April 12th, 2015

The Red Tree

"...A distant ship's smoke on the horizon."

The sun is out today, as it was yesterday. But today there's not so much of the gnawing breeze. Yesterday was cold, despite the sun. Today is almost warm. Okay, let's not get carried away. It's only 59˚F. On April 12th. Spring is hardly even a rumor. Where do the kids up here hide Easter eggs, when there's no grass or weeds or green bushes? Under rocks?

Carmelita hold me tighter.
I think I'm sinking down,
And I'm all strung out on heroin
On the outskirts of town.

Day before yesterday was spent putting the finishing touches on A is for Alien for PS Publishing. "Tidal Forces," "Galápagos," "The Steam Dancer (1896)," and "Hydrarguros" were added to the book. So, the second edition of the collection will be one-third longer than the first edition. I sent the ghost of a manuscript away to Nicky Crowther in faraway and exotic Hornsea-by-the-Sea, just a wad of electrical impulses and binary whatchamacallits. So, that's mostly out of my hands, and the ms. is only a year or so late. But I suppose this, not that, is the big news from Friday (I'll quote what I posted to Facebook, since most of you have already read it there, anyway):

I've been keeping this a secret since November, but I can now announce that Centipede Press will be doing a CRK tribute volume, to be published in 2016, edited by S.T. Joshi and Kathryn Pollnac, comprised of new short stories, "tributes," and essays by various and diverse authors and editors, as well as work by a number of artists whom I have worked with over the years, plus a few surprise rarities from me. The book will be titled Below the Wide, Carnivorous Sky. Contributor's list TBA in my LJ tomorrow. Truthfully, the whole thing feels weird, me still being alive and all, but I am greatly honored. (Note: The title was a) not my idea and b) is not a nod to any other author; the phrase was always mine, and it's being reclaimed.) When there's more to tell you, I will.


I've told Spooky I'll go outside today, since I haven't since we came back from Woodstock on Wednesday (I still have the fucking huge, cartoon-sized crown in my mouth*). But, Jesus, the air coming in my window is uninviting.

Your hand on his arm,
The hay stack charm around your neck,
Strung out and thin,
Calling some friend trying to cash some check.

Geoffrey came over early yesterday afternoon. It was the first time we've had a visitor – besides Spooky's parents – since the last time Geoffrey was here, which was March 2nd, 2014. We talked until dinner, and then we talked through dinner, and then we talked until almost 1 a.m., when he drove home to the Greater Boston Area. The primary topic of conversation, it seemed, was the grand, absurdist kaiju of SJWs vs. Sad Puppies.

Blood keeps drinking away,
Certain of it's destination.
Driving through New Orleans at night,
Gotta find a destination,
Just one fix.

I should stop this and try to do a tiny bit of work, pissing on the inferno, before I allow Spooky to drag my carcass out into the chilly day.

Aunt Beast

* It is just now being impressed upon me how entirely fucked I am, how difficult it is to remove a crown that's been set in place. I have never before had a truly bad dentist; I think my luck ran out. I don't know what will done about this. I certainly have no more money to spend on the problem.