"Like a row of captured ghosts, over old dead grass."
In the new Weird Fiction Review (No. 5, Fall 2014, Centipede Press), there's an article by James Goho, "Caitlín R. Kiernan and the Folklore of Awe." It is, I am told by S.T. Joshi, the beginning of a veritable tsunami of forthcoming scholarly examinations of my work. And, truthfully, I'm not sure how I feel about this. No, that's not true. How I feel about this is peculiar. I makes me feel very, very peculiar.
We're home. Back in Providence. we got home about 4:30 p.m. yesterday evening, well in advance of dark (thank you, CaST). And it's good to be with Hubero and Selwyn again, and I missed a few of my belongings, but that's the fullest extent to which I'm glad to be back in Providence. Already, I miss Woodstock tremendously. So, I will immerse myself in the mountain of work that is before me and try to ignore this city and it's strange skies and stunted trees.
See, that's the punchline. I am not Providence.
Thank you to the folks who sent me gifts this year. And to Gordon Duke, who sent me sudden, but inevitable, betrayal.
Probably, there are many other things I meant to say. But I only slept four hours last night, and whatever meager energy I have must go into pages 11-15 of Alabaster: The Good, the Bad, and the Bird (#5 and THE END). And maybe page 16, if I've very lucky. I would very much like to finish this by tomorrow night. Tomorrow I'll manage an actual entry, with photos and everything. Probably.
TTFN,
Aunt Beast
We're home. Back in Providence. we got home about 4:30 p.m. yesterday evening, well in advance of dark (thank you, CaST). And it's good to be with Hubero and Selwyn again, and I missed a few of my belongings, but that's the fullest extent to which I'm glad to be back in Providence. Already, I miss Woodstock tremendously. So, I will immerse myself in the mountain of work that is before me and try to ignore this city and it's strange skies and stunted trees.
See, that's the punchline. I am not Providence.
Thank you to the folks who sent me gifts this year. And to Gordon Duke, who sent me sudden, but inevitable, betrayal.
Probably, there are many other things I meant to say. But I only slept four hours last night, and whatever meager energy I have must go into pages 11-15 of Alabaster: The Good, the Bad, and the Bird (#5 and THE END). And maybe page 16, if I've very lucky. I would very much like to finish this by tomorrow night. Tomorrow I'll manage an actual entry, with photos and everything. Probably.
TTFN,
Aunt Beast