Spooky and I exchanged our modest Cephalopodmas gifts late last night. I gave her a new pair of headphones and an Amy Brown fairie mug. She gave me an Elizabeth Swann action figure and this awesome Galapagos tortoise (Geochelone elephantopus) puzzle thing that came in a yellow plastic egg.
Earlier, Byron dropped by for the two-part season finale of Dr. Who. Though David Tennant has sort of grown on me, I did especially miss Christopher Eccleston last night. The bottomless rage that incarnation of the Doctor expressed at the Daleks...it was sorely needed last night. The stuff with Rose's "death" was handled very well, I thought. And the whole Cybermen vs. Daleks thing had to be the ultimate fanboy throwdown. Who'd have thought Daleks would be so adept at talking smack? Anyway, after Dr. Who and a little Final Fantasy XII, Spooky read me more from The Hobbit, "Riddles in the Dark," while I put my tortoise together. You probably have no idea how big an influence "Riddles in the Dark" was on my writing. Sure, everyone can see Lovecraft and Blackwood, but that first encounter with Gollum...very important. I remember sitting up late at night...I was in fifth grade, I think...reading that chapter again and again. I used a line from it as an epigraph for "Paedomorphosis."
Good mail yesterday. A postcard from Berlin, from mercurygrrl, who actually lives in Norway, but she was in Berlin for a Crüxshadows show and kindly sent me a postcard from the Hanover/Langenhagen International Airport before she headed home again. Also, Adriana and David of The Endless sent me their annual holiday sampler CD, and this this year it's two David Bowie covers — "Magic Dance" and "As the World Falls Down." I've been on such a Bowie kick lately, this was perfect.
Postcards are really marvelous things, you know. I mean, I hold this and know that someone took the time to write it out, in ink, and place a stamp upon it, and then it traveled across the sea, and I can hold it, this 4"x6" piece of paper, in my paws. There are too few postcards in my life. And too few letters written upon paper. And too many e-mails.
An APD detective called yesterday to speak with Spooky about her stolen iBook. The detective was very pleased that Spooky actually knew the iBook's serial number, as apparently it's unusual for the former owners of stolen computers to know such things. The detective seemed somewhat optimistic that it might yet be recovered. We shall see.
At some point yesterday, I became quite entirely annoyed with the "experiment" that lay in back of Global Orgasm Day. I mean, it could be used as a textbook example of a badly designed experiment. Where was the control? What were the parameters? Etc. and etc. If nothing else, to conduct this experiment, one would first need to know what percentage of the entirety of humanity has an orgasm in any given 24-hr. period, and I'm pretty sure that data is still wanting. Then there's this thing about it being a "synchronized global orgasm." Only it isn't, as the G.O.D. website plainly instructs participants to do the deed "at the time of your choosing" on Dec. 22nd. Hence, the degree of synchronreity was extremely low. I'm wondering if the people behind this will be announcing whatever "changes in randomness" were recorded by their network of "Random Event Generators (REGs)." At any rate, last I checked, we do not have any more world peace today than yesterday, so either the experiment was a flop or not enough people whacked off or we have evidence that G.O.D. cannot affect world events (which I took as a given). Still, yeah, not a bad idea for a holiday.
A very un-me dream this morning, which has mostly faded. It was sort of like a Hitchcock film scripted by William Gibson. I was some sort of double agent trying assassinate a foreign dignitary of some ilk or stripe. I believe I was trying to poison him. I had two accomplices and was being pursued and knew I would die in the attempt, but was determined to see it through. The whole thing took place on a train somewhere in Europe. There was this breathless desperation to it. I think I might have been Russian. I made a pretty cold-hearted assassin, I am happy to report.
I got a very nice e-mail this ayem from Jeremy Lassen, who'd just read Daughter of Hounds (my editor had given him a copy). Jeremy writes (slightly edited for spoilers):
I just wanted to drop you a note, and tell you how much I loved Daughter of Hounds. This book fired on all cylinders, and kept me at the edge of my seat. The characters... the settings... All beautiful and disturbing at the same time -- the epitome of convulsive beauty. The loving and sly Lovecraft references were nice... they were a recognizable melody that formed a grounding for your symphony, rather then pigeon-holing the novel as a piece of mythos fiction, or a simple pastiche. I could go on and on. Instead I just want to say thanks. It's been a while since I've read a book as rewarding as Daughter of Hounds.
All The Best,
I love that line, "the epitome of convulsive beauty." Thank you, Jeremy. Actually, this is the third or fourth e-mail of this sort I've received so far, and the book has not even be released yet. Which is cool, and which I take as a good sign. By the way, the platypus says it's almost as good to pre-order Daughter of Hounds the day after Cephalopodmas...