Okay. I admit it. It feels like summer here in Providence. Which is weird, because it's currently only 77˚ Fahrenheit.
I've been free of Second Life for almost three months. And what always happens when I finally pull myself free of that quagmire is happening again. Someone I know from Second Life starts talking about Second Life. When this happens, he or she does not have to say, "Oh, please come back." Not at all. He or she need merely make me think about SL, and the addiction starts sparking. My brain cells begin to crave, and I have to start fighting back or else succumb. I'm usually assured that it's better now. Better than this most recent time I quit "for good." Which is like saying, hey, leprosy's better now. You should try it again!
Spooky says if we had a front porch we could lounge around on it like a couple of hobos. Spooky has an obsession with hobos.
Yesterday...um. Still waiting to hear from my agent on Blood Oranges. But I did print out all there currently is of Confessions of a Five-Chambered Heart, which is, incidentally, 318 pages, or 97,365 words, or 438,668 characters (no spaces), or 536,036 characters (with spaces), or 1,451 paragraphs, or 7,069 lines of text. My drooling idiot of an HP printer required a cartridge and a half of black ink to do the job. So, yes. I did that. And I proofed the first story, "The Wolf Who Cried Girl." I also looked at a few marvelous photographs
kylecassidy took on Sunday (in the cold of June) of Sara Murphy, Our Eva Canning. Mostly underwater. But that's all a secret, and I can't show you. You'll thank me, later. They always do. I sweated some. I fantasized about places I wasn't.
Last night, we finished reading William Burroughs' Junky, including the "lost" 28th chapter of the manuscript. Yeah, well. It happens. Junkies lose stuff. Which is different than hobos, who can't even be bothered to remember they have stuff.
I should go. Please pre-order Two Worlds and In Between, if you've not already. And leave some stale bread out for the hobos. And, it just occurred to me how much time some writers spend trying to convince themselves The World Really Loves Them Always And Forever (And Is Their BFF And Will Never Forget Them), when in fact, mostly, the world couldn't give a horse's fanny about any of us.
Ta,
Aunt Beast
I've been free of Second Life for almost three months. And what always happens when I finally pull myself free of that quagmire is happening again. Someone I know from Second Life starts talking about Second Life. When this happens, he or she does not have to say, "Oh, please come back." Not at all. He or she need merely make me think about SL, and the addiction starts sparking. My brain cells begin to crave, and I have to start fighting back or else succumb. I'm usually assured that it's better now. Better than this most recent time I quit "for good." Which is like saying, hey, leprosy's better now. You should try it again!
Spooky says if we had a front porch we could lounge around on it like a couple of hobos. Spooky has an obsession with hobos.
Yesterday...um. Still waiting to hear from my agent on Blood Oranges. But I did print out all there currently is of Confessions of a Five-Chambered Heart, which is, incidentally, 318 pages, or 97,365 words, or 438,668 characters (no spaces), or 536,036 characters (with spaces), or 1,451 paragraphs, or 7,069 lines of text. My drooling idiot of an HP printer required a cartridge and a half of black ink to do the job. So, yes. I did that. And I proofed the first story, "The Wolf Who Cried Girl." I also looked at a few marvelous photographs
kylecassidy took on Sunday (in the cold of June) of Sara Murphy, Our Eva Canning. Mostly underwater. But that's all a secret, and I can't show you. You'll thank me, later. They always do. I sweated some. I fantasized about places I wasn't.Last night, we finished reading William Burroughs' Junky, including the "lost" 28th chapter of the manuscript. Yeah, well. It happens. Junkies lose stuff. Which is different than hobos, who can't even be bothered to remember they have stuff.
I should go. Please pre-order Two Worlds and In Between, if you've not already. And leave some stale bread out for the hobos. And, it just occurred to me how much time some writers spend trying to convince themselves The World Really Loves Them Always And Forever (And Is Their BFF And Will Never Forget Them), when in fact, mostly, the world couldn't give a horse's fanny about any of us.
Ta,
Aunt Beast
- Current Location:Amazonis Sulci
- Current Mood:
whatever comes after manic - Current Music:Poe, "Haunted"
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Comments
- 2 Feb 2023, 05:41It wasn't a good show, I'm not surprised they pulled the plug. Great book, but not the kind of thing that needs an eight hour adaptation, with an option to do more of it.
- 1 Feb 2023, 15:34Hilarious timing, they just announced Kindred's cancellation.
- 31 Jan 2023, 23:29Octavia Butler; writer of Kindred. They could send that to me. I'd keep it.
- 25 Jan 2023, 01:22But Robert McCammon lives in Birmingham Alabama. I enjoy his books.
- 23 Jan 2023, 22:23It's always so sorrowful to lose a close friend.
Comments
Can't wait to see the photos from underwater.
I like Spooky's idea about lounging like hobos. I think a hammock on a porch is the absolute height of such lounging... with lemonade... or iced tea, and few insects.
Interestingly, a few days ago, Spooky declared I need a hammock.
Problem is, I have no where to hang it.
I once saw a very expensive hammock/frame combination in a catalog that would be awesome... aside from the price tag. *sigh* Ah well, problems people want to have: not enough $ for a fancy hammock but enough food to eat. etc.
If I had to manufacture the meeting I wonder if I shouldn't insert Samuel Beckett and Joseph Cornell into the mix. Or would that be too much? If not too much, I'd like to try and get Krazy Kat in there as well.
I was in Lawrence earlier this month. Wish I knew what his address was. When I think of Lawrence I think of Burroughs. And his cats. And his shotgun "paintings." Why not? I like Burroughs. I like cats. I like shotguns. And I like...paintings.
Thus I babble... I'm having an odd day. Or should I say my day is queer.
I wonder if queer hobo composer Harry Partch ever crossed paths with queer junkie writer Bill Burroughs. If not, for some reason it seems it should have happened.
Agreed.
I think it will be a long wait, too.
I think until the autumn.
No. I think it'll all be out by then.
I do look forward to those.
Recently discovered song, thought of you:
Three days, three nights, they pushed, they pulled
And then the water spoke . . .
—Luminescent Orchestrii, "What the Water Said"
Nice! The song I mean. A bit reminiscent of Rasputina.
*the world couldn't give a horse's fanny about any of us*
Agreed. I'll settle for contributors' copies, beer money, and if I'm really lucky, the odd nice thing said about my stuff by somebody who doesn't know me. I expect indifference, not creative immortality.
Thank you for ordering the book.
I expect indifference, not creative immortality.
For any artist, this is sanity.
Yes, but how does Spooky feel about hobos with shotguns? Content warning.
Of course.
You're welcome.
Spooky has an obsession with hobos.
I'll admit to a large fondness for Adam Koford's web comic, which is a fusion of hobos and internet memes.... See apelad.blogspot.com
Thanks. New to me.
I might have an extra copy of his book. I'll check once I'm back from vacation.
I can reassure you that SL has not gotten better since last you entered our private hell, especially Babbage, but you left there long ago, Dr. Nishi.
Oddly enough, I'm also reading Junky (actually listening to Burroughs reading his novel). I got into it after watching a
documentary on his connection to the Beat Generation. He was a fascinating man.
I can reassure you that SL has not gotten better since last you entered our private hell, especially Babbage, but you left there long ago, Dr. Nishi.
Alas, that part of me that was Dr. Nishi will always mourn for the Babbage That Was, which ceased to be some to be some time in early 2008 (if not earlier). But it was a time...