"I've got drama, can't be stolen. Everybody knows me now."

A warm night of cicadas and katydids and frogs and crickets. No rain today. With the heat index, we made it to 95˚F, and it is currently, at 1:13 a.m., 74˚F.

No real work today. Reading. I am reading a lot.

Knowledge is supposed to be a prophylaxis against the night, is it not? Even indiscriminate knowledge?

This morning, having just read about the French bus driver who was killed by his passengers for asking that they wear masks, I was angry and I posted the following to Facebook:

We need our grandparents' generation (well, I'm speaking as a Baby Boomer). We need the guidance of people who have known privation, real privation, and who understand that wearing a goddamn mask is LITERALLY the least you can do to save the world. It's not the goddamn Great Depression. It's not going off to fight Hitler and Hirohito. It's not even ration stamps. It's not stealing your basic human rights. It's just wearing a mask. In France, a bus driver was beaten to death for asking his passengers to put on masks. That's psychotic. You want this to end? Trust in science, the ONLY hope we have, and wear a fucking mask until we have a vaccine.

Jesus might give you comfort, but he ain't gonna save your ignorant ass from Covid-19.

Oh, and Grant Imahara died today. That's two Mythbusters down, and these days I would say that Mythbusters are as good as Dragonslayers.

Later Taters,
Aunt Beast

11:15 p.m.
Cordon C3

Entry No. 6,054

A terrific thunderstorm today. I looked up and the day had gone sunset. Streetlights had come on. And then the wind.

But otherwise, no.

A smear of a day.

The days smear a little more, as we move through this muddy apocalypse of a summer.

And I have no idea how I am supposed to feel. How does one feel during a disaster of this magnitude, a disaster shot through with so much other strife and unrest?

That was a strictly rhetorical question.

Aunt Beast

11:35 p.m.

Budd and Lou

I should have been in bed two hours again...and yet.

Today the high made it to only to 91˚F, and it's currently 74˚F.

I began reading Lukas Rieppel's Assembling the Dinosaur: Fossil Hunters, Tycoons, and the Making of Spectacle.

You know...nothing happened that can't wait until I'm awake tomorrow. Blame a Brujah biker named Hannibal and a rat named Benji.

No, really.

Oh, look. Selwyn's foot.

Aunt Beast

10:53 p.m.

"Forgive me, Hera, I cannot stay."

Very hot today. We reached 100˚F with the heat index, and it's still 82, without the heat index.

Today I wrote 1,160 words on a new piece that is, for now, titled "The Rats of Ulthar." It will appear in Sirenia Digest 172.

And I read T.E. Lawrence. And I finished Olivier Rieppel's Turtles As Hopeful Monsters, an examination of the search for an answer to the various problems of turtle evolution, largely through the lenses of phylogenetics, embryology, and evolutionary developmental biology.

Spaghetti with white basil sauce and green peas for dinner. And then more good RP in Second Life. I think I laughed so hard I almost laughed up a lung or three.

Later Taters,
Aunt Beast

3:50 p.m.

"I understand the urgency of life...", dumb damn day. It was almost rainy, but not really. Not much. With the heat index, our high was 96˚F. Currently, it's 80˚F.

This morning, I chose the narrator for Alabaster, and it will be Xe Sands, whose audition really impressed me and Spooky. That was about all the work that was done today. But I think the Alabaster audiobook is going to be something special.

we headed out to Leeds about noon to do three loads of laundry. It's the farthest we've been from home since we went to ground on March 15th, the first time I'd been in Leeds since February 26th, and the first time I'd seen my mom in at least that long. But on the way home we blew the fan belt...and...that's where it got stupid.

But we saw a really cool beetle on my mom's back porch. And a funky spider in the driveway.

I didn't really have dinner. I got home about 5:30 p.m., just in time for RP with Melissa (Morgan), Chris (Zelda/Zoe), and Kat (Marain). We only finished about twenty or thirty minutes ago.

God, I miss McWane. Jun's really going out of his way to keep me working, and there's the work with Drew, but...I miss the lab.

Aunt Beast

10:22 p.m.

"And the waves came and stole him and took him to war."

No rain today. Not a bad day. Our high was a paltry 93˚F, with heat index.

I set myself on the road to work again. I had email with Bill Schafer at Subterranean Press, Jonathan Strahan, Stephen Jones, and Writers House. Of, wait. Writers House was yesterday. We're choosing a reader for the Alabaster audiobook, and I have four to choose from, and they need an answer tomorrow. I thought through part of a story I hope to begin on Friday. And I talked with Drew about two of the three turtle papers we have in progress.

Baby steps.

Most of the evening was spent in Second Life. My avatar got a new head. And new eyes, so thank you, Hannibal Chew.

Night three of Spooky's amazing chicken stew.

I took a long hot bath and washed my hair.

Tomorrow we're going out to my mom's to do some laundry. I have not seen her since I began sheltering back in the middle of March, even though she lives hardly half an hour from me.

That was today.

Later Taters,
Aunt Beast

3:02 p.m.
Roy Batty

"If only I'd hidden my lust and starved a little bit more."

A good bit of hard rain today. We still made it to 94˚F with the heat index, but the rain's cooled the night a bit. It's 76˚F.

I slept for shit last night. Felt sick half the day. Felt fucking wretched.

So, here's a long-overdue promise to my Sirenia Digest subscribers. I have let Covid-19 and all the rest of it put my ability to work into a tailspin, but I resolve that before August 1 I will get two issues of the Digest written and out to you, and then I'll only be one issue behind. I will do this thing or hurt myself trying. Or I will do this thing and hurt myself trying. But I will do this tying. Two new issues, May and June, two new pieces of fiction. Promise.

Saw a very good new National Geographic documentary on the 1980 Mt. Saint Helens eruption today. I cannot believe it's been forty years.

I've got some good stuff going on in Second Life, finally, after a year of intermittently trying to make it work again for RP. So, my grateful thanks to Melissa and Chris and Kat. What noisy cats are we.

I think that's all for now. Oh, except I actually said this tonight: "Sort of like if Donald Trump had good taste."

Later Taters,
Aunt Beast the Sleepless

11:09 p.m.

"In the distance there is truth which cuts like a knife."

Our high today was only 92, after the heat index. There were supposed to be thunderstorms, but we only had clouds and not one drop of rain.

And it was a very weird day.

Not bad weird.

Or especially good weird.

Just weird.

I read T.E. Lawrence. And "Elasmosaurid phylogeny and paleobiogeography, with a reappraisal of Aphrosaurus furlongi from the Maastrichtian of the Moreno Formation." Spooky made chicken stew.

Aunt Beast (who did not play with baby squirrels today)

10:16 p.m.

The Cicada, Nature's Glockenspiel

Another scorcher, as they are wont to say. After only sleeping about three hours, I got up at 8:00 a.m. and it was already in the low eighties. We hit 99˚F, with the heat index just a few hours later. Late in the day there were thunderstorms that broke the fever, and now it's only 79˚F.

Over the last year, and I think especially over the last couple of months, I truly have begun feeling my age (as they are also wont to say), and I don't like it. Was I time I could miss a night's sleep and sail right through the next day, pretty as you please. Today I felt like I'd been run over by a truck.

I had meant to try to try to write. I swear.

I ate ramen with a fried egg for breakfast, and a tuna sandwich with guacamole for dinner. There was a package of zebra cakes in the middle somewhere, and a peach-flavored Red Bull.

I went downstairs a little while ago with Spooky and stood in the night.

We're watching The Americans from the beginning, because for some reason we stopped watching halfway through Season Two when it was airing. I have no idea why. Anyway, if I'd had this show in the 1980s, I'd have been even more afraid of communism than I was.

Aunt Beast

10:28 p.m.

"They're whispering his name through this disappearing land..."

Today, with the heat index, we reached 100˚F. The light had that quality, as if the world might, at any moment, burst into flame. I mostly hid in my dark office. Now it's only 78˚F, 80˚F with the heat index.

I began reading The Seven Pillars of Wisdom.

Tonight there are cicadas in the cool air after the heat.

We could hear the fireworks on Red Mountain, not very far away.

Today is the 109th anniversary of my Grandpa Gordy Monroe Ramey's birth. He was born in 1911 and died of emphysema in 1977, at the age of only 65.

And it was, genuinely, the strangest, most unsettling Fourth of July of my entire life. I can only hope for better things and a return to some semblance of normalcy by this time next year.

Aunt Beast

11:05 p.m.