After the writing, I collapsed onto the sofa in a useless great lump while Spooky made dinner, which was one of her very fine homemade pizzas with basil and red peppers and such. Waiting for food, I watched something astronomical on the National Geographic Channel. I pondered Triton and a world of frozen nitrogen, methane, hydrogen, and so forth. I do not ponder Triton often enough, bewitched as I am by Mars and Europa and Titan. After dinner, we watched a new ep of Mythbusters. Then I went back to work and spent an hour and a half contemplating Stories to Come. This is not how I usually work, and it irks me somewhat to be planning stories I will not write for a great while, and I know they're just gonna change anyway, but my bloated schedule has made this inconvenient forethought necessary. Spooky helped and kept me focused and awake. Sometimes she has all the good ideas, and I just want her to be the one who has to sit down at the iBook every day and Make Shit Up. But then who would make the dolls? Not me, that's who. About 10:30 p.m. CaST I decided enough was enough for one day and went back to the television for a couple of hours of Final Fantasy XII. Having finally reached Archades, I am now trapped in the bowels of the Draklor Laboratory, throwing switches, red and blue, blue and red, fighting soldiers of the Empire, trying to find that inevitable Cid son of a chocobo. Who knows how long that will go on. And later still, after the "Revenge of Bride of Nite Science" post (LJ only), I brushed my teeth and read some of the author's commentary in The Fantastic Art of Jacek Yerka (2000), as translated by Anna Lukaszuk and gifted to me by the "kindly but anonymous ichthyologist." That was yesterday.
If you have not yet ordered Daughter of Hounds, or have purchased just one copy, or just two, I remind you that it's not to late to make amends.
Sirenia Digest #14 will be along shortly. At this point, I'm only waiting for sovay's piece, which has been giving her some difficulty. I have Vince's art. And as I've noticed a number of new people are reading the LJ (and MySpace, for that matter), I shall remind all that you may get the digest for a mere $10/month, a bargain at twice that price. New fiction every damn month, sometimes weirdly erotic, or erotically weird, and sometimes just weird. These days, almost all my short fiction is being written for the digest. The platypus implores you to give it a try. Just follow the above link, read the FAQ, subscribe. Easy as pie (whatever that means). Also, subscribe before midnight on Sunday, and I'll send you a free signed copy of the trade paperback edition of Silk.
Late last night, wolven asked:
You reference your dreamsickness, often; is this meant as a phenomenon similar to homesickness? The reluctance to travel back to the waking? This is the sense that I get from it, but, not being able to find a direct explication, I worry that i'm just imposing my influences on your experiences.
Usually, when I say dreamsick, I am referring to a frequent inability upon "waking" to completely disengage from that dreaming "reality" and reintegrate with this waking "reality." I am left neither here nor there. Sometimes, the dreams continue to seem more real than those things vying for my waking mind. Sometimes, both states seem equally unreal/real. I use the word sick because there are actual physical symptoms which accompany this phenomenon, and they are generally unpleasant. I suspect that this follows, at least in part, from the fact that I am almost entirely incapable of that thing called "lucid" dreaming. My dreams seem as real as anything else, and while they are occurring I never suspect them of being subconscious figments of a sleeping mind. Add to this that I have extremely vivid dreams, which I can usually recall in great detail. It all means that waking can be quite jarring — violent, even — and fully waking may requre hours. As for equating it with homesickness, well, there have been dreams I've wished I could return to, remain in, whatever. There have been those terrible urgencies upon waking, the conviction that I must somehow get back "there." But no, generally, when I say dreamsickness I am not referring to something which resembles homesickness.
A number of people have wondered aloud why I would feel the need for a magick/neopaganism filter, or they have expressed dismay that I would willingly censor myself in this journal. To which I can only reply, bills must be paid, rent must be covered, etc., and the primary reason this journal exists is to promote the writing by which I make my living. So, while I try my best to "be me" here, I do also try not to offend or annoy more people than absolutely necessary. Because it's more important that the books sell than that I wank off on LJ about Wicca or the problems I have with "magical thinking" or how I really wish when people say they practice a "Nature" religion they meant a Nature religion and not just another variety of anthropocentrism. That sort of thing. Also, there are people who will decide, upon hearing that this Caitlín R. Kiernan person calls herself a witch, that they are better off reading someone who is merely an atheist or an Xtian or a Jew or maybe someone who has the presence of mind not to talk about religion publicly. And no, I am not better off, as a writer and someone with considerable living expenses, without those people. I do not wish to alienate readers I can avoid alienating. This is why I now so rarely talk politics here. It's grief that I don't need. That said, I shall likely continue on the present course, filterless, unfiltered, speaking of these occult matters from time to time, as it seems important that I do so. Clearly, a lot of you are interested, but not so many as to call for the setting up of a filter. And, as I have said, I don't have time to segregate that material into separate entries, anyway.
And stare at the watery moon
With the same desire
As the sober Philistine.
And I shake
(Turn and turn again)
Worm, the pain and blade
Turn and turn again. — David Bowie
(You get the gist of the song now?) — Poe