Yesterday was all editing. I don't write this way, not in any normal situation. But here I am restructuring, rebuilding, retrofitting, making fins from feet, and what have you. I'm speaking of the Still Untitled Mars Novella (SUMN). I have begun to feel as if I'm a scab director brought in to complete an unfinished film, scrapped way back in venerable 2007 after the original director was canned for going disastrously over budget. She was an utter fucking auteur, putting her hookers and black tar on the studio tab, constantly rewriting on set, calling for thirty takes of every scene – and the like. Now, the primaries have been called back to shoot All New Scenes, and I'm trying to turn straw to polyester. And all is tedium and chaos.
And in the chaos of the last two days work, the stress was a great reason to fall off the wagon, which I did. So, today is Detox Day #1. Again. Back to the kratom (soon to be illegal).
I've aged ten years in four.
From Facebook: "Okay, I'm sorta looking at Merricat Blackwood, Elenore Vance, and Boo Radley. But this will probably change. Maybe. (Me in #threefictionalcharacters)" Hubero says he's Zorro, Tarzan, and Superman.
Last night, we watched Marjorie Stürm's The Cult of JT LeRoy (2014). I can't help but feel that it's a far more honest look at the whole sorry mess than was given by Feuerzeig's film, which, in the end, was essentially a long interview with Laura Albert, which she used to attempt to con her way out of the consequences of her earlier confidence jobs. It's hard to come away from Stürm's film with anything like even half a charitable thought for Albert. Still, I'm going to read Sarah and The Heart is Deceitful Above All Things. I avoided the books when they were new. I can never bring myself to read whatever everyone is clamoring Must Be Read (!). This why I was unable to read House of Leaves until 2004.
Also, I re-read "Dagon." Honestly, Lovecraft. "Fantastically gibbous?" Seriously? What the fuck does that even mean?* Also also, I read about the pterosaurs of the Solnhofen.
Oh, and I have to get around to the doing the first interview I've agreed to give in almost forever.
I gotta get to work. Doughnuts don't make themselves.
* To be fair, that was written in July 1917, and he was only 27. He got a little better about that sort of thing. Towards the end.