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a cat in a room full of dogs

The dreams were spectacularly vivid last night. I cannot now build anything like narratives from them, as they've already faded far too much. There's nothing remaining but bright shards behind my eyes. I feel somewhere south of centre, but at least the funk that began Friday night seems to have released me for the time being. No thanks to the weather, I might add. Today and yesterday, it's like summer in the equatorial ice forests of Nebari Prime out there — cold, wet, drizzle, fog for a sky.

I have decided to allow myself only two more days editing Daughter of Hounds before I send it away to NYC. I could keep picking at it until Friday. But it's making me ill, I think, and I need to be done and get it out of here. I couldn't stand to look at it yesterday. The day was spent wandering, instead. There are too many annoyances left to be dealt with. For example, I forgot that convenience stores in Rhode Island aren't permitted to sell beer or wine, so there this whole thing in Chapter Nine that has to be written out of the ms. Wandering was preferable. At some point, I read part of the type description of Adamantisaurus mezzalirai, a new titanosaurid sauropod from southeastern Brazil. And at some other point, I was looking at the big, gaudy book that's been published about the Broadway musical version of Gregory Maguire's Wicked and getting pissed at how wrong it is (wrong in the "cosmic horror" sense of the word), how the actress playing Elphaba looks nothing like Elphaba and they did Nessarose all backwards, and Spooky says the music is insipid and cloying (thankfully, I've not heard it). But it got me to thinking about a musical of Low Red Moon, because, you know, if some witless producer showed up with a ton of money, it's not like I'd say no. I'd take the damned money, and it would be dumb and gaudy and insipid, and Narcissa would sing happy songs about being neither a ghul nor human, and somehow the ending would be gloriously upbeat. Perhaps I should begin writing lyrics, because Wayne Cilento and Stephen Schwartz and Joe Mantello are likely to be knocking at the door any damn day now, and I don't want them to think me unenthusiastic.

Anyway, the platypus was grateful for some downtime yesterday.

We're trying to plan the week (I mean beside the writing part), and maybe we'll begin reading Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell, or maybe we'll go on a Hal Hartley binge. Or maybe it'll be a Wim Winders binge, instead.

This is Day 5 of the letter S auction, the proceeds of which will be going to pay the latest astronomical gas bill. If you don't bid, you can't win, and only the winner will be able to sit around in his or her unmentionables fondling the crushed velvet "cozy" lined in red silk, contemplating the hand-embroidered letter S. That's something to consider. Sure, there will be other letters, but we're talking S here. Also, we have some other auctions going on, and today is an especially wonderful day to begin your subscription to Sirenia Digest. Just click here.

I continue to be pleased with Jane Raeburn's book, Celtic Wicca. Take this short quote, for example: There are no ancient Druid manuscripts. Anywhere. Ever. Anybody who claims he or she has access to one is, at best, projecting a religious belief as historical reality. Sometimes, it's necessary to state the obvious...

Comments

greygirlbeast
Feb. 20th, 2006 09:32 pm (UTC)
Have you heard (and do you like) any of Hannah Fury's songs based on the book?

I haven't. Perhaps I shall.
sovay
Feb. 20th, 2006 09:47 pm (UTC)
I think the entire cycle is "Let It Show," "I Can't Let You In," "And Your Little Dog Too," "All Is Not Well," "It Was Her House That Killed Nessarose," "Never Come Down Again," and "Someone Speaks Softly," but keep in mind that I am not an informed opinion. She's also done a song based on Peter Jackson's Heavenly Creatures—"The Last Piece of Cake."