September 8th, 2006

new chi

Yowling Won't Help.

I've likely said this before, any number of times. But it bears repeating. If only it were possible to run some sort of cable from my brain directly to my laptop, then my dreams would take care of all the writing. I'm not sure anyone could or would read the results, but they would be much truer than any of the watered-down shit I write while awake. Which is to say, bad dreams this morning, worse than usual, and I slept late (almost 11 a.m.), which means they went on a few months longer than usual. I needed that sleep, though. I was awake until at least 3:30 a.m. this morning. But sleep comes at a price. Nothing's free.

Well, except for the air, and you've got to be out of your mind to breath the stuff they call "air" here in Atlanta.

I did finish "Untitled 23" yesterday, which is why Spooky let me sleep in this morning. I'm not yet certain how I feel about the piece. I knew it would be dark, but it came out several shades dimmer than I'd expected. All those people who eschew Fairie as anything but a realm of healing light and positive "energy" or whatever nonsense will do well to stay clear of this piece. This is my Fairie. I think you may have already glimpsed it, from this side of the mirror, in "La Peau Verte", but this time the view is from farther in, deeper down. It is a "fairy tale" in the classical sense, though hardly in the sanitized Victorian sense. I'm a little uneasy about sending this one out into the world. I say that now, knowing that it'll be right there in Sirenia Digest #10 and knowing, too, that most readers probably won't understand what all the fuss is about once they've read it. What frells with me will not necessarily frell with you. Anyway. Anyway. Anyway, yes, we'll read through the whole thing this afternoon, and I might tweak here and there. I do not know if I'm going to ask Vince to illustrate this one. Tomorrow, I'll begin work on the piece that Sonya (sovay) and I will be writing together, also for Sirenia Digest #10. I cannot presently recall whether or not it has a title yet. I think it might. She's written the first bit, and now I'm to write the second bit, and then it goes back to her, and so on and so forth until we find THE END together. I did only 477 words yesterday, but that was quite enough.

I'm not sure what I'll get done today. Already it's 12:31 p.m., and we have to get Hubero to the vet by 5 (just a check up, meet the vet sort of thing). And we have dinner with Byron at 7. And I'm nowhere near awake. If awake were Madagascar, I'd be somewhere in Polynesia just now, with all the Indian Ocean in-between.

Last night, Spooky and I watched Michael Winterbottom's Tristram Shandy: A Cock & Bull Story (2005) and found it quite entirely delightful. A fine comment on never getting to the point wrapped within a fine joke about losing one's way. Or something like that.

It has occurred to me that Joey LaFaye might be set in 1975. It's a strange revelation, but not one I'm shying away from. More later...

Postscript: This is frelling brilliant.
Bowie1

Addendum: Learning again.

From William Faulkner's Nobel Prize acceptance speech, 1949 (thank you, Rick):

Our tragedy today is a general and universal physical fear so long sustained by now that we can even bear it. There are no longer problems of the spirit. There is only one question: When will I be blown up? Because of this, the young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat. He must learn them again.

Perhaps it is worth mentioning that Faulkner was drunk when he gave the speech in Stockholm. But then I must also mention he was likely sober when he wrote it.

For my part, I don't think much has changed in the intervening fifty-seven years.