July 15th, 2006

decemberists

"That'll learn you."

"Pirate Jenny" (1928, Bertolt Brecht and Kurt Weill)

You gentlemen can watch while I'm scrubbin' the floor,
And I'm scrubbin' the floor while you're gawkin',
And maybe once you tipped me and it made you feel swell
In a ratty waterfront
In this ratty old hotel.
But you never know to who you're talkin'.
You never know to who you're talkin'.

Suddenly one night there's a scream in the night,
And you yell, "What the hell could that have have been?"
And you see me kind'a grinnin' while I'm scrubbin'
And you say, "What's she got to grin?"

And the ship,
A black freighter
With a skull on its masthead,
Will be comin' in.

Then you gentlemen can say, "Hey girl, finish the floors!
Get upstairs! Make the beds! Earn your keep here!"
You toss me your tips
And look out at the ships,
But I'm countin' your heads
While I make up the beds
Cause there's nobody gonna sleep here
Tonight, none of you will sleep here.

Then that night, there's a bang in the night
And you yell, "Who's that kickin' up a row?"
And you see me kind'a starin' out the window
And you say, "Whats she got to stare at now?"

And the ship,
The black freighter,
Turns around in the harbour,
Shootin' guns from the bow.

Then you gentlemen can wipe off the laugh from your face,
Every building in town is a flat one.
Your whole stinkin' place will be down to the ground
Only this cheap hotel standin' up safe and sound.
And you ask, "Why did they spare that one?"
And you ask, "Why did they spare that one?"

All night through, with the noise and to-do,
You wonder, "Who's the person lives up there?"
Then you see me steppin' out in the mornin',
Lookin' nice with a ribbon in my hair.

And the ship,
The black freighter,
Runs a flag up its masthead
And a cheer rings the air.

By noon-time the dock
Is all swarmin' with men,
Comin' off from the ghostly freighter.
And they're movin' in the shadows
Where no one can see.
And they're chainin' up people,
And they're bringin' 'em to me
Askin' me, "Kill them now, or later?"
Askin' me, "Kill them now, or later?"

Noon by the clock,
And so still on the dock.
You can hear the foghorn miles away.
In that quiet of death,
I'll say, "Right now."
And they'll pile up the bodies,
And I'll say, "That'll learn you."

And the ship,
The black freighter,
Disappears out to sea,
And
On
It
Is
Me...
mirror2

More time, please.

As of today, we have only ten days remaining until we leave for the State of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations. A series of useless black days, precipitated, perhaps, by an unpleasant echo or repercusion, have cost me dearly. I've written nothing useful since finishing "The Cryomancer's Daughter (Murder Ballad No. 3)" on July 11th. I haven't even begun work on the copy-edited manuscript (CEM) of Daughter of Hounds, which I should have gotten to days ago, as it's supposed to be back in NYC on the 21st. But I am feeling better today, so it's possible all is not lost. Likely, this means I shall have to try to spend more of my time in New England writing. As for yesterday, I did some revision on "The Cryomancer's Daughter (Murder Ballad No. 3)," which will appear in Sirenia Digest #8. If you've not yet subscribed, please, please do.

After reading the cover story on the acquisition of MySpace.com by sleaze baron Rupert Murdoch in the July 2006 issue of Wired, I'm even more reluctant to do anything else with my MySpace page. But I also realize, having read said article, that if I neglect to take advantage of the exposure afforded by MySpace, just because it's tacky and annoying and I frelling loathe Murdoch and everything he represents, I'll be shooting myself in the foot (as "they" are wont to say). However, I'm going to talk with my agent about the wording of MySpace's TOS before I add any additional content to the site.

Nothing much else to say about yesterday. There was a trip out into the heat to Whole Foods, and I made a very nice balsamic vinaigrette. About 9 p.m., we walked through Freedom Park while the swallows and dragonflies circled and dove above us, and the sunset was spectacular. I wish I'd had the camera with me. It was still uncomfortably hot, but having seen what the heat's like out west, I'm grateful we're only having low and mid 90s. Last night was by far the best night's sleep I've had in a week or so, about seven and a half hours uninterrupted.

Today, I hope to get a good start on "Portrait of the Artist as a Young Ghoul," which will appear in Tales from the Woeful Platypus.

Okay. Time to make the doughnuts. Please have a look at the eBay auctions, all of which I believe will be ending tomorrow afternoon and Wednesday. Thanks.

Postscript: I've just noticed (12:55 p.m.) that there is now an Amazon page for Daughter of Hounds, though the release date is January 2, 2007. The cover's not up yet, but I expect it will be soon. Anyway, here's to head starts, and if anyone wants to preorder (the first printing will likely sell out before publication), there you go.
mars

Too late for coffee, too early for bed.

Just saw Thom Yorke perform "Cymbal Rush" on The Henry Rollins Show. Nice. The Eraser is really such a very, very good album.

It is a night of sirens here in Atlanta. Soon, we'll be lost in deepest, darkest Rhode Island, and the nights will be quiet, and I'll no doubt miss the annoying wail of sirens and kids shouting on the street and the blare of motorcycles and so forth.

Way back on Wednesday night, depressed and trying to cheer myself up, I dragged out some of Nar'eth's old things to see how they've been holding up, packed away for the last two years. But I didn't feel like getting into the boots, so I just put those big, heavy-ass leg shields on over my Eeyore slippers. The result was this bit of silliness:



I got three e-mails today, asking if it's okay to message me from my MySpace page or ask to be added to my friends list. And of course it is. That's why it's there. Well, that and the fact that I have this bizarre love of filling out blank forms.