I expect cold spring will be back in a few days.
Yesterday I wrote something. I have no idea what. A scene occurred to me, and I said fuck it and started writing. It sort of looks like a scene from The Dinosaurs of Mars (so, I'm not writing that), but I honestly have no idea. I managed 498 words, the most I've written since finishing "Dancy Vs. the Pterosaur." I don't know if there's any more attached to that unfinished scene or if that was it. I suppose we'll see.
Today, we have to retrieve more material from the storage unit in Pawtucket, because my first meeting with Christopher Geissler at the John Hay Library.
I'm still surprised that no one ever noted Oliver Onions' "The Beckoning Fair One" (1911) as an important influence on The Red Tree. Maybe because I didn't point it out in the Author's Note.
Last night, Neko Case tweeted, "Cars used to come in interesting shapes. Now they all look like ugly running shoes." That's the fucking truth. I want my 1959 Pontiac Starchief back. It was my grandmother's, before it became mine. I lost the gas cap and replaced it with a potato because I could afford to by a new one. The muffler rusted loose of the chassis, and I wired it in place with a coat hanger. Sometimes, I had to pour a few drops of gas into the carburetor to get the engine to turn over. But I adored that car. I sold it in 1986, because I desperately needed cash for the move to Boulder.
Please had a look at the current eBay auctions. There's a lot up, because until the long overdue check comes, eBay and the Digest are my bread and butter. There's some good stuff, including the first copy of Black Helicopters that we've ever offered, a copy of Tails of Tales of Pain and Wonder (including the not-lost-after-all "Aperçu"), and Alabaster: Grimmer Tales. Thank you.
On Saturday night, we watched a German SF film, Tim Fehlbaum's Hell (2011), in which the world has been devastated by solar flares. Note that, here, "hell" is the German for "bright," not intended to denote the underworld of fire and brimstone. I'd have thought the title was intended as a double entendre, but the director has said he'd only meant to denote brightness. Anyway, it could have been a very good film. The first half hour or so, that's grand. The sun is a palpable, roaring beast, a hurricane of light, and the photography of that grim, dead world is marvelous. The sheer force of light and heat are communicated as skillfully as they were in Danny Boyle's Sunshine (2007). Unfortunately, Hell film very quickly devolves into a baffling maze of horror-movie clichés, becoming a struggle against cannibals, not the sun. This is so not unlike the third-act foible we see in Sunshine (but at least Boyle waited until the third act, and at least his film righted itself in the final ten minute or so). Here's the thing: I'm not denying that in the final days of a sun-scorched world humans turn to cannibalism. I'm not denying it would be a peril for non-cannibalistic survivors.* All that protein, fat, and water, it would be irresistible. But we have too many cannibal-slasher films. Don't forsake the terrifying landscape you've crafted for a far less terrifying monster. When you're up against the sun, all else pales in comparison. And that's what Hell starts off telling us, before it loses its way. Still, it's worth a look, if only for that marvelous opening.
Last night, I began a book of the Great Boston Molasses Flood of 1919. We watched new episodes of Game of Thrones, Penny Dreadful, and Nurse Jackie. I barely managed five hours sleep.
* John Hillcoat's masterful The Road (2009; adapted from Cormac McCartrhy's brilliant novel) includes this peril, but it's only noted as a lesser horror in an utterly shattered world.