in 2002), I have been struggling with a new sort of inbetween, which has placed me in an especially deep conflict with myself. A tug-of-war between the old rational me and an unexpected me bent upon seeking out and understanding magick (here defined as "the willful invocation of awe," though other definitions may be pending), even when it threatens my comfortably mechanistic worldview. It feels at times as though I am being torn in two, and I know how that feels, having been divided more than once already. Mostly, though, the division does not occur. And neither side gains any ground. So I live uneasily inbetween, like some Matthew Arnold cosmology. Too mystical for the scientists, too skeptical for the witches and magickians. At this point, I would prefer to either move forward or go back. In or out. Shit or get off the pot, as Byron would say. Sometimes, I seem to be waiting on something, something which often seems very near, and other times I seem merely indecisive. Except...decision and resolve are both useless here, or nearly so. I cannot will myself into belief or faith. As Anne Sexton said, "Need is not quite belief." Oh, I have need aplenty, but, for me, belief comes only from experience. And, thus far, my experiences leave me neither here nor there. They leave me undecided and still asking questions.

It's like a season that breeds neither snow nor green grass, neither rain nor drought, but only despair. I know that simple despair is no longer fashionable, but then neither am I.

I did have this thought two nights ago, and it seemed important: One must not be skeptical merely for the sake of skepticism. It is not an end unto itself. Critical thought should have the intent of bringing one nearer truth (even if Truth is ultimately unobtainable). It is not the goal of critical thought to tear down, but to build up, to let in the light, to sweep aside ignorance and superstition and fear.

These thoughts are ill-formed and poorly expressed, and I apologise for my inability to articulate.

—————

The platypus says enough's enough. Them words ain't gonna write themselves.

Yesterday was, by my usual standards and even by the skewed standards of this 1,500 words/day forced march, a good writing day. Which is not to say that I wrote well, only that I wrote plentifully. 2,122 words. Which makes it my most prolific writing day in January thus far. I know there are writers on my f-list who write this much or more every day, but frankly, if you told me I had to write 2,000 words/day, I'd drink the purple Kool-Aid.

After the writing, I collapsed onto the sofa in a useless great lump while Spooky made dinner, which was one of her very fine homemade pizzas with basil and red peppers and such. Waiting for food, I watched something astronomical on the National Geographic Channel. I pondered Triton and a world of frozen nitrogen, methane, hydrogen, and so forth. I do not ponder Triton often enough, bewitched as I am by Mars and Europa and Titan. After dinner, we watched a new ep of Mythbusters. Then I went back to work and spent an hour and a half contemplating Stories to Come. This is not how I usually work, and it irks me somewhat to be planning stories I will not write for a great while, and I know they're just gonna change anyway, but my bloated schedule has made this inconvenient forethought necessary. Spooky helped and kept me focused and awake. Sometimes she has all the good ideas, and I just want her to be the one who has to sit down at the iBook every day and Make Shit Up. But then who would make the dolls? Not me, that's who. About 10:30 p.m. CaST I decided enough was enough for one day and went back to the television for a couple of hours of Final Fantasy XII. Having finally reached Archades, I am now trapped in the bowels of the Draklor Laboratory, throwing switches, red and blue, blue and red, fighting soldiers of the Empire, trying to find that inevitable Cid son of a chocobo. Who knows how long that will go on. And later still, after the "Revenge of Bride of Nite Science" post (LJ only), I brushed my teeth and read some of the author's commentary in The Fantastic Art of Jacek Yerka (2000), as translated by Anna Lukaszuk and gifted to me by the "kindly but anonymous ichthyologist." That was yesterday.

If you have not yet ordered Daughter of Hounds, or have purchased just one copy, or just two, I remind you that it's not to late to make amends.

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Sirenia Digest #14 will be along shortly. At this point, I'm only waiting for sovay's piece, which has been giving her some difficulty. I have Vince's art. And as I've noticed a number of new people are reading the LJ (and MySpace, for that matter), I shall remind all that you may get the digest for a mere $10/month, a bargain at twice that price. New fiction every damn month, sometimes weirdly erotic, or erotically weird, and sometimes just weird. These days, almost all my short fiction is being written for the digest. The platypus implores you to give it a try. Just follow the above link, read the FAQ, subscribe. Easy as pie (whatever that means). Also, subscribe before midnight on Sunday, and I'll send you a free signed copy of the trade paperback edition of Silk.

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Late last night, wolven asked:

You reference your dreamsickness, often; is this meant as a phenomenon similar to homesickness? The reluctance to travel back to the waking? This is the sense that I get from it, but, not being able to find a direct explication, I worry that i'm just imposing my influences on your experiences.

Usually, when I say dreamsick, I am referring to a frequent inability upon "waking" to completely disengage from that dreaming "reality" and reintegrate with this waking "reality." I am left neither here nor there. Sometimes, the dreams continue to seem more real than those things vying for my waking mind. Sometimes, both states seem equally unreal/real. I use the word sick because there are actual physical symptoms which accompany this phenomenon, and they are generally unpleasant. I suspect that this follows, at least in part, from the fact that I am almost entirely incapable of that thing called "lucid" dreaming. My dreams seem as real as anything else, and while they are occurring I never suspect them of being subconscious figments of a sleeping mind. Add to this that I have extremely vivid dreams, which I can usually recall in great detail. It all means that waking can be quite jarring — violent, even — and fully waking may requre hours. As for equating it with homesickness, well, there have been dreams I've wished I could return to, remain in, whatever. There have been those terrible urgencies upon waking, the conviction that I must somehow get back "there." But no, generally, when I say dreamsickness I am not referring to something which resembles homesickness.

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A number of people have wondered aloud why I would feel the need for a magick/neopaganism filter, or they have expressed dismay that I would willingly censor myself in this journal. To which I can only reply, bills must be paid, rent must be covered, etc., and the primary reason this journal exists is to promote the writing by which I make my living. So, while I try my best to "be me" here, I do also try not to offend or annoy more people than absolutely necessary. Because it's more important that the books sell than that I wank off on LJ about Wicca or the problems I have with "magical thinking" or how I really wish when people say they practice a "Nature" religion they meant a Nature religion and not just another variety of anthropocentrism. That sort of thing. Also, there are people who will decide, upon hearing that this Caitlín R. Kiernan person calls herself a witch, that they are better off reading someone who is merely an atheist or an Xtian or a Jew or maybe someone who has the presence of mind not to talk about religion publicly. And no, I am not better off, as a writer and someone with considerable living expenses, without those people. I do not wish to alienate readers I can avoid alienating. This is why I now so rarely talk politics here. It's grief that I don't need. That said, I shall likely continue on the present course, filterless, unfiltered, speaking of these occult matters from time to time, as it seems important that I do so. Clearly, a lot of you are interested, but not so many as to call for the setting up of a filter. And, as I have said, I don't have time to segregate that material into separate entries, anyway.

I shake
And stare at the watery moon
With the same desire
As the sober Philistine.
And I shake
(Turn and turn again)
Worm, the pain and blade
Turn and turn again. — David Bowie

(You get the gist of the song now?) — Poe

Some days just bring a veritable cornucopia of wonders. Today, for example.

My thanks to everyone who sent me links to the Japanese video clips of the frilled shark(Chlamydoselachus anguineus) that strayed into shallow water before dying. Often cited as an example of a "living fossil," I have been fascinated with these beautiful creatures, and this video clip is amazing. Chlamydoselachid sharks extend back to the Late Cretaceous, at least, and the new film certainly conjures images of primordial sea "monsters." One of the coolest things I've seen in years. Click here for the story and video at CNN.com. By the way, until this sighting, this subspecies of Chlamydoselachus anguineus was feared extinct.

Thanks to sovay for pointing me towards an announcement of what may be the earliest known ancestor of living primates yet discovered, Dryomomys szalayi, dating back to the Late Paleocene Epoch (56 mya). The fossils were recovered near Yellowstone Park in Wyoming. Just don't tell the creationists.

Thanks to Spooky (humglum) for telling me about a new mid-Pleistocene (800-200 thousand ybp) cave fauna from southern Australia's Nullarbor plain. The fauna includes "23 species of kangaroo, eight of which had never been identified before. Two of the species were tree kangaroos which had adapted to living in branches. Other animals were several species of wallaby, a range of lizards including a large species called the King's skink (Egernia kingii), a carnivorous marsupial called the mulgara, which was related to the endangered Tasmanian devil, and two parrots."

Okay. Bedtime for nixars...

If I was not on an even keel yesterday morning, then today I am capsized, I suppose. Too dreamsick, too tired, too cold, too weary of waking. I slept too late this morning, so I'm about an hour behind. I'm sleeping too much lately. Too much and yet still somehow not enough. I seem to drift off whenever and wherever I allow myself to be still for four or five minutes at a time.

Work yesterday, work that had to be done, but no writing. Just a W. Nothing worth recording here, except that I did finally manage to wring what I needed from the Great Confusion of Photoshop.

The weather remains cold and dreary, and if the meteorologists are correct, will remain so on past Imbolc. So there's really no reason to continue commenting upon it. The Future Me reading this may rest assured that I have not neglected Mr. Hemingway's wise suggestion by neglecting the weather. I have already noted the weather, repeatedly, and will do so again when it ever does something different.

Still undecided re: the magick/neopaganism filter. Not quite forty people expressed an interest in being included, but that's still a very small fraction of the journal's readers. Which might mean that it's best to avoid these subjects altogether, especially given that my entries are rarely ever focused on a single subject, making filters impratical.

Last night, we watched John Ford's adaptation of Richard Llewellyn's How Green Was My Valley (1941), as Spooky had never seen it and it's a film which I very much adore. We read some on trance states and scrying.

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The white room with flickering fluorescent bulbs. The book of seemingly identical photographs lying open on damp sheets. The photographs are numbered beginning with 0001. And beside each number there are clusters of upraised dimples which I take to be Braille. Marlene Dietrich singing "I May Never Go Home Anymore." Scratchy vinyl. The sound of rain at the windows. The albino woman talking on the black Bakelite telephone.

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Atqui nunc certe vigilantibus oculis intueor hanc chartam, non sopitum est hoc caput quod commoveo, manum istam prudens & sciens extendo & sentio; non tam distincta contingerent dormienti. Quasi scilicet non recorder a similibus etiam cogitationibus me aliàs in somnis fuisse delusum; quae dum cogito attentius, tam plane video nunquam certis indiciis vigiliam a somno posse distingui, ut obstupescam, & fere hic ipse stupor mihi opinionem somni confirmet.

At the present moment, however, I certainly look upon this paper with eyes wide awake; the head which I now move is not asleep; I extend this hand consciously and with express purpose, and I perceive it; the occurrences in sleep are not so distinct as all this. But I cannot forget that, at other times I have been deceived in sleep by similar illusions; and, attentively considering those cases, I perceive so clearly that there exist no certain marks by which the state of waking can ever be distinguished from sleep, that I feel greatly astonished; and in amazement I almost persuade myself that I am now dreaming.

— René Descartes

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It's getting late, and today I have to write. If you've not yet picked up a copy of Daughter of Hounds, I would be thankful if you'd please do so. I promise it makes a great deal more sense than this blog entry.

This morning I'm not exactly on what I believe is commonly referred to as an even keel. I hope that this changes in the next hour or so.

I just saw the Oscar nominations. I'm an Oscar geek from way back, and a forgiving sort of "soul," but I think maybe this is the year I've finally had it with the awards. I shall not get into particulars. Maybe later. I suspect this is merely one aspect of my growing disdain for popularity contests of all sorts. I shall, instead, reflect upon the percentage of Oscars that wind up in thrift stores, antique shops, at yard sales, hidden away in attics, sold on eBay, & etc. & etc., and let it go at that.

Yesterday was an unexpected sort of mess. Nothing I was supposed to get done actually got done. Not a bit of eBay. A lot of time was wasted on Photoshop, but that also came to little or nothing. Then my agent called about three p.m. or so, and we talked for almost an hour. That was the best part of the workday. Making concrete plans for What Happens Next, what the Next Thing will be, and the Thing After That. It was an encouraging sort of conversation. Ultimately, it means more work, but what else would I do with this life? At four fifteen or so, I called it a day and fucked off to the cinema to catch a matinee.

And it is a testament to the genius of Guillermo del Toro that I managed to love Pan's Labyrinth despite the fact that the air temperature in the theatre must have been hovering somewhere just above freezing. Fortunately, I had my gloves, though it was very annoying the way my glasses kept fogging up. Oh, and we also had to endure the atrocious yodeling agony of the Dreamgirls soundtrack for the half hour we sat in the icebox before the film began, and still it was worth it.

Pan's Labyrinth is an amazing film, and if you have not already seen it, I urge you to do so. I kept thinking about Algernon Blackwood. Only Blackwood would likely have pulled a lot of those punches. I should have more to say, but I think my head's still too full of the wonders. Something that comes this close to perfection, it speaks for itself.

Back home, I tuned in for the new episode of Heroes. I'm still fence-sitting on whether or not this series is actually Very Good or merely Sort of Interesting. But last night there was Christopher Eccleston, so what the hell. And then, a few minutes past midnight I went back to work, and an hour later, Photoshop still had the last laugh, and all I had was a bloody nose and clenched fists. I would do better to get back to the 1,500 words a day, back to the writing. Still, at least yesterday earned a W. It might have earned an L, which would have been a shame after the first twenty days of January.

I'm considering setting up a magick/neopaganism filter. If you want in, speak up. However, it's not a done deal. I might change my mind. So rarely do I ever write an entry that's devoted to less than a half dozen things, I can't really see how a filter's gonna help. If only there were LJ tags that allowed you to filter parts of any given entry, that would be far more amenable to my present needs. We shall see. Time to make the goddamn doughnuts.

Yesterday was not so bad as days off go. Not so good, either. Just a day off. I might have had a good walk, except for the constant rain and the cold weather. We spent most of the day finishing Ironweed, which is at least as fine as I had remembered it being. Later, I collapsed in front of the television and watched. The new episode of Battlestar Galactica was nice. I felt it was losing steam for a while there, but it seems to have found its footing again. Saw the first ep of The Dresden Files, for which I'd had no expectations, and found it was actually pretty good, in a Joss Whedon/Hellblazer rip-off kind of way.It could have potential, if SciFi gives it a chance to grow. These days, few things or people get a chance to grow. We are all expected to hit the ground running, hot shit from day one, blockbuster or nothing.

Today, the weather remains bleak. At least the sun will be back tomorrow, even if the cold temps are gonna stick around.

I erred yesterday when I listed Tales from the Woeful Platypus as one of the books included in the subpress benefit 25%-off sale. For this I apologize.

Also, as long as I'm correcting myself, I said something here a few days back, probably in the comments section, to the effect that "Twelve Nights After" had not appeared on "Three Regrets and a Curse," the Death's Little Sister cassette from 1996. Wrong. I don't know what's up with my memory these days. "Twelve Nights After" did, in fact, appear on the tape.

Here's a new update on Daughter of Hounds (order now!!) from one Barnes and Noble in the Midwest, courtesy corucia:

I was back at the Barnes & Noble I mentioned previously, and did a quick survey for CRK books. The main science fiction section had been restocked; it still has DoH face-out, with two copies, and also had two copies of Threshold (I purchased the last one they had last week). The DoH display on the New Paperbacks table by the door was gone. However, you have a fan on staff at this B&N, as DoH was one of the two dozen 'Staff Picks' books - they're all set face-out on an aisle end a few rows in from the main entrance. So, all in all, still a good showing at this B&N.

I can only hope similar scenarios are being played out across the country. Oh, and this just in from my editor at Penguin: More great news! Daughter of Hounds is still riding high at #32 on the [B&N] SF/F trade list.

Only nine days remaining until Imbolc. Even if it's only a symbolic heralding of spring (which might yet be a month or two away), it's better than nothing. Better than January. Lately, my thoughts are much occupied with magick, dreams, a personal inability to establish or define a reference point for Reality, and the primacy of Nature. I need to push away this stagnation. I need to push away. I realized last night that I've stopped talking about magick and neopaganism in the journal. That might be for the best.

Anyway, time to start this day. Back to work, though not yet back to writing. Other writing-related things must be attended to this day. Which means I get to wrestle with eBay and PhotoShop for the next few hours. Yippee.

Proceeding as it did from the dreams, yesterday was a Very Bad Day during which nothing was written or edited or even planned. Virtually nothing of note was accomplished. Yesterday got an L in my day planner, whether it earned one or not. The dreams this morning were almost as bad, or as good, depending upon one's frame of reference and desires. Safer to say, the dreams this morning were as segregated from this waking life and as possessed of their own integrity. I need to have the Ambien refilled. At least the Ambien makes it hard for me to remember the dreams.

I cannot afford to lose even one more day over the next two and a half months.

Push it away. Push it all away.

I did get this comment, from shadowmeursault, in response to yesterday's entry, which I thought contained some good questions, so I'm quoting it here:

do you know the "answers" to your own mysteries? do you ever feel the need to justify a suspension of disbelief, even to yourself? or are you content to leave your mysteries as mysteries, even to your own mind? an example being the hemispherical world in Murder of Angels. do you, as its creator, know all of its nuances, or are you content with the little mysteries it gives you?

I cannot think of a single example of me knowing anything much more than what has been revealed in the stories themselves. Which is to say, I'm not holding out. Sometimes, I've sort of felt like reviewers and readers suspected that I was...holding out. But I'm not. If it's not there on the page, I likely am as much in the dark as you. I only find the answers I find as I write. There are very few exceptions. For example, I only learned about the connection between Dancy Flammarion and Spyder Baxter, and the connection between the Weaver and Dancy's "angel," as I was writing "Bainbridge" last December and January. Of course, I still don't know if Spyder's father was "only" schizophrenic, or if Dancy's mother was only "schizophrenic." When these questions are left unanswered, I'm not being dishonest with the reader. I simply never found the answers myself. Usually, that's because I preferred to leave the questions unanswered in my own mind. Maybe someday I'll draw a map of the hemispherical world, but I have not yet. Mostly, it's a big blank for me. The mysteries mean more to me than the possible solutions. I'll take a really good question, filled with endless possibility, over a sterile concrete answer any day of the week.

On that note, while the mini-series was mediocre overall, I was impressed and pleased that so much ambiguity was allowed to persist at the conclusion of The Lost Room. I kept expecting some hackneyed explanation: the Occupant must have had dealings with the Roswell aliens; or Room 10 was the result of a Cold war experiment; or the Objects were the components of a time machine which had crashed in Gallup, New Mexico on May 4th, 1961. But no. We were allowed to keep the mystery. For that alone, The Lost Room is to be commended. I kept wishing that it could have been just a little smarter, just a little less TV, but at least it was halfway decent TV. Which is fortu