August 12th, 2015

The Red Tree

"And all the lines you wrote to me were lies."

The pain woke me this morning before dawn, glass in every joint, hands to feet. At 10:30 a.m., I finally stopped trying to sleep and got out of bed. Only to discover the sky is not much kinder today than my body. There may be a storm this evening. Currently, it's 79˚F, with the humidity at 61%.

Yesterday, it rained. We had to go to the bank, because I have this habit of allowing checks to pile up. Because I hate the fucking bank. And then I had to meet with Christopher Geissler at the Hay, to retrieve some files, more material for the Subterranean Press juvenilia volume. Few things have ever felt as strange as that did, sitting down in an Ivy League library and having my old crap brought out to me like it's something precious. We talked with Christopher about Necronomicon and the upcoming Hay exhibit of HPL's papers.

Day before yesterday, I wrote 1,048 words, the first half of the fifth section of Agents of Dreamland. Yesterday, I wrote nothing.

I've been enjoying a lot of noir, including such gems as Robert Parrish's Cry Danger (1951) and André De Toth's Pitfall (1948). These are, to me, comfort films.

Yesterday, I read "Complete description of the skull and mandible of the giant mustelid Eomellivora piveteaui Ozansoy, 1965 (Mammalia, Carnivora, Mustelidae), from Batallones (MN10), late Miocene (Madrid, Spain)."

Aunt Beast