January 20th, 2007


Oh, lets ride and ride and ride and ride...

When I was a kid — in fifth grade, I think — my mother had a Tiny Tim 8-track that I was utterly infatuated with. Yeah, the weird goes back a'ways. Anyhow, lately I've been trying to recall one particular song, which has been skittering about on the very edge of recollection, half in and half out of memory. Turns out, the song is "The Other Side," though I still don't know the name of the album, maybe God Bless Tiny Tim, and the refrain, which I was almost, but not quite, remembering goes:

The ice caps are melting,
Ha ha ha ha haaaaaa.
All the world is drowning,
Ha ha ha ha haaaaa.
The ice caps are melting,
The tide is rushing in.
All the world is drowning,
To wash away our sins.

So, there I was in 1975 listening to this song, finding all sorts of innocent, maniacal childhood delight in it, and here I am thirty-two or so years later watching it happen. To wit:

Europe reels as storms kill at least 47

"If we don't get climate change under control, winter's just going to get worse," said Joern Ehlers, spokesman for the World Wide Fund For Nature.

Still, David Viner, a senior scientist at the Climatic Research Unit at Britain's University of East Anglia, said it was nearly impossible to hold climate change responsible for any one storm.

"A mid-Atlantic depression like we had yesterday, we can't say exactly that global warming has anything to do with it," he said, adding that climate change was still likely to be bad news.

"The bottom line is that global warming will result in more intense storms in the long run," he said.

Also, from Scientific American:

Swordfish and jellyfish thrive in warm N. Atlantic


Heatwave summers will become the norm

And finally:

'Extreme heat' predicted for London by 2050

Tonight I don't even feel like being my usual glib, smart-ass self about these things. It just makes me sad, and sort of sick, and I think maybe Tiny Tim deserves at least as much credit as Jesus and Mohammad and Moses and whoever else the patrifocal religious types tout as prophets.

And the future sucks.

Go to bed, Caitlín.

never more awake than in dreams

Only 1,524 words yesterday. A mere "That'll do, pig." But. Truth be told, I have worn myself raggeder with the 1,500 words a day foolishness. But I have also accomplished what I set out to do. So, I shall finish a chapter today, and that will make twenty consecutive days for which I have at least 1,500 words (even tho' one of those days, Tuesday the 9th, had to draw upon the Word Bank because of insomnia). I doubt I've ever done that in my whole writing career. I've written 30,671 words in only nineteen days, plus whatever I do today to make twenty. However, before anyone takes all this the wrong way, it's only a subjective victory, only a victory because I say so. I do not know if I'll ever do this again (but I might), because I know that I, personally, write better when I write slowly. Anyway, I think I may have tomorrow off. It's tempting to try to reach my original goal of 31 consecutive days, and after today I will have only eleven to go, just eleven, but I'm really exhausted and this is just the tip of the iceberg. I can only stretch myself so thin. A day off would be nice, after twenty days without, without an L on the engagement calendar, without a sick day, without a day when the words simply would not come, whatever. It's been kind of nice, just not my cup of tea. I fear I like being a tortoise.

I'm very much not awake.

There was other work yesterday, and then we went to Videodrome because there was nothing suitable from Netflix for Kindernacht. We got two British documentaries, one on Joy Division and another on Kate Bush, and decided we were having Cool '80s Kid Night, instead of Regular Cheesy Movie Kid Night. Oh, and a box of Cap'n Crunch cereal, because it makes our mouths bleed. Later, we began reading William Kennedy's superb Ironweed. I first read this novel in the fall of 1988, and right now I'm more in the mood to read books I know are brilliant than take a chance on those which might disappoint me. So, yeah, Francis Phelan and Albany and Cap'n Crunch in bed (dry, straight from the box). And Spooky started something about getting a parrot, and I said, yeah, but we would only let it hear Kate Bush singing "Wuthering Heights," the original version, and Spooky started doing "Wuthering Heights" in her parrot voice. I laughed so hard I thought I would barf Cap'n Crunch all over the bed. Then I read some more of Willis Conover's Lovecraft at Last, because I couldn't go to sleep. That was yesterday.

Though I do often see comments from my readers, stuff in people's LJs and blogs and such, I am not usually moved to comment upon them. And when I do, it's usually because they've pissed me off. However, stsisyphus has written a review of Daughter of Hounds that has to be one of the absolute best reviews anyone has ever written of any of my novels. You can read it here. I even agreed with the one fault he found, that there should have been more of Saben White, that she did indeed need more characterization. For now, I shall consider this the definitive Daughter of Hounds review, and I only wish that all pro reviewers could be half so articulate and insightful. I learned things about the book reading this review, which, of course, is how it ought to work. If you've not read the novel, there might be spoilers, but nothing too major, I think. Thank you, stsisyphus.

Also, a nice e-mail from yesterday, from Gregory Fox:

In your most recent livejournal entry you remark upon how you dislike the act of writing. I'd like to say that I, for one, appreciate you suppressing your aversion and producing what is, in my opinion, some of the finest fiction of our time. Other writers may have a higher level of name recognition, but I find that no other (living, at least) is able to apply such a stranglehold to my attention. The realities to which you give life are a pleasure to explore. I hope that you will not become discouraged, and continue writing well into the future. Also, I'd like to thank you for reporting on your experience at the Harvard Museum of Natural History this past summer. After reading your entries, I decided to visit the museum for myself and found it to be a most enjoyable experience. The giant ground sloth skeleton is—and likely will remain—one of the coolest things I've ever seen. Thanks again, and, please, carry forward with the writing.

Oh, there was another cool thing yesterday. Chris Ewen, he of Future Bible Heroes, sent me the cover of "Twelve Nights After" he's produced for a side project called The Hidden Variable. "Twelve Nights After" is one of the songs I wrote in 1996 for Death's Little Sister, and what Chris has done, it's not really a cover, per se, because he's written new music for it. It's a whole new beast built around my words. The vocals were provided by Malena Teves. What she's done with the song is very different from what DLS did with it. It was this crunchy bass guitar driven murder ballad, with my snarling, growling, spitting vocals, and this version is deceptively ethereal and fey, synth driven and New Wavey. Deceptive because the lyrics are just as nasty as they ever were. And I think it's probably better than how DLS did the song. You can see lots of photos of Malena on her website, but because I think she's such a total hotty (and I'm such a letch), I'm gonna be gratuitous and post one here, as well (behind the cut):

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The Hidden Variable will also include songs written by (in alphabetical order) Poppy Z. Brite, Emma Bull, Charles de Lint, Neil Gaiman, Shelley Jackson, Harvey Jacobs, Gregory Maguire, China Miéville, Lemony Snicket, Martha Soukup, and Peter Straub. I'll post more on the CD when I have more to post.

This has gone on much longer than I intended, as is usually the way of things. I must go make words (also the usual way of things).