December 9th, 2016


"Smashed in my car window. Didn’t touch the stereo."

Sunny and cold here. Currently, it's 34˚F, windchill at 24˚F. There's talk of snow late this weekend.

Yesterday was a trip to the doctor's office for drug screening and then general just fucking day-destroying chaos. Oh, and no sun. It's good to at least have the sun back, even if there's not a shred of warmth to it. I'm always happy to accept a lie.

I am sick of the news. I am sickened by the news. The weight of a doom that could have been averted and now cannot be helped. I'm placing myself in a complete news blackout. I saw last night that John Glenn has died, and, really, that's the last piece of news I intend to observe for the foreseeable future. I cannot simultaneously write fantastic/weird fiction and burn in the bonfire the world has become. It has to be one or the other, and the only possible way that I can help the world is to write my stories.

On February 20th, 1962, two years before I was born, John Glenn became the first American to orbit the earth. He lived to be 95.


Please have a look at the current eBay auctions. Great holiday presents. Thank you.

If you've not seen Osgood Perkins'* I Am the Pretty Thing That Lives in the House, you need to do so. Hands down the best ghost story I've seen in many years. Ignore the bullshit ratings at Rotten Tomatoes and IMDb and Metacritic and where the fuck ever else. This film is one of those litmus tests for idiots. To quote The Village Voice, Perkins' film is "the most atmospherically faithful adaptation ever of a Shirley Jackson book that never existed." It is a new high bar for genius in the New England Gothic. It is brilliant, beautiful, sorrowful, and genuinely terrifying. It's exactly the sort of film I'd like to see The Red Tree become. It was made for Netflix, and that's where you can see it.

Also, I have a photograph of my urine. To show I care. The lab tech said, "You spell that with a K, right?" And I said, "No, with a C." "It's -lyn, right?" "No, It's -in." And then, "Your birthday is 5/26/54?" "Um, no. '64." So, I now know that I can pass for sixty-two.

Aunt Beast

*Son of actor Anthony Perkins (1932-1992), grandson of actor Osgood Perkins (1892-1937).