December 10th, 2016


"And the cold pain behind my eyes..."

Very cold, but sunny. Currently, the temperature is 26˚F, and the windchill is 14˚F.

Today, I need to answer some email questions for Centipede Press, for Mythos Tales: Houses Under the Sea, and I have to get serious about finding something for Sirenia Digest #131.

Because I'm doing this thing at the Lesbian Herstory Archive in Park Slope on January 11th, I've been reading James Tiptree, Jr.'s letters and thinking, once again, how there is nothing that email or social media, "smart" phones or "texting" have given us that even comes close to making up for the end of letter writing. It isn't a simply a matter of things changing, and it surely isn't about "progress." It's about loss, and it's a sort of murder. Centuries of letter writing, millennia, buried in a decade or two of transient electronic white noise by a world that's traded thoughtful, literate communication for a 140-character attention span.

We are even forgetting how to write our names.

No photo today.

Gotta run.

Aunt Beast