The weather is grey today, but at least the temperature's up. It's a balmy 39˚F, and they say – they being the weathermen – that we can expect 48˚F. I'm a little dubious, and I'm be content that we have a day above freezing.
"You can't conceive, nor can I, the appalling strangeness of the mercy of God." ~ Graham Greene
I neglected to mention that I had a seizure on the night of the 13th, my first since March. I take that as a warning.
Supposedly, I'm going to the Athenaeum to finish proofreading Beneath an Oil-Dark Sea: The Best of Caitlín R. Kiernan (Volume 2). We'll see if I can actually manage that. They don't open until 2 p.m. If I can get there, I'm going to try to get through all of Black Helicopters, the book's closing story.
On Friday, I proofread "Interstate Love Song (Murder Ballad #8)" for its reprint in Jonathan Strahan's The Year's Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year (Volume Nine).
On Thursday, it snowed. For a while. I suppose the last of it will melt today. I took a photo from the window of my office (cell):
That photo actually does a decent job of getting the point across. Those are the cacti I bought on Thayer Street back in...October? Kathryn and I had just gotten our flu shots a few days before, and we were feeling yucky. I remember that. Anyway, the cacti remind me green exists.
The only real news, and certainly the only good news, is that Kathryn and I will be heading back to Woodstock the last week of January, for another extended stay. This is how I will survive the winter of 2015, crouched in the shadow of the mountains, shielded by trees. The desolation of Providence in January and February can be crushing, and I crush a lot more easily than I once did.
Last night we watched Peter Medak's utterly bizarre 1994 attempt at neo-noir, Romeo is Bleeding. I'd not seen since 1994, and I actually recalled it being a much darker, more disturbing film than it is. Roger Ebert wrote of it, "an exercise in overwrought style and overwritten melodrama, and proof that a great cast cannot save a film from self-destruction." Pretty much. It was also described as "film noir camp," but I think it's far too earnest to succeed even as camp. The bst adjective I can summon is, as I said, "bizarre." But there is a fine cast: Gary Oldman, Juliette Lewis, Roy Scheider, Michael Wincott, Ron Perlman, and, the show-stealing Lena Olin. It should be seen, if only as an object lesson. And yes, the title is from a Tom Waits song.
Now, I gotta get dressed.