November 23rd, 2012

house of leaves

"You're dumb. You'll die, and you'll leave a dumb corpse."

Yesterday, I wrote 1,278 words on Chapter Six (of Seven) of Fay Grimmer. (Yes, kittens, writing pulp fiction is a lot like working for Wal-Mart.)

Subscribers can expect the woefully delinquent Sirenia Digest #83 by Monday. Unless, I don't know, a merciful asteroid puts is all out of our misery.

Outside, the day is drear. Indeed, I think Edgar Allan Poe would have looked at this day and called it exactly that. Drear. But wait! Sunlight! Hold the presses, Mr. Poe. Whoops.

Still, it's cold and miserable out there.

I'll not belabor the Horrific Pie. But it very nearly made a calamity of an otherwise fine meal last night. Which is what we get for trusting a pie made by someone other than me or Spooky. But the bird was perfect. Afterwards, we began Season Five of Mad Men. And then blah, blah, blah, blah, nothing of the slightest consequence. What this entry isn't doing is waking me up. Fuck.

I opened the curtain a moment ago, and I actually think the dreariness was less dispiriting than this wide, carnivorous sky. Is it better to be smothered or devoured? Well, a python can give me both, can't it?

I've been watching Tracy/Hepburn films, reading Fantagraphics' beautiful Bloom County collections, limping, and not going Outside.

But there are eBay auctions.

Hunt and Peck,
Aunt Beast