greygirlbeast (greygirlbeast) wrote,

swallow magnets, bury the rapture

Dreamsick again this morning. Nightmares that seemed to go on for weeks and weeks according to that perfect internal dream clock of mine, weeks of dread. But, of course, the longest bits could not have lasted more than an hour or two, if I judge them by waking time. I am encouraged to believe that waking time has a greater objective reality that dreamtime. So. My five and a half minutes nightmares. Small on the outside, vast on the inside. Space and time having the relationship they do, and knowing the way people are perfectly willing to acknowledge the subjective nature of time, it makes me wonder why so many insist that perceptions of space are somehow more concrete. If time can "fly," why not space? If time can "drag by," why not space? Written down, that makes a lot less sense than it did when I was only thinking it. Never mind.

No writing yesterday. I spent about an hour typing up the corrections to the galleys of Tales from the Woeful Platypus, e-mailed them to subpress, and then...I choose to conclude that the tedium of typing corrections (omit comma, add comma, change hypen to em-dash, change two to too, etc, and etc. and etc.) distracted me. It's not the truth, but it will have to make do. How can there possibly be 17,600 Google hits for Tales from the Woeful Platypus. That's just weird.

The cold weather is back. Well, no. It just seems that way to me. The cooler weather is back. The trees are quickly shedding their colours. I meant to go for a long walk yesterday, but we stepped outside and immediately it began to rain. Falling sky, but in no way cataclysmic and useful, only an inconvenience to drive me back indoors. No long walks in the rain, not so near the fever. The sun's back today, but it's coldish out there, and the sky is too blue for me. November is racing past. It's almost Jethro Tull weather. And not too very long until Solstice and Cephalopodmas and also Global Orgasm Day. Note that Cephalopodmas gets only 543 hits from Google.

To be fair, having recently kvetched about the real or only imagined exodus from LJ to the gaudy confusion of MySpace, and the recent scarcity of comments here, I should also note that MySpace blogs seem, on the whole, to attract even fewer comments. Maybe that's just not what MySpace is about. I do not claim to understand these things.

Chris Ewen (Future Bible Heroes) called Spooky yesterday and they talked a long time, catching up. Also, word is that the long-awaited Hidden Variables album will be along fairly soon. Songs written by Neil Gaiman, Peter Straub, Daniel Handler (Lemony Snicket), a host of others, etc., and even me. I'm supposed to be getting an mp3 of "Twelve Nights After" sometime this week so I can hear what marvels Chris has worked upon it. One of the old Death's Little Sister murder ballads, only it's just my lyrics with new music (by Chris). I expect to be delighted.

I saw Scooby Doo (2002) last night. What a sad mess of a film. I knew there was a reason I hadn't bothered with it.

I must go try to write now. Have a look at the eBay auctions. Unique things. Things you need. Bid. The baleful, bloodshot eyes of the platypus compel you. Resistance is so 1993.
Tags: cold weather, dreams, myspace, the hidden variable, writing
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