And yesterday was the sort of "day off" that I dread, the usual sort. Truthfully, I should have had the good sense to leave the house, go to Fernbank or the Zoo in Grant Park or maybe the Botanical Gardens...anywhere. In fact, I didn't step outside the house all damn day. I thought I had a plan, but it spiraled into something else, which, as I have said, is the usual way of things. I could neither rest nor keep my mind occupied, and the frustration mounted, the frustration and the boredom.

High points of yesterday: I read Chapter 9 of Chris Beard's book on anthropoid origins (Chapter 9, "Resurrecting the Ghost"). The chapter was mainly concerned with Beard's fieldwork in the Eocene beds along the banks of China's Yellow River (Huáng Hé), between 1994-1997, before the strata were flooded by construction of one of the nation's many idiotically short-sighted hydroelectric dam projects. I packed only two boxes.

And speaking of the packing of the second box, I shall now offer another unsolicited testimony to the durability of Apple computers. Somehow, I tangled my ankle in the power cord of my seven-year-old iBook last night, pulled it off the desk, and it fell three feet to a hardwood floor. And besides a bent jack on the yo-yo power adapter thingy — which is not truly a part of the actual computer — no apparent damage was done. It's only my secondary computer at this point, as I now work on the iMac, but it was still a moment of sheer fucking horror, watching it crash to the floor. I assumed the worst. I was amazed. Thank you, Apple.

Oh, but that was not a high point. Uhm. There must have been others. We watched two more episodes from Season One of Millennium ("Powers, Principalities, Thrones and Dominions" and "Broken World"). I built a sort of homage to Dr. Suess' McElligot's Pool behind my Abney Park Laboratory (in Second Life). To quote the message I posted to the New Babbage forum (written, of course, as Prof. Nishi):

"The Abney Park Well:

While trying to recalibrate a portion of the lateral array of my temporal-spatial teleportation beam, I confess that I accidentally confused the X and Z axes, and, thereby, vaporized a vertical shaft of masonry and bedrock just behind the laboratory. The width of the vacated area is approximately 4.2 metres in diameter, with a depth of some 100 metres. The accident has unexpectedly tapped into some subterranean extension of the Mare Verne, creating an Artesian well (though the salinity of the water renders it unpotable). However, initial investigations indicate that the pool is inhabited by a number of species of marine life, including fish of various sorts. All those curious are invited to visit the pool (which, for the sake of public safety, I have walled in) and fish there. I have named the pool in honour of that great, lately deceased New Babbage ichthyologist, Dr. Theodor Geisel McElligot. No swimming, please. Study of this new hydrological feature will continue..."

Spooky (Artemisia) did most of the actual work. I did the design. And yes, you can really fish there, and really catch fish. I also made a few new LJ icons, inspired by what I'd written about Panthalassa yesterday. The one that I'm using today is, of course, a view of North America during the Late Creaceous, with the Mississippi Embayment and the Western Interior Seaway very prominent. I also did one of Pangaea, and one of a Tyrannosaurus rex, and a William Stout painting of a trilobite. I did a little work on the Palaeozoic Museum in New Babbage, adding another of Benjamin Waterhouse Hawkins paintings and two lithographs of Archaeopteryx. That was the best of yesterday.

Today, we make corrections to the manuscript of A is for Alien, which came back to me from sovay and Massachusetts on Friday.

And here, a mere 21 days remain until Birthday No. -04. Shudder. Belatedly, I'm taking a cue from docbrite and faustfatale, and declaring the whole month of May to be my Royal Birthday Month. So, if you are given to such things, here's my Amazon wish list. Thank you. You wouldn't think a world could get this much more messed up in only -04 years, but you'd be wrong.

I want to write more about Panthalassa — particularly about how one can simultaneously be an atheist and a polytheist, and how one of the things that, increasingly, disturbs me about "orthodox" Wicca ("Gardnerian") is that it is drifting ever nearer a default monotheism, a sort of surrogate Xtianity where the tripartite goddess stands in for Jesus/"God"/the Holy Spirit (maybe chuck the Virgin Mary in there as a "female" mask), and any number of Panthalassa-related issues. But this is getting long. I'll save it for tomorrow, instead.

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.

Yesterday, I did a very respectable 1,277 words and finished "Rappaccini's Dragon," which you may read in Sirenia Digest #30 (May 2008). I do like this story, though its voice and directness, the very matter-of-fact way it approaches plot, surprised me. It's a sort of revenge tale, and I have subtitled it "Murder Ballad No. 5."

There's a wonderful line of storms bearing down on Atlanta. I am tempted to get my willow wand, go to Freedom Park and stand beneath the oaks. I would scream my frustration to the roiling sky and dare the lightning to touch me. Of course, I will sit here, instead, and finish this entry.

I just counted. I've done 43 stories specifically for Sirenia Digest (not counting "Rappaccini's Dragon"). This means I've published, since 1995, about 130 short stories and vignettes (short hardbacks, such as The Dry Salvages, were not included in the count). And fully 33%, almost a third, have been done for the digest. 130 stories in 13 years. That's insane.

What else to yesterday? Well, after the writing, I packed about 4 boxes, mostly paperbacks, in my office. Spooky made her yummy Spanish rice dish for dinner, and pintos. I got a check for $330.17 from Candlewick Press, royalties on "The Dead and the Moonstruck" from Gothic! Ten Original Dark Tales (it's a very rare short-story sale that actually earns me royalties). I read Chapter 7 of Chris Beard's book on the search for the origin of anthropoids. I had a long phone conversation with my mother, mostly about moving. Byron had to be at a party in Athens, so we watched the new episodes of Doctor Who and Battlestar Galactica alone. My tooth hurt, but not as bad as the day before. Then I did just a dab of Second Life. We drove over to Videodrome around midnight, but couldn't find anything we actually wanted to rent. Instead, we read more of House of Leaves, and I got to sleep about 3 ayem. That was yesterday.

Today will be a day off, as will tomorrow. My first days off in nineteen days, and likely my last until after the move. I still have to pack books, but no writing.

Had a short, but interesting, conversation with a fellow New Babbagite last night, who has also, independently, come to the conclusion that Second Life simply is not ready, yet, for "full immersion" roleplay. I would say it's only ready for rp on this level of intensity in very small groups. Three or four, and things seem to go just fine. But large-scale rps inevitably get idiotic. For rp to work, there must be complete suspension of disbelief (as with literature and movies), which means I do not rp with people who constantly slip out of character, or who use 133t, or who stop everything to IM with friends, or to chat ooc with friends who wander by, or who are illiterate, or who are not capable of keeping up, or who think "we're getting too serious," or what the hell ever happens to get in the way of good rp. It's a shame, because I'd love to see epic rp in SL. But there are just too many factors holding it back, the most serious of which may be the average age of SL users, and the tendency towards exceedingly short attention spans. Good rp sessions, I have found, require anywhere from 2-6 consecutive hours, and few I've met on SL (and I have met many) are up to that. Right now, I have a small number of people I can do exquisite rp with, and, as soon as I can get to it, we'll have the "Sirenia Players" up and running, but I am done with sim-level rp for the time being, until SL grows the hell up (which seems an unlikely proposition, at the moment).

I'd still love to hear some thoughts on Sirenia Digest #29.

Okay. Coffee. I've only just discovered that the damned platypus grinds the beans in hisherits bill...

By now, everyone who is a subscriber should have Sirenia Digest #29. It went out about 11:30 p.m. last night. It would have gone out earlier in the evening, but there was a slight hitch (Spooky forgot to attach the file, which is funnier today than it was last night). Comments are welcome, especially as regards "Concerning Attrition and Severance."

Today, I'll finish "Rappaccini's Dragon" for Sirenia Digest #30, and then, tomorrow I get a day off, the first in eighteen days, I think. And then I'll finish up the ms. for A is for Alien and get back to The Red Tree.

And now it is May again, and Beltane. Last night, there was something I wanted to write out about how I've come to view choice as regards belief and paganism, but now it's mostly slipped away from me. For a long time, I could not allow myself to involve choice in matters of belief, as I held belief back for objective science and material concerns. I did not see how one could ever choose to believe. Partly, the epiphany simply required a different perspective on things I've been saying for years. The Cosmos (=tripartite goddess/horned god/divine adrogyne/etc.) may, in my veneration of it, assume any form. It contains all forms within it that can be realized or conceived. It hardly matters if I "worship" Brighid or Mórrígan or Aphrodite or Kali. They are all merely attempts of a conscious being to sum up an incomprehensible and nonconscious universe. They may, perhaps, each function like characters in a novel, avatars that grant access to the story of existence. It does not matter if they are not factual in their existence, as their existence is true, if they are true in our minds. If they contain within them useful truths, as is the way with all myths. It is not their objective existence which makes them useful avatars, but their subjective truth, what these deities mean to each of us. For me, this is the heart of Neopaganism. Designing ritual and godforms to function as conduits between conscious organisms and the remainder of the Cosmos, which is generally a nonconscious entity. Anyway, it went something like that, and today is Beltane.

A beautiful first day of May. The sun and all the green. It's 75F outside. The holly bush below the kitchen window has a nest of fledgling robins.

I did not leave the house yesterday, which makes five days straight, I think. I wrote the prolegomena, did everything else that needed doing to pull the digest together. We finished the chili Spooky made on Monday. I got no packing done.

Some good roleplay last night. I am shifting away from trying to functon in large roleplay communities (such as Toxia or the late, imploded Dune sim), in favour of rp with a small group of individuals with an especial talent for it (and no, I haven't forgotten the "Sirenia Players": just let me get moved to Rhode Island, and I'll get that going). This way, I avoid the idiots and all the noise and strife that idiots bring. Last night, well, we were in 1920s New Orleans, a beautiful house with a grand piano. A street car rattling past outside. There was Paganini and a game involving truths and falsehoods, and blows from a walking stick, and blood drawn with obsidian sharp nails. A game, and a dance, and a cold tile floor. Sublime. Oh, and I also began planning the pterosaur exhibit for the new and expanded Palaeozoic Museum in New Babbage.

I was in bed by two ayem, so good for me, and asleep shortly after two-thirty, with is even better. Today, the moving guys are coming to look at all our furniture and junk and give us an estimate on the move. I'll slip out to Starbuck's or the park or someplace until they're done.

Another amusing Nick cave quote: "A man without a mustache is like a woman with one."

The platypus is grinding beans, so I guess that means I should wrap this up. The wheel of the year turns...

So, yes, Sirenia Digest #29 (April) will be going out to subscribers this evening. That said, there has been a last minute change to the line up this issue. It will actually be comprised of two pieces by me this month, instead of one — "Flotsam" and "Concerning Attrition and Severance." The latter is the especially "brutal" piece I was fretting over so much a few days back. It was originally intended for Sirenia Digest #30 (May). However, Sonya (sovay) needed more time on her new piece, and I absolutely cannot stand to rush another author. So, next month, #30 will include the new vignette by Sonya and my "Rappaccini's Dragon" (which I hope to finish writing tomorrow). Also, there will be no illustration from Vince this month, due to a death in his family. However, he'll be back next month. I hope that was something like coherent, because I am nothing like awake.

I received a very nice email yesterday from Mr. Robert Feldman of Manhattan, the sort that keeps me from taking a claw hammer to my skull:

Ms. Kiernan,

I write to you from the dank, dark, and foreboding depths of the New York Public Library (yes, we do have ghosts and they do wear roller-skates!) where I am currently cataloging the new edition of your Tales of Pain and Wonder. I've read Alabaster and your contributions to Wrong Things and am very much enjoying the stories in Tales.... The Salmagundi and Salammbo stories are truly blowing me away because I attended the Storm King School (1971-74) and am very familiar with that part of the Hudson Valley. Your Pollepel Island is obviously your take on Bannerman's Island with it's spooky ruined castle right near Storm King Mountain. I climbed that mountain many, many times, and slept out overnight there; it is very creepy around there and a perfect setting for your stories. The Hudson Valley has many many places like this, certainly Sleepy Hollow inspired Washington Irving to write his tale of the headless horseman. A bit further north there is an island off the town of Staatsburg where wicked old Uncle Aleister Crowley spent the summer of 1918, supposedly writing "Do what thou wilt"....etc...in red paint on the rocks for passing ships to see. Then there is the town of Tivoli, much gentrified now but an extremely haunting place in the '70's when I attended Bard College just down the road from there. Thanks for reminding me of these places; they have an atmosphere that's very misty and otherworldly and I have many memories of them. I am enjoying your work very much and am looking forward to reading more. I've cataloged at the Library for twenty years now but this is the first time I've contacted an author. This is a good day job for an old Punk Rock/Goth guitar player and the perks are I get to discover writers like you and Poppy Brite while I'm working. Best wishes and I'll be looking forward to reading more of your work.

It makes everything just a little bit easier to take, knowing there's a copy of Tales of Pain and Wonder at the central branch of the NYC Public Library, where once I climbed a stone lion. Thank you, Robert.

I did 1,189 words yesterday on the new story, the aforementioned "Rappaccini's Dragon." I'd really hoped to finish it this month, but the mess that was Monday made that impossible. Then I packed four very heavy boxes of books, and Spooky washed more dinosaurs (photos here in her LJ; humglum), including my set from the Royal Ontario Museum and the Boston Museum of Science. Just now, she was making a joke regarding "Bathosaurus," and I checked, because I figured there was surely a "Bathysaurus," and there is, though it's not a reptile, but the Deepsea Lizardfish, Bathysaurus ferox. Anyway, after the packing, we read over "Flotsam" and "Concerning Attrition and Severance" for the sake of line edits. I think we finished that up at 7 pm, then had leftover chili for dinner. I looked over the new National Geographic, which is largely devoted to China and the ecological catastrophe that is China (fully 50% of the Yellow River [Huang He] — the sixth longest in the world — has been declared "biologically dead").

More Millenium last night, episode #9 from Season 1, "Loin Like a Hunting Flame." And then the new episode of Deadliest Catch on the Discovery Channel. And why the hell do I write all this crap down? Some odd compulsion to record.

Tomorrow is Beltane. Already.

I really am loving the new Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds disc. After last years Grinderman solo project, I had a feeling they'd be headed back this direction after the low point of Nocturama (2003). Dig, Lazarus, Dig!!! feels a lot more like Let Love In with smatterings of the earlier albums.

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).

Today, Gary Oldman is 50 years old. That's why you get the Vlad and Mina icon, because one of my Hollywood fixations is now half a century old.

---

And now it is spring. And, here in Atlanta, a bright, sunny spring day it is. I pulled back the curtain in my office to let in the sun. I have survived another winter. And if you are someone who observes the Wiccan sabbats, I wish you a fine Ostara (though, of course, the actual equinox was yesterday). For me, spring is hope, the nearest I come to hope, hope and a balm against the hardness of winter, a season that more closely approximates my usual mental state — and it is a promise of the coming of summer.

---

Spooky (humglum) is feeling pretty miserable, and she still has six days left on her antibiotics. We've been trying to work around her being so under the weather. But it's all editing, proofreading, etc. Wednesday, we read through "The Ape's Wife," because I wanted to go over it again before sending a "fresh" e-copy to Steve Jones for The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror (#19). Also, I started printing the manuscript of A is for Alien, though I didn't finish printing it until yesterday. On Thursday, we started proofing that, and made it through "Riding the White Bull" and "Zero Summer," a little better than the first 100 pp. Reading "Riding the White Bull" was rather annoying, as I'd somehow managed to print out a version that was neither the draft that sold to Argosy nor the reprint draft, and whole passages where missing. Anyway, I hope to have finished this read through by tomorrow evening, at which point I'll send the manuscript away to Sonya (sovay) for a proper proofreading.

Not much to report, aside from work. In a fit of annoyed depression over not being able to make the appearance at the O'Neil Literary House, I think I tried to do myself in with Second Life on Wednesday evening/Thursday morning, at least twelve hours, and I didn't get into bed until about 5:30 ayem. Insanity. We've finished Season Four of Angel, and last night began Season Five with "Conviction" and "Just Rewards." And I'm having to be annoyed all over again that such a rare bit of wonderful television fantasy was canceled in its prime (despite good ratings and rave reviews). The suits rule the world; we just dance here.

---

We've taken a short break from eBay, but expect to get it going again in the next few days, because the medical bills are still here, and I'm no closer to having any sort of health care than I was a month ago (and the blasted taxes are looming just ahead). In the meanwhile, if you have not already subscribed to Sirenia Digest, the first day of spring, says Herr Platypus, is just about the best time to do so. This month, you'll get "Pickman's Other Model," and, well, something else, most likely.

Sir Arthur C. Clarke has died. From 2001: A Space Odyssey to Childhood's End, a notable influence on my own writing, on themes addressed in my own sf, and a remarkable human being.

---

We made it all the way through the proofreading of "Pickman's Other Model" yesterday (44 ms. pp.; for Sirenia Digest #28). But between my cough and Spooky aching ear, we did not get to "The Ape's Wife" or begin reading the A is for Alien ms. That'll be today.

And, again, here are the links for my books, those presently in print, the most recent editions, the ones I have to worry about sales figures for:

Daughter of Hounds

Silk

Threshold

Low Red Moon

Murder of Angels

Tales of Pain and Wonder

---

There resides in our freezer the remains of a Peep that we began either experimenting upon or torturing (take your pick) way back in either 2003 or 2004. It's been subjected to microwaves and repeated freezing and thawing, over four or five years now. Amazingly, you can still see its "eyes." It stands as my salute to Corporate Xtian Holidays Stolen From Pagan Sources©. And as proof of the durability of certain supposed foodstuffs. There are two photos (warning — nasty) behind the cut, which Spooky took day before yesterday:

( not food )

---

Ostara is upon us again. If she's up to it, Spooky and I will observe the sabbat Friday night.

And there's really not much else to be said for now. It's grey and dreary out, not quite cold, not quite warm, and I'm wishing I were anywhere but here; okay, well, not anywhere....

I suspect this won't be much of an entry. There simply is not much to say. We read all the way through Chapter Two of Joey Lafaye yesterday, and it's not bad. It's actually pretty good, but I know it won't be good enough, and that there's nothing I can do about that. I'll send it to my agent today, along with Chapter One and the Prologue, my agent and a few other "first readers," and see what their reactions are. Hopefully, they will be positive enough that I can continue this novel. That I can find the enthusiasm to finish this novel. After reading the chapter, I spent the rest of the afternoon making line edits, rewriting a few sentences, and that sort of thing. The drama of writing.

The weather is supposed to be warmer tomorrow. I hope so.

Last night, nothing much but television, that place I go when I'm too lazy too entertain myself and so would have something else do it for me. Four more episodes from Season One of Angel ("Five by Five," "Sanctuary," "Warzone," and "Blind Date"). I got to bed at some decently early hour. The dreams are not worth recounting.

There are eBay auctions ending today, so do please have a look. Thanks.

It's Imbolc, but I'm not sure I'm up for even one of mine and Spooky's private little rituals. I will likely take the knowledge that we are now halfway to the Vernal Equinox and try to make do with that.

Ah, here's something I won't be glum about. This morning Bill Schafer at subpress sent me the galley pages for the forthcoming anthology, Subterranean: Tales of Dark Fantasy. It will include one of my sf stories, "The Steam Dancer," as well as stories by Poppy Z. Brite, Joe R. Lansdale, Kage Baker, Mike Carey, Tim Powers, Joe Hill, Mike Resnick, Patrick Rothfuss, William Browning Spencer, Darren Speegle, and Rachel Swirsky. Oh, and a cover by Dave McKean. I believe it's scehduled to be released sometime this summer.

Well, occasional bouts of dreamsickness and insomnia aside, I seem to have a better handle on this sleeping trick lately. My nightly average is drifting back towards eight hrs., and for a long time there it was, at best, only six or seven. Now if I can just force myself to start exercising again, endeavor to stay hydrated, keep the stress in my life under control, see the dentist, remember to eat a minimum of 2,000 calories a day, and take my bloody vitamins, I might be able to pull myself together again.

Yesterday, I wrote 1,238 words and found the end of Chapter Two of Joey Lafaye. That brings the total word count for the chapter to 7,728 (as compared to 7,357 for Chapter One). I am aiming for somewhat shorter chapters in this novel. In Daughter of Hounds, I believe the average chapter length was something like 10,000 words, and I think maybe, in the case of this particular book, shorter is better. Today, we will read back over all of Chapter Two, before I begin Chapter Three. Already, I can see that there will be fans of Silk and Threshold who are likely to be disappointed in this book, not only because it's more "fantasy" and less "horror," but because it'll likely be deemed "talky" (this peculiar criticism was leveled at Daughter of Hounds), as I'm placing more emphasis on dialogue and less on the setting of mood. It's a conscious decision. These days, I'm just far more interested in what my characters have to say to one another than I am in evoking mood. Maybe I'm compensating for the fact that I so rarely speak to people face-to-face anymore.

It's cooler today, pretending to be winter again.

Last night, after dinner, I made some corrections to the Dune: Apocalypse transcript I mentioned in yesterday's entry. Then we watched last week's Project Runway. Chris said something wonderful — "It's so cute to watch youth." I think I want that in needlepoint on a sampler or something. Then we watched a couple more episodes of Angel ("The Ring" and "Eternity"; I especially liked the latter, partly because there was very little Cordelia). That was yesterday, pretty much.

Thanks to the people who have bid in this round of eBay auctions. All but one of the auctions ends tomorrow, so please have a look.

Here's something I've been hesitant to bring up, but I think I risk being rude by not bringing it up. I think two people may have purchased DVDs for me from my Amazon.com wishlist (as they are no longer on my wishlist), but neither has actually shown up yet. It's possible this is just a frell up on Amazon's part, but I don't want to not say "thank you" to someone who has a "thank you" coming. So, if, perchance, you're the person who bought me Sunshine or The Call of Cthulhu, you might want to say something to Amazon, as I have seen neither hide nor hair of either. And don't get me started about hairy DVDs.

Later today, I want to post a poll, what was your favourite letter from "The Crimson Alphabet," something like that. I'm just sort of curious. Also, I do hope people are enjoying #26. Thanks for the comments I've received on it so far; more are certainly welcome.

And here it is, January 31st already, and tomorrow is Imbolc.

The trick-or-treaters were sort of a bust this year, which means we're stuck with loads of tooth-rottingly sweet, mass-produced, injection-molded high-fructose corn syrup. We get fewer trick-or-treaters every year. Don't know if it's the pernicious influence of evangelical Xtianity or just lazy kids (or lazy parents), but it's a tad disheartening. Me and Byron and Spooky sat on the front porch last night, drinking pumpkin ale, and when all was said and done, we'd aided in the dental undoing of maybe a dozen kiddos. We were prepared for maybe ten times that number. Spoot.

The Second Life Samhain ceremony, on the other hand, went off rather well. It was strange, to say the least, conducting a sabat in a virtual environment. I'm not sure what William Gibson would have to say about it. At some point, I said something to Byron about the irony of practicing a Nature religion in cyberspace, and he unhelpfully pointed out that, in the end, all the materials that make up a computer — from silicon to various plastics to copper and so forth — that it was all just "dirt and rocks." On the one hand, I could not disagree with the reductionist logic, but on the other... Well, regardless, thanks to those who came. In the end, I opted to do the ritual semi-skyclad, with a very fine black cloak, but nothing at all underneath. And no trees had to perish for our enormous bonfire (as long as you don't consider all the trees destroyed directly or indirectly to produce information tech and computers and Second Life and so forth). There was something genuinely magickal about the thing, though, and I have now brought Wicca to New Babbage. It went so well I suspect I will also be conducting a Yule ceremony behind the Abney Park Laboratory. Oh, and on November 5th, you can bet there will be another bonfire at Abney Park, as there is an effigy of President Asshole which must be roasted ever so slowly.

Here in RL, we set out apples and cakes (and a little dry cat food) and ale on our altar.

Entries may be spotty until Saturday or Sunday as our two house guests are incoming — Jada from Little Rock and Garland from Birmingham. I will be very pleased to see old friends, but I am so totally not ready for house guests. And I need to wash my hair, and help Spooky straighten up the place a bit more, so I suppose I should go. Jada will be here at three, and I still have eye boogers. But the coffee has just arrived, and the platypus doesn't look too grumpy, so there's hope.

I swear to fuck, if I had even half the energy and time right now, I would at once begin a campaign to ban leaf blowers from the city of Atlanta. There are now plenty of precedents for the banning of gasoline-powered leaf blowers: Los Angeles and Palo Alto, CA; Aspen, CO.; Vancouver; the whole state of Hawaii; and many cities are moving to enact such bans. All the gorram noise (90 decibels, when the danger level is 85), the unregulated engines vomiting forth unregulated emissions, the dust and other particulate matter added to Atlanta's already foul air...it's just insane. What's so hard about using a rake? I've used them all my life. They're quiet, pose minimal threat to wildlife and soil, give you a little exercise, and don't pollute. Whatever the sensible, least harmful thing is, people will eventually do the exact opposite. In droves.

Anyway...a correction to yesterday's entry. I said that I would try to have Sirenia Digest #19 out by this weekend, when I should have said #18. Howard Hughes is a stressed out, overworked nixar haunted by the wail of leaf blowers, and sometimes she makes dumb mistakes. At any rate, I just got the final art for "Outside the Gates of Eden" from Vince Locke, so I hope to lay the new issue out this evening, and if that's the case, Spooky will mail it tonight or tomorrow. #18, not #19.

---

These are only thoughts. Thoughts have no weight, and will rise away from me though my body be shackled. Would I were not but thought. These are only my thoughts, and setsuled does not yet glimpse them. He drives me on, while the crows war above us and their blood falls like rain from clouds of black feathers. There is some new discord at work in Mordor, and I can see in this man's eyes that it confuses and worries him. I can also see that my silence compounds his unease. He has the book given me by Dernhelm...that morning seems a hundred years hence. But its pages do not avail him. He is blind to what is written there. For that merciful craft, I thank you, fair Inwë, you and the wisdom of your people. He has whipped me, and if I am not yet broken in body, I surely can not be far from it. We have now gained the lowest slopes of the Mithrim Spur, and he means to take me north and west, across the headwaters of the Caranduin to the road and the passage through the mountains and then on to the garrison of Seregost. These are only thoughts, and they rise. My body may be breaking, but my mind is still my own and is still strong. The rocks here are steep and black and slice my feet. He laughs at the sight of my blood upon the stones as he laughed at my blood upon his lash. Dawn is not far off, and I cannot say if we will stop and sleep through the heat of the day. When last I slept, Inwë, I dreamt of the splendour of the Mearas, and of Suregait, the mount who bore me first to Gondor, then on to the borders of Mordor. In my dreams, the great horses, those descendants of Felaróf, danced around me, safeguarding me from a terrible writhing blackness pressing in all about. From this host, Suregait spoke to me, saying that even though she was grateful that I did not force her to cross the Ered Glamoth, she is coming now.

"I am coming fast," spoke Suregait. "Already, I can smell the sea in my nostrils." And I know these are but fantasies, but if they were true...If I had a horse...but it seems the height of folly to wish such things. I am alone in this wasteland with a madman who means to deliver me unto the pits of Seregost and whatever dark powers still dwell therein, if he does not first murder me. setsuled Kinslayer seethes with anger. He seethes as this land must have seethed under the iron fist of Sauron. These are only thoughts, and they rise and cannot be touched by whip nor blade nor fist. He cannot read the pages of the book, and he does not guess at the monstrous relic the elves found buried in the ruins of Amon Lanc, that wicked shard which survived even the white power of Nenya and the repeated assaults of Galadriel upon the walls and spires and the vilest recesses of Dol Guldur. These are only thoughts, and he does not guess. But another might, if it is truth that the Black Easterling lives. If my dream was but a dream, then I cannot risk ever reaching Seregost as his prisoner. Better I die at his hand, if it comes to that. But...when I close my eyes I see Suregait racing across the plains. If not for the pain, Inwë, I would not even hope it might be so. The pain and the chill together cloud my mind. I must have taken fever. The sun will be up soon, and he seeks some secret ford across the Caranduin. The waters form a vicious cataract here, and my drowning would be swift and easy....

---

Not much else to be said for yesterday. A decent walk, though the air was still smoky and filled with soot and we should have stayed indoors. After dinner, we did some ritual work. In the chaos of the last few weeks, we have neglected magick, at a time when the peace and clarity it brings would benefit us most. Later, we read more from The Miserable Mill, which we will likely finish tonight.

The sky is blue again this morning. The wind has carried the smoke away. And today the worst of the revision work begins. This is not writing. I'm not sure what this is.

Talibus laboribus lupos defendimus.

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.

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