greygirlbeast (greygirlbeast) wrote,

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It's a dream-kill-dream world in here...

My thanks to jacobluest for the marvelous subject line.

Yesterday, I wrote 945 words and finished "The Crimson Alphabet." It closed with "W is for White Noise," "X is for Xenotropic," "Y is for Yuki-onna," and "Z is for Zipper." And I am pleased. Part Two will, of course, be included in Sirenia Digest #26 later this month.

Not much else to yesterday that's worth posting here. I did not leave the house. Spooky made an unexpectedly wonderful dinner of spinach and red bell-pepper quiche with chicken sausage on the side (spiced with garlic and more red pepper). The weather warmed up into the high '60s.

This morning a dream that seemed a continuation of the dream from yesterday morning, and I really, truly do hope I'm not entering another round of the sorts of recurring nightmares that led to my writing "A Season of Broken Dolls" and "In View of Nothing." I don't know that I'm up for that sort of dual life right now, mentally or physically. Anyway, for what it's worth, there was a great deal more wandering about on that "space balloon" vessel. I saw Africa through the porthole again. There were catwalks, like in a dirigible. The air was intensely cold and dry, and my lips were so chapped they bled. At one point, I was in a rather vast sort of cargo bay, hiding behind a wall of plastic crates, listening to a conversation I could not clearly make out. And later, I was in my compartment, dressing the orange man's gunshot wound. Blood up to my wrists, white gauze and surgical tape (but no scissors, and I "cut" it with my teeth), no exit wound. He'd apparently passed out and was motionless and did not talk as I worked. Later still, I was sitting in something like a dining car/lounge, smoking and drinking coffee and trying to look inconspicuous in my huge fur coat.

For we're living in a safety zone.
Don't be holding back from me.
We're living from hour to hour down here,
And we'll take it when we can.
It's a kind of living which recognizes,
The death of the odourless man.
When nothing is vanity, nothing's too slow.
It's not Eden, but it's no sham.

(David Bowie, "The Motel")

Oh, Spooky listed more eBay items last night. Please have a look.

Today, I need to go Outside (yes, Outside!), and find a day-planner for 2008, as Green Tiger Press, makers of the splendid "Magic Spectacles" day-planners I've used the last four years have not released one for 2008. My doctor's appointment was put off until Friday. I'll spend part of the day on the corrections for the 3rd edition of Tales of Pain and Wonder, answering questions for sovay, who kindly consented to proof that monster of a ms. for me. I'd simply read it too many times to trust my eyes.

Okay. Coffee, proof of the reality of evolutionary exaptation.

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