January 31st, 2006


the subject line as stumbling block

I'm trying to get to sleep earlier at night, that I might wake earlier. I don't know why. I don't know why it matters. Some silly imprinting. Something I should be able to ignore, to disregard.

I'm not asleep, but I'm not awake, and I presently resent the whole diurnal world.

Yesterday was another goodish day. That's three in a row. I'm hoping for a fourth. I have a call from my agent coming at 5:30, and I have to be sharp for that. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Yesterday I started work on the first vignette for Sirenia Digest #3, which is, at this moment, called "Bridle," though that could mislead people into thinking it shares something in particular in common with "Pony," which it doesn't, really, so I'll likely change the title to something else. I only did about 250 words on it yesterday, just scratching the surface, and spent lots of time paging through Ancient Irish Tales (Tom Peete Cross and Clarke Harris Slover) and British Goblins (Wirk Sikes). Outside, it was warm and distracting. I sat here, staring out the window, feeling like the little girl who gets locked inside a closet in Bradbury's "All Summer in a Day." Finally, I decided I wasn't going to sit in this damned gloomy room all damn day and miss a 65F afternoon in January. It can be work, thought I, figuring I'd grab the camera and head for Springvale Park, which is where "Bridle" is ostensibly set. Some reference photos would be very helpful, after all. The park's not so far from home, but a thunderstorm was bearing down on this corner of Atlanta, and the rain began shortly after we got to the park. Which figures. There was a wonderful moment, just before the storm hit, the wind rattling the high branches all around us. But, yeah, I think I got about fifteen minutes in the park, maybe. It's cooler and less distracting today, so I should be able to make more progress with the vignette. Here are a few of the photos from the park (behind the cut, of course). The batteries were running low, so focus was touch and go.

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After attending to a few errands, we came home and read through Chapter One of Daughter of Hounds. I found only minor problems. I worked on my Amazon Connect page (though I remain very dubious about the worth of this whole endeavor). Then Spooky fixed a big pot of chili, and I read Richard A. Lupoff's "Brackish Waters" (in Weird Shadows Over Innsmouth). How could I have never heard of the Port Chicago explosion? Odd. Makes me wonder about glitches in the matrix and all that, which is so much more romantic than simply admitting I don't know everything. I also began reading a longish paper in the new JVP, "Cranial osteology of Lufengosaurus hueni Young (Dinosauria; Prosauropoda) from the Lower Jurassic of Yunnan, People's Republic of China." Later, we watched Lord of War, which allowed me to forgive Nicolas Cage for the abominable National Treasure. Lord of War is very good. Indeed, it may be very near brilliant. Then there was more Harry Potter, though I dozed off towards the end of Chapter Twenty-One and missed Harry's snake dream, so Spooky's going to have to read that part over to me again this evening. There were nightmares towards morning, but they've faded away. A nightmare I can't remember is much the same as a nightmare that never happened.

Yesterday, the postman brought me a strange envelope from Provo, Utah (2483 N. Canyon Rd.), which contains an invitation and two complimentary VIP tickets to "The Celebrity Conference," Thursday, February 16th, 8 a.m. to 5:30 p.m. here in Atlanta. "The Celebrity Conference" is trademarked, by the way. Donald Trump will be speaking. I'm told the combined worth of these tickets is $298. It also says I'll be given a free copy of TRUMP — Think Like a Billionaire if I show up. And I'm tempted to go, just in case this is Morpheus trying to offer me the red pill. But, with my luck, it's probably a plot by the Bohemian Grove to round up the sacrificial freaks for this year's festivities. Ah, well. At least they spelled my name correctly on the envelope.