I spend all day and all evening dreading bed. Finally, I take my pills and drag myself into it, around 3:30 a.m. or 4 a.m. or 4:30 a.m. And a few hours later, I awake to stark, blind, all-encompassing panic. Wake-up anxiety. This one's new for me. It began back in the summer, during the worst of the dry spell. I'd wake every morning to the horror that people are waiting on me to write a novel, but the words weren't coming. I'm talking cold-sweat, blinding anxiety. I'm talking palpitations and dry mouth. Now that it's December, I've still got that, but it's also being fueled, redoubled, trebled, by the ascent of Der Trümpenführer and his Half Reich of Deplorables. Crippling anxiety, with a dash of existential shock. I awake, and there's the writing anxiety, and then I remember what happened on November 8th, and it gets much, much worse. So, bed is a bad place. If I don't sleep, I don't have to wake up. You may or may not understand. You might or might not get it. Maybe you had to be there.
Please have a look at the current eBay auctions. The auction for a copy of Silk with an original vintage 1996 Death's Little Sister sticker ends in about four hours. Don't miss out, kittens.
This year, a first. I'm inviting Xmas/whatever holiday cards from readers, as a possible antidote to my depression and anxiety. After eschewing Xmas for more than fifteen years, I'm gonna try. We're even going to get an Xmas branch (no room for a whole tree). Just one card per person, please. The address is:
Caitlín R. Kiernan
P.O. Box 603096
Providence, RI 02906
Last night, after Mexican from the taqueria in Olneyville, we watched Roger Waters: The Wall (2014, dir. Sean Evans and Roger Waters), which records performances from the most recent Wall tour. It is an astoundingly powerful, beautiful film. I never thought we'd reach a time when The Wall (album 1979, film film 1982) would feel more horrifying relevant than it did when it was released. But it does. It is. So is Pink Floyd's The Final Cut, both of those together. They speak directly to Brexit and Trump, the alt-right and the current reemergence of fascism across Europe. Afterwards, we watched Mad Max: Fury Road, which I liked a great deal better on a small screen that was able to contain it's chaos and allow me to take in everything the director was trying to convey. Truly, I've rarely changed my mind so completely about a film. First time I saw it, you may recall, I loathed it. Second time, a couple of weeks later, I liked it, and I apologized for hating it. There is a protocol to watching this film. For me, there is. It wasn't at all what I expected, and, as I have said many times, expectations are the death of art. But now I have learned to see it, this opera of violence, as stylized as any film has ever been. And, yeah, there's no way to watch it now and not see Immortan Joe as the Horror Clown. The tagline could be "Pussy Grabs Back. Literally." Along with Inglourious Basterds, it will go on my list of films that can help us resist and survive the apocalypse, coming to the White House and Capitol Hill on January 20th.
Stay tuned, kittens. Keep watching the skies.