May 30th, 2008

blood

News from Nowhere (Part Two)

There are these moments that have clearly been set aside in time, in history, in the bloody, fucking collision of seconds and atoms and ironies just so I will not forget how perfectly ridiculous it all is, in the end. For example, just now, trying to drink from a full one-gallon jug of Gatorade with a bendy straw. Yeah, Kiernan. That was real smooth. How are you with rocket science. But. But. But. I'm typing this on my old iBook, which is precariously percehed atop two cardboard boxes. I just had to take a moment, not to whinge or plea for mercy, or attempt to curry pity, but just to point out how idiotic this move has become.

And sitting here, in this emptry room, I see one of my "possible pasts" (thank you, Roger Waters), and never mind that this past would, actually, still be a possible future, because I know what I mean. I mean, I see myself as Laura Means, there at The End, rolling those goddamn dice, standing at the open door that leads out into the whole goddamn, wicked Cosmos. Only. It's not Patti Smith playing as I slit my wrists. It's David Bowie. "The Voyeur of Utter Destruction (As Beauty)." Bingo.

Which is to say, the movers came today, and through a grotesque bit of miscommunication — and I'm not pointing fingers, because I know I'm a hateful bitch — a whole lot of stuff that should have gone on the big truck did not. And we will not be leaving tomorrow, but on Saturday. Tomorrow, we try to talk Penske into letting us swap our 12' truck for a 16' truck, and then unload one truck and fill the other one. My muscles have died and gone to a place where pain only means I'm still alive. Spooky slept one hour last night. And there's still shit to pack.

I'm going to sleep on the floor now, because our bed is on its way to Rhode Island without us. But. First, my thanks to unknownbinaries for what truly is a wonderful painting. I'll use it in a future issue of Sirenia Digest, with her consent. Also, I will get Vince's illustration for "Rappaccini's Dragon" out to subscribers...eventually. And my thanks to Byron, and "Hannah," and "Jim." And to Spooky's mom and dad. And to Spooky, who really should have murdered me by now...
Sweeny1

News from Nowhere (Morning After Edition)

Spooky and Byron are now on their way downtown to pick up the 16' Penske truck. I'm not awake. Hubero is still in kitty jail. Have you ever seen dragonflies have sex? No? Not sure? Well, if you have ever seen dragonflies have sex, maybe you'll understand how we're about to transfer the contents of the 12' truck to the new one. Of course, I'm not awake, so what do I know about the mating habits of the Anisoptera? Eight hours sleep last night, which is amazing (though my muscles and joints want another eight). Spooky slept at least six hours, which is a good thing. So, yeah. If all goes according to plan (and it hasn't so far), we'll do this thing, get another good night's sleep, and head out tomorrow morning. Early. I suppose this is what it feels like to be an astronaut, waiting for your taxi to the International Space Station, only there was a ladybug on the booster engine, and then someone peed in the shuttle, and you keep getting yanked back. Or not. And now, for my next trick, I shall stop typing! Voila!
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