Let them bleed
Let them wash away
These precious things let them break
Their hold over me ~ Tori Amos
Twenty minutes changes the tone of a blog entry.
Truly, this has been a "week from hell." And it hasn't helped that this nasty, belated winter keeps its hold on the northeast. Here in Providence, we're averaging about ten degrees below normal for the month of March (Hint: No, moron. This doesn't mean the world isn't getting warmer.). I want to be in Alabama or Georgia. I want to see the hints of green and feel the beginning of warm weather. We won't see that here until, probably, late April. We are approaching Cold Spring. Ah, but I am a loathsome beast to the god-fucking-fearing eyes of the righteous people of the South, as they so often reminded me. So, I shiver in self exile. And there you go. It is what it is.
We last had a visitor over three months ago, and, somehow, this is my fault. My splendid isolation.*
And yet...this morning I hit 2,800 "friends" on Facebook. Irony.
But I have work.
On Thursday, I wrote 1,176 words on Chapter Five of Red Delicious. Yesterday, I didn't get any work done of the novel, but I had an interview, some proofreading for Alabaster, and email. The mail brought my copy of the limited edition of Stephen Jones' Book of Horrors, which includes my story "Charcloth, Firesteel, and Flint." I saw the pencils for Vince's beautiful illustration for "As Red As Red."
And I did at least leave the house, despite the bitter cold. It was the 76th anniversary of the death of Lovecraft, who died in 1937. Instead of going to his grave in Swan Point and risking paranoid security Nazis, we went to the Samuel Mumford House, HPL's last place of residence. I took with me a single moonstone and set it on the wrought-iron fence. HPL lived here from 1933 until his death. In this house he wrote "The Shadow Out of Time." There are photos behind the cut:
Outside the Samuel Mumford House. You can tell when I'm not doing well; I turn away from the camera.
As the sign notes, the house was moved in 1959 to its current location at 65 Prospect Street from 66 College Street. At least it was not demolished.
Wider view. Behind the house, across Meeting Street, the First Church of Christ Scientist (yeah, creepy).
If anyone ever hands me a few million, this will be mine and Kathryn's house.
At Rite Aid – Hell, thy name is "Peep."
Jesus died that we might have chocolate.
Kindernacht deli pizza!
And now...work. Which is what I have.
* One saves quite a lot on money, having no social life whatsoever.