January 28th, 2009


"Dear Sweet Filthy World" (Pt. Two)

Waking much too early this morning, after getting to bed too late, waking to more snow. Snow over snow over snow. Deep stratifications of successive snowfalls. I sat in the big chair in the front parlour, surrounded on three sides by windows, watching the snow sifting down from the alabaster sky. Providence inside a paperweight, an ornamental snow globe, a cheap souvenir that is occasionally lifted and shaken. And I took this photograph:

Photograph Copyright © 2009 by Caitlín R. Kiernan

The words came yesterday. I did 1,079 words on "The Belated Burial," which sounds like an Edward Gorey tale, or maybe Lemony Snicket, but which is actually another nod to Poe. It's going to be a short one, a sort of pseudo-vignette, like many of the pieces that appear in Frog Toes and Tentacles and in Tales from the Woeful Platypus. It's a "yellow house" story. This month, Sirenia Digest subscribers get ghouls and vampires, changelings and whores.

The days must be shrinking, because I'm having much more trouble recalling anything about them to write here.

Last night, Spooky made chili, and we watched Anthony Leondis' Igor. The animation is nice, but, in the end, this is a film that misses the mark (whatever that mark might have been intended to be). Steve Buscemi's immortal, but suicidal, lab bunny is the best of it, though I think the best line was delivered by Sean Hayes' "Brain" character —— "He said do." Yeah, it was that sort of film. An okay way to pass an hour and twenty minutes last night, but I'm glad we didn't pay theatre prices. I had the sense that everyone was trying very, very hard, and the concept was interesting enough, but...no dice. The Tale of Despereaux remains my favourite animated film of 2008.

If you've not yet ordered A is for Alien, today is as good a time as any.

The words are waiting....but first, these lines seem perfect for the day:

It's so hard to tear myself away.
Even when you know it's over,
It's too much to say.
Banish all dismay,
Extinguish every sorrow.
If I'm lost, or I'm forgiven,
The birds will still be singing.
(Elvis Costello)