But the myths get it wrong. Sisyphus was an author, not the first king of Ephyra. Or maybe he was both.
Touching your life does not vanquish my sense of futility. Only touching my own would, possibly, and then only if I believed the fairy tales.
I have these photographs from Necronomicon, and I said I'd post some of them, and quite a few are good. But I just can't seem to summon the requisite motivation to edit and them upload them. It makes me tired – literally – to look at them. I think some people misunderstood me yesterday. I wasn't only saying that conventions are too expense to attend. I was saying that I no longer have any interest in doing them. Looking at these photographs, from what was a good convention that caused me very little inconvenience, the thought of ever doing another convention makes me indescribably tired.
That said, I will be reading at KGB Bar in Manhattan on the evening of October 18th. Details TBA.
As for the Necronomicon photographs, maybe tomorrow. Maybe if I can get Kathryn to actually do the resizing, etc., so I don't have to look at them very long. Unless I say fuck it all and go to Vermont tomorrow. The "summer" is almost over, this wretched Green Autumn® to preface the real thing. One thing I promised myself would happen in June, July, or August was that I'd visit North Bennington and take a sort of Shirley Jackson tour. Did you know that you can read her obituary (August 10, 1965) online? That is somehow indecent.
Decency. I'd rather see Vermont while it is still decently green, before the garish spatter of Autumn Proper takes hold.
Rolling the Stone,