March 22nd, 2005

Tai'lah2

Idiacanthus fasciola

There was no writing again yesterday, mostly becasue of the idiotic events of Sunday. I also didn't go to Birmingham. I managed to accomplish very little hereabouts. I signed some eBay books. That was about it. Oh, and Spooky took photos of Nar'eth's pulse-pistol holster for Leh'agvoi, for the "winter special" manga that he's drawing, and I e-mailed them to him. I know that doesn't really count, but there you go. Late in the day, I came very close to choking to death on a frelling red apple Jelly Belly jellybean. Once I had dislodged it from my windpipe, I started laughing, which seemed appropriate then, no matter how inappropriate it might seem now. Last night, we watched Kill Bill, vols. 1 and 2.

I have allowed my ability to work to become too dependant on the stability of my environment. This is not something that happened overnight. I spent years letting this happen. A decade, maybe. Now, though, when there is chaos, I stop writing. And, with the load I have at the moment, that's going to do me in almost as quickly as the jellybean would have done. I have to write. I have to write regardless. I does not matter if I've had a bad day. It does not matter if I am depressed or in some other sort of mood not conducive to writing. I still have to write. I does not matter if the weather is crappy or if there's trouble in my family. It does not matter if I'd rather do something else. It does not matter if, in some objective, cosmic sense, I've earned the right to do something else. It does not matter if it's not my fault. It does not matter. I have to write. Nothing else matters, ever. Nothing else matters more. Them's the rules. I knew them when I signed on, and now I'm stuck with them. I have to find a way to write in spite of chaos. That's the only option, because clearly things have no intention of becoming any less chaotic.

Today, I have to attend to a number of things for Subterranean Press, little things that I've let build up until they have become, collectively, one big thing. Also, I plan to turn my attention, finally, to Chapter Four of Daughter of Hounds. It looks as if, because of those aforementioned concerns about ms. length, I'm going to have to do that thing I dislike doing and make at least a roughish sort of outline for much of the book. Nothing I'll have to stick to, of course, not if the story insists it must go elsewhere (and it will), but something to lay the story as a whole out before me so that I can keep it from sprawling too much. So, that's today, I think.

This next bit is for Leh'agvoi, who asked me to about the significance that the lines I quoted yesterday from the script for The Return of the King (the dream which, he recalled, had been Faramir's in the novel) had to J. R. R. Tolkien:

Occasionally, a strange dream came to him: a great wave towering up and advancing ineluctably over the trees and green fields, poised to engulf him and all around him. The dream was to recur for many years. Later he came to think of it as 'my Atlantis complex'.

—and—

Tolkien's legend of Númenor, the great island in the West that is given to the men who aided the Elves in the wars against Morgoth, was probably composed before the writing of the 'The Lost Road', perhaps in the late nineteen-twenties or early thirties. It had one of its origins in the nightmare that had disturbed him since childhood, his 'Atlantis-haunting' in which he 'had the dreadful dream of the ineluctable Wave, either coming up out of a quiet sea, or coming in towering over the green inlands.' When the inhabitants of Númenor are beguiled by Sauron (the lieutenant of Morgoth who had already appeared in the long poem about Beren and Lúthien) into breaking a divine commandment and sailing West towards the forbidden lands, a great storm rises, a huge wave crashes over on Númenor, and the entire island is cast into the abyss. Atlantis is sunk.

(From Tolkien: A Biography by Humphrey Carpenter, 1977)

Turns out, VNV Nation will be playing Atlanta on May 11th, and I would love to go. But whether or not I do will depend on several factors. First, whether of not the venue is non-smoking, because I try not to do smoky shows anymore. Secondly, whether there will actually be tickets. Georgia's pro-scalping law makes getting tickets very, very hard and/or very, very expensive. So, we'll see. I would dearly love to go. Also, the new Moby CD is out today. That's a good thing. And Moby will be making an in-store appearance at Criminal Records here in Atlanta on March 24th, which has Spooky rather excited.

There's still a copy of the hardback edition of Low Red Moon up on our almost-for-now-concluded Ebay auctions. Don't make me eat the listing fee on this one, folks. Someone bid. Hell, twelve someones bid. The more the...well, you know how it goes.
  • Current Music
    Daisy Chainsaw, "Lovely Ugly Brutal World"
Nar'eth

Be removed now!

Since a number of you seem to be amused with my creepy spam, here's another, of the non-Jesusy variety. It was sent, purportedly, by someone whose Moma and/or Daddy was sadistic enough to name them Malignancies U. Bonging (thundercloud@justincasefire.com). After the first line of text, note that there is a large graphic inserted, an add for TotalPharmancy ("Your Online Pharmacy Store"), listing prices for Codeine, Viagra, Cialis, Valium, and Xanax (which, by the way, is one of the finest substances ever crafted by the alchemies of you hairless apes). The e-mail is as follows:

Subject: What's up, then?

Surprise surprise!

[insert TotalPharmacy ad here]

G'bye

If your capacity to acquire has outstripped your capacity to enjoy, you are on the way to the scrap-heap. For man is not the creature and product of Mechanism but, in a far truer sense, its creator and producer.

In the long run we are all dead. The good things of prosperity are to be wished but the good things that belong to adversity are to be admired.

A pessimist and an optimist, so much the worse so much the better. The one thing people are the most liberal with, is their advice. Events of great consequence often spring from trifling circumstances.

Men who are unhappy, like men who sleep badly, are always proud of the fact.

There is nothing so fatal to character as half finished tasks.

You can change your beliefs so they empower your dreams and desires. Create a strong belief in yourself and what you want. We are all geniuses up to the age of ten. Nothing is a waste of time if you use the experience wisely.

Art, like Nature, has her monsters, things of bestial shape and with hideous voices. Marriage, it seems, confines every man to his proper rank. Man only likes to count his troubles, but he does not count his joys. If you stand up to be counted, someone will take your seat.

No matter how ephemeral it is, a novel is something, while despair is nothing. The truth that survives is simply the lie that is pleasantest to believe.


It ends with large (35 pt.?) green letters declaring BE REMOVED NOW! What the frell's that? Some sort of frelling predispensationalist battle cry?

Personally, this all just serves to reinforce my belief that the deus ex machina is trying to get my attention, that I might awaken those imprisoned by some dark lord or another. Of course, I also believe Velveeta is actually manufactured by Dow Chemicals from retroengineered alien tech recovered from Roswell, so you might want to take that with a grain of salt.
  • Current Music
    Daisy Chainsaw, "The Future Free"