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

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

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

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

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

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

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

( Animal Ghosts )

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

I have spent the past three days trying to write. Nothing has been written. I think what really amazes me , considering how much I write, is that this doesn't happen more often. Days like yesterday, everything seems kinder than trying to pull more words from my skull. A razor blade, an office job, a hungry jaguar...anything but the blank "page." Yesterday, I finally resorted to washing dishes and cleaning the house, because it was better than sitting here staring at the screen, waiting. It is more than frustrating, and also more than inconvenient — given all the deadlines and bills and such — it is infuriating. There's this thing I know how to do, only sometimes I just can't do it. And I never, ever know when these empty times will come.

By contrast, Spooky has been barreling through the edits to the typescript for the new edition of Tales of Pain and Wonder, Yesterday, she did "Rats Live on No Evil Star," "Salmagundi," and "In the Water Works (Birmingham, Alabama 1888)."

And here we are, somehow, at mid-September, which is when I promised producer D that I would resume work on the screenplay for "Onion."

And Joey Lafaye is due in April, and I have not even started it.

I am grateful to everyone who has taken the time to submit a suggestion for Sirenia Digest #22. Last count, there were suggestions from 26 people. Some are actually very, very good. I'm still uncertain whether or not I'll be using one of them this month, but if I don't, I'll likely use one next month.

As for yesterday, other than not being able to write, it wasn't so bad. The remnants of Hurricane Humberto passed through Atlanta yesterday. The mail brought the latest Journal of Vertebrate Paleontology, which includes type descriptions for two new dinosaurs, the abelisauroid theropod Berberosaurus and the neoceratopsian Cerasinops. Byron showed up about six thirty, and we had dinner at the Vortex at L5P, then watched Doctor Who ("Blink" may well be the best episode I've seen so far). Afterwards, on a whim, the three of us went to the 9:45 p.m. screening of King of Kong: Fistful of Quarters at Midtown, and it was a blast. So, while the first half of the day was awful, the second half did a good job of making up for it.

No need for the venomous spurs, platypus. I'm coming....

So, this morning I'm reading an article online about the recent escalation of violent crime in many US cities, and there's this sentence here: After a night of dancing, Chiara Levin was shot in the head by a stray bullet from a gunfight as she sat in a Cadillac sport utility vehicle. Hours later she was dead. And all I can think is why the fuck are we being told what kind of car she was sitting in, what difference does it make in this chain of events, how is it possibly relevant to the story? Would her death have been perceived as less tragic, somehow, if she'd been sitting in a rusted out old Honda instead of a "Cadillac sport utility vehicle." Is this just another example of me not groking humanity, or is it me not understanding the peculiarities of journalism? Or is America now so status symbol/class conscious that the goddamn Caddy SUV is actually a point of interest for readers? It strikes me somehow deeply perverse, this specificity. It strikes me odd.

But then most things strike me odd.

I hate how May is fading so fast. I've hardly had a chance to notice it, and here June is almost upon us. My stupid birthday is almost upon me. Another year come and gone so fast it makes me dizzy.

---

The sun will rise soon, and I have not walked one step this entire night. I woke at twilight from a dream, a most terrible dream, and I have sat here all night, watching the moon in the river. It seems I have almost forgotten my reason for entering the bleak, accursed land, my purpose for leaving Lórien and Inwë, even my reason for taking up sword and shield those many long years ago. The dream has all but stricken me dumb, and should my pursuer or some wild beast have come upon me in the night, I fear it or he might have taken me with little struggle on my part. Here I have lost an entire night's travel, and I shall have to decide now whether or not to press on northwards through the heat of the day. I dreamt of a sky gone black with Crebain, as though the shadow of Sauron had returned again to haunt Mordor. And I sat here beside the Caranduin and knew that I was being watched. And then time seemed to slip quickly past me, not so differently from the waters of the river flowing down to the Núrnen, and I heard the noise of great battle and many men and elves dying and the sundering of blades, the smote and ruin of bone and flesh and steel. And I knew then that a new shadow had arisen in the west. And somehow — and I can only just bear to write this part down — I had forsaken my quest and all that which I hold dear in this world and become its lieutenant. The crows laughed my name upon the wind, and I rode a black steed of my own. I watched from the towers of Seregost as setsuled Kinslayer reforged dark alliances and built a fresh army of men and orcs to march, and in my heart I felt only gladness at the sight. Oh, Inwë, I felt his hands upon me. And I awoke screaming. It must be the unspeakable foul taint that remains upon this place, in the soil and water and upon the very breeze, has poisoned my mind and planted these visions there. This is what I tell myself, and yet I was unable to move and sat shivering while the moon crossed the sky. I do not know that I have ever felt so lost. I should not have been chosen...*

---

A decent walk yesterday, after another day of trying to write and not writing. I have spoken with my lit agent this morning, because it's good to be able to tell someone Outside when things have gone astray. Last night, we watched an episode of Nature about the various diverse ecosystems found along the Andes from Cape Horn north to the headwaters of the Amazon, and then we watched Steven Shainberg's Fur: An Imaginary Portrait of Diane Arbus (2006). What a beautiful, brilliant film, a modern fairy tale that's equal parts Angela Carter and Lewis Carroll. I cannot believe it hasn't received more attention. I now have to say that there were four perfect films last year, and Fur takes its place alongside Children of Men, The Fountain, and Pan's Labyrinth. Nicole Kidman delivers one of her best performances, and Robert Downey, Jr. is so marvelously understated. I very strongly. strongly recommend this film, if you are the sort who looks at what most of the world deems grotesque and sees there beauty. I loved it.

Anyway, I must try to make something good and productive of this day, and try to redeem myself for having somehow managed to squander the last five.

* Is it possible that Setsuled and I have created some weird new species of tag-team fanfic? Oh course, MySpace readers have only been getting half of this. They may read the other half here.

Nothing was written yesterday. Or the day before. No writing now since April 6th, and nothing of significance has been written since March 12th, more than a month ago. This is not the first time, but I cannot clearly recall the last time.

My thanks to Matt Winser of West Sussex, England for the very wonderful package, which I received a few days ago. I am especially delighted with the boucedy octopus ball. Very soon, I shall need a new and larger shelf to contain my Cephalopod Shrine. Also, belated wishes for a happy birthday to setsuled.

There is very little to report. I have sat here for days, not writing, and the less said about that, the better. We did have a decent walk yesterday, despite the fog and misting rain and temperatures hovering in the high fifties. There's sun today, but the sky is that shade of blue and the wind's gusting to 30 mph, so the thermometer says it's 71F, but to me it feels a good ten degrees cooler.

Night before last we watched Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan, which was quiet deliriously marvelous. Watching Sacha Baron Cohen is like seeing Groucho, Chico, and Harpo Marx somehow rolled all into one person. Last night, we finished reading Lemony Snicket's The Wide Window. I'm still reading Steven Bach's Final Cut: Dreams and Disaster in the Making of Heaven's Gate (1985). I've been listening online to samples from Judgement, the new VNV Nation album, and I like what I hear. Spooky's very taken with the new Nick Cave project, Grinderman, though I've yet to sit down and listen to it for myself. I have been listening to the new NIN, Year Zero, and the "trailer" for the new album is honestly one of the creepiest things I've seen in ages.

Also, I spent some time yesterday trying to make my MySpace page just a bit less ugly and uploading a few new photos to my MySpace pics (some of which previously appeared here). Have a look. "Friend" me, and I'll exchange the favour. I just wish I could turn off all those hideous gorramn ads. I don't know how people look the other way.

And Kurt Vonnegut is dead. He's one of those writers who's had such a profound effect upon my own writing that it's hard to measure in any meaningful way. Of his novels, my favourites are Slaughterhouse-Five (1969), Mother Night (1961), Cat's Cradle (1963), and Breakfast of Champions (1973). I know that Vonnegut himself was not particularly pleased with Breakfast of Champions, but Kilgore Trout will always have a place in my heart, "wide-open beavers" and all. Everyone's been posting Vonnegut quotes. Choosing the Vonnegut quote of which I am most fond is an impossibility, but I am terribly fond of this one:

I am, incidentally, Honorary President of the American Humanist Association, having succeeded the late, great science fiction writer Isaac Asimov in that totally functionless capacity. We had a memorial service for Isaac a few years back, and I spoke and said at one point, "Isaac is up in heaven now." It was the funniest thing I could have said to an audience of humanists. I rolled them in the aisles. It was several minutes before order could be restored. And if I should ever die, God forbid, I hope you will say, "Kurt is up in heaven now." That's my favorite joke.

Perhaps I'll take down Welcome to the Monkey House (1968) and revisit some of his short fiction. Maybe I'll even reread Breakfast of Champions and Mother Night and Slaughterhouse-Five. Good-bye, Mr. Vonnegut. You did good.

But, there is some good news, as well. My thanks to Amanda Downum for the word that Swan Point Cemetery in Providence has planted a new tree to replace the lost Lovecraft Tree (see my entries of 8/20/06 and 9/5/06 for my reports on the death of the Lovecraft Tree). The best news is that part of the original tree is being grafted onto the new one, which pleases me greatly. There are two photos behind the cut (which I hope she does not mind me reposting here):

( filling in the tree-shaped hole )

So turn not pale beloved snail, for seventy or a hundred years from now, the tree lost in the storm will have been replaced. And in closing, here's an interesting tidbit, suggesting that early microbes may have used compounds other than chlorophyll, such as retinal, to achieve photosynthesis. Hence, the green Earth of today might once have had a distinctly purple hue.

Postscript (12:06 a.m. the next morning): Spooky now has a MySpace page! Friend her! The power of the squid compels you!

Cause and effect. I was still up and online at 3 a.m., trying to figure out if King Kong is in the public domain, both the 1933 film and the basic scenario. That's cause. The effect is that I did not wake until 11 a.m. and am now very behind. But I believe that I managed to answer the question about Kong, via the case of Universal City Studios, Inc. v. Nintendo Co., Ltd. I am amused that first Universal argued that King Kong was public domain (Universal City Studios, Inc. v. RKO General Inc.) in order that De Laurentis could film his 1976 turkey of a remake, then turned around and argued the opposite to try and stop Nintendo from marketing Donkey Kong.

Anyway, the reason I was pondering this problem at 3 a.m. was that a story idea has occurred to me, a revisionist take on the story in which Ann Darrow is not rescued and remains on the island, though Kong has died. It might be something for Sirenia Digest 17, or maybe 18. I do not yet know.

The reason King Kong was on my mind in the first place was that last night we finally watched the extended version (and deleted scenes) of Peter Jackson's 2005 remake. The extended cut, 13 minutes longer than the theatrical release, is a much smoother film, the Skull Island portion of the story not so choppy and the series of events more comprehensible. Also, we get to see the search party attacked by a charging Ferrucutus cerastes (one of Skull Island's fictional Cenozoic ceratopsian dinosaurs), as well the deleted raft scene in which Driscoll and Co. battle first a hoard of "scorpio-pedes" (Nepapede harpagabdominus) and then an enormous predatory fish, Piranhadon titanus, and we also get a brief encounter with an unfortunate Brutornis (one of the island's fictional giant flightless birds).

We had a good walk yesterday, just before the storms began (heralding a spell of cooler weather). We headed down Sinclair and talked with Daisy the Dog and petted her, and then Spooky placed a four-leaf clover on the head of the Dinosaur of Sinclair Avenue. Shortly thereafter, though, I smacked my head on a dogwood limb and we found a dead brown snake in someone's driveway. Spooky moved it into the grass, and we both got kind of sad, wondering what's become of Drinker in a world where small snakes don't just have to worry about their natural predators, but also domestic cats, leaf blowers, and automobile tires.

I must go write. I've written nothing since March 28th, when I did a measly 575 words on an aborted beginning for The Dinosaurs of Mars, and nothing of consequence since March 12th, when I finished "In View of Nothing" for Sirenia Digest 16. Well, I did write the article for Locus on the 14th, but I'm not sure I should count that. First we had to proofread Silk, which we didn't finish until the 22nd, and then the iBook trouble began on the 29th, precipitating the Coming of the Unnamed iMac and all the distractions that has entailed. Between one thing and another, and with the help of a couple of bad days and Procrastination (one of the Nine Seven Deadly Sins of Writing, you'll recall)...well, that's how it's gotten to be April 4th with nothing of consequence written since mid-March. But it has to stop today. I have to deal with the digest, write a new short story for an upcoming anthology, and get to The Dinosaurs of Mars. And take time for Alabama Bound and then the Frank Woodward documentary at the end of the month. Argh. The platypus says stop typing and start writing, and I must heed hisherits demands forthwith.

It's very hot here, and we need rain. The grass in the park is turning brown and dying. It's crunchy when you walk on it. There may be storms tomorrow, which would be nice. Today, I wish I believed in a universe which listens, in a universe which is sentient and caring and shows petty favouritism to those who praise and flatter it. Then I could...what's the word?...pray. Yes, I could pray for a little rain. But I like to think I know better. It'll rain when it rains. And all the prayers and charms and incantations and positive thoughts and superstition in the world shall make no difference whatsoever.

I think I'm sick from too much writing. And I think I'm sick from not writing nearly enough the last week or so. Particles and waves. Paradox is integral.

Mostly, I think I'm sick from not being able to take the long, long break I realised I needed way back in June 2004.

There were no words on Friday. I sat here all day and stared at the iBook, and no words came. Yesterday, there were words and a very brief hope that I'd found the next vignette. I began something called "Fish Wife," but 1,012 words in, it told me it was a short story, not a vignette, and that it would not be perverted into something it was never meant to be. Which is to say, yes, I wrote yesterday, but what I wrote was of no particular help whatsoever. Which puts me back where I began. 27...no, 28 ideas presently unavailable. Think of something else. Think of something else. Now.

Set me aflame and cast me free,
Away, you wretched world of tethers...

I stopped writing about 3 p.m., because the Apple Store called to say that Spooky's iBook was back from repairs in Memphis. So, we drove in the light and the heat (98F) up Piedmont to Peachtree to Lenox. The Apple Store was grotesquely crowded, and I realised that I have so removed myself from what is human that humans no longer seem human to me. Especially when I have to deal with them in very large numbers. No malls for me, please. Anyway, we made it back home by about 5, and now Spooky's iBook works again. Also, the Wikipedia article I wrote last week, on Wednesday, the article on Europsaurus which I felt guilty for writing when I should have been writing fiction, was selected yesterday for the "Did You Know?" section of the front page. And that was cool. But it still doesn't make writing about new macronarian sauropods anything like work. Which is a shame, not unlike my inability to believe in a caring universe, but there you go. Last night, too worn out from the writing and the heat to read, we made a dubious double-feature of Deepstar Six (1989) and Leviathan (also 1989). The former wasn't as good as I remembered, and the latter was very slightly better than I recalled. Both are shameless retreads of Alien and John Carpenter's The Thing. And, unlike Alien and The Thing, both only bother to make sense when it suits them, which isn't very often. That was yesterday, sun-drenched and wasted.

But at least Spooky has her iBook back. That's something.

There was a cloud a moment ago...