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Still overcast in Providence. And freakishly warm. Cherry trees are in bloom. Everything is budding. Currently, the temperature is 63˚F. Here, kiddos, is the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, a sneak preview of a warmer Anthropocene world.

Yesterday, I wrote 1,180 words on the still untitled story. It was my best writing day in over a month. Slowly, I am recovering. I probably slept a solid six and a half hours last night. Not ideal, but perfectly functional.

“Fiction is just a constant torment, and an embarrassment. I loathe my fiction.” ~ John Banville

It has now been twenty years, today, since the last worst Xmas Eve of my life, 7,305 days ago. Elizabeth had died on August 3rd, and I was pretty much a ghost. I was living in Athens, Georgia, at the Carriage House. The woman who was my roommate at the time, she went back to Birmingham for Xmas with her family. It was a Sunday. After the sun went down, I worked on Chapter Thirteen of Silk, writing the vile black heart of the novel, the rape of Spyder Baxter. And, finally, about 10:30 p.m. I'd had enough, and I drove to a nearby theater and saw two movies, back to back: Joe Johnston's Jumanji, followed by Michael Mann's Heat. A strange double feature if ever there were one, but I didn't actually care what the movies were. It was something to occupy my mind, something to help me not think about Elizabeth. And then I went home, and sometime before dawn I slept. The next day, I hung out with a bunch of other Xmas orphans in a coffee shop called Jittery Joe's, and then I went to the Manhattan and got drunk. Micheal Stipe was there. At the bar, I mean. It was the first time we met. And that was the most recent shittiest Xmas Eve of my life. Maybe the shittiest ever (1990 and 1991 are close behind it).

Oh, there's one other thing. The roommate gave me a tin of Whitman's chocolates, and the cover of the tin was Mucha's "Salmagundi" painting. Which led to...well, you know.

Now, I'm going to finish my coffee, and then I'm going to write. But first, I have this for you. Have fun.



TTFN,
Aunt Beast

Comments

( 7 comments — Have your say! )
Marc D. Goldfinger
Dec. 24th, 2015 06:07 pm (UTC)
Weird Fiction Review
Nice. Are they for sale?

Merry Christmas or whatever you celebrate. I mean it!
Marc D. Goldfinger
Dec. 24th, 2015 06:10 pm (UTC)
Anthropocene
They didn't use that world but in an Ecology class I took at Bard in 1970 we talked about this very thing. Thanks for the link.
greygirlbeast
Dec. 24th, 2015 07:03 pm (UTC)
Re: Anthropocene

The term was devised by biologist Eugene Stoermer in the 1980s, and is being widely adopted by scientists today.
sovay
Dec. 24th, 2015 08:15 pm (UTC)
Here, kiddos, is the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, a sneak preview of a warmer Anthropocene world.

I know. I don't like it. If I wanted seventy-degree Christmas, I'd move to the Southern Hemisphere.

It has now been twenty years, today, since the last worst Xmas Eve of my life, 7,305 days ago.

My worst Christmas Eve was 2011, when my grandfather died after a deathwatch of two and a half days, but this one is shaping up to come in second.

I am very glad to hear about the sleep and the writing.
greygirlbeast
Dec. 24th, 2015 10:37 pm (UTC)

I read about the blue spruce thing. Ugh. I hope you're feeling much better!
setsuled
Dec. 24th, 2015 11:14 pm (UTC)
I wonder if Shirley Jackson ever wore a dress like that.

I'm trying to figure out who the guy is dressed as a bishop on the left. He looks slightly like Miles Davis but I don't know what Miles Davis would be doing there. Well, I guess he'd have as much right as Gene Simmons. You're in good company, anyway.

(Deleted comment)
( 7 comments — Have your say! )