Dear Sweet Filthy World

Sunny again today, but still with some clouds. Our high was, and presently is (so our high so far), 87˚F, with the heat index at 92˚F.

I woke at six this morning, which was earlier than I'd intended. But what the fuck, I'd gotten to sleep by midnight, so I figured I'd get up, have some breakfast, then get to work. And, instead, I fell the fuck back to sleep and woke at 8 a.m. Because I am a creature of excruciating habit, or excruciatingly a creature of habit, this threw the whole day into a less than productive tailspin. I finally gave up and played Guild Wars 2 and tried not the think about the words I did not get written today.

What am I writing? Fuck it, I'll tell you. The novel is called The Night Watchers, and it is essentially a new and more supernatural incarnation of the novel that would have been Interstate Love Song (based on the short-story of the same title). I really like it, all of it that's in my head, and that's a lot of it. If I can quit fucking around, it could be done by the end of the summer. The print and ebook versions will be published by Subterranean Press, and hopefully there will be an audiobook. Likely there will. It's set mostly in and around north-central Alabama, but spans many, many decades. The title is borrowed from Peter Straub's Ghost Story, one of my favorite books of all time, ever.

But you knew that about me and Ghost Story. I mean, if you are one of those Constant Readers.

But I gotta admit, balancing the fiction, no matter how much I like the novel at hand, with the sudden and marvelous paleontology opportunities is a challenge. But. Fiction keeps the rent paid and the lights on and food on the table. Paleontology just, you know, makes me feel like I'm doing what I was put on earth to do. And it's all sort of ironic. For me - as frustrating as I might find it, as much as I would usually rather be doing something else - writing is easy as pie. On the other hand, paleontology is fucking hard work – and I'm not talking about physically demanding fieldwork and fossil preparation. I'm talking about the intellectual rigor, discipline, and plain ol' smarts involved. So, I'm going to be busting my butt to do the fairly easy thing that pays the bills to earn the luxury of busting my butt to do the very hard thing that pays not one red cent. Irony. But, that said, I am just grateful for both opportunities, at this point in my life and at this point in history.

By the way, SubPress has announced Vile Affections (and the accompanying chapbook Cambrian Tales), and you may see the cover. In fact, you can now place preorders! Right here. Note: Only those who bought the signed numbered edition of Comes a Pale Rider may preorder the signed numbered edition of Vile Affections at this time. Anyone may preorder the trade hardcover.

And here's some crap I posted today to Twitter and Facebook:

I'm just waiting for one of these anti-COVID vaccine yahoos to realize that, in effect, every time they use any medication they are – in the eyes of pharmaceutical companies and medical science – essentially guinea pigs or lab rats or Rhesus monkeys, FDA approval or no.

~ and ~

Fact: When you are so afraid that you can only win an election when fewer people vote, so you try to make it harder and harder for folks to vote, especially those whom you suspect won't vote for you, you've failed democracy.

~ and this, which someone else said and which I retweeted ~

Let's perfectly clear...Democrats do not want to de-fund the police. Dems want to demilitarize and de-brutalize the police.

I leave you with my level 80 holosmith (an elite engineering specialization), Mandy J. Wolowitz (née Hansen), at Timberline Falls. Yes, she has a lightsaber.

Later Tater Beans,
Aunt Beast




3:50 p.m.

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Yeah, so. Crap Day the Next. Mostly sunny by afternoon. High of only 81˚F.

There are things that ought to take a few hours on one day to get done. A few hours on one day. But sometimes, shit just gets stupid, and between one thing and another what should be quick and easy and matter of fact becomes peculiarly resistant to completion. For example, the galleys for Vile Affections. More specifically, the copy editor's/production manager's notations. No, it has not yet been finished.

Today's movie was Tarantino's Reservoir Dogs (1992), still brilliant after all these years. I will say that I have always been disappointed there was not some marvelous symbolism hidden in the title, but, rather, to quote Wikipedia, the title "came from a customer at the Video Archives [where Tarantino was employed], who requested Louis Malle's 1987 film Au revoir les enfants, but mispronounced the title as 'reservoir dogs.'" Rimshot.

And speaking of stupid shit, the State of Alabama. We are now the least vaccinated state in the Union, at an embarrassing 29% of Alabamians fully vaccinated. Even Mississippi (just barely) is now better vaccinated than Alabama. And there's plenty of vaccine here. It's readily available pretty much everywhere. FUCKING FREE OF CHARGE. This is simply a matter of overall ignorance, anti-scientific bullshit, and partisan pigheadedness.

Later,
Aunt Beast




5:51 p.m.

Mostly cloudy today. I think there was some rain before I got up at 7 a.m. I think I remember the streets being wet. Our high was 84˚F, and it's currently 82˚F, with the heat index at 83˚F.

I started a new story this morning, currently labeled "Untitled 46." That might change, but it might not. I did 1,016 words.

Later, after reading for a couple of hours, I did some work on Winifred.

The afternoon movie was (what seems to have become my monthly viewing of) George Miller's Mad Max: Fury Road (2015). After dinner, I worked on some of the cave matrix. And now...here we are. A very productive and pleasantly unremarkable day.

The publication of Dr. Anthony Fauci's emails has mostly proven, once again, that the Trumpers and Far Right QAnon nuts can see the face of Jesus in any old grilled cheese sandwich.

As I said yesterday, and the day before yesterday, Spooky has eBay going again. Want one of my out-of-print, hard-to-find special editions, direct from me, signed by me to you, and want all the money to go directly into my pocket (well, minus eBay's cut and the IRS)? Yeah? Follow this link. Yeah, sorry. The link will have to do. The white rabbits are all busy with QAnon crap.

Later Taters,
Aunt Beast




7:57 a.m.

Sunny today, but the weather remains stubbornly more like March than latest may. Our high was only 75˚F. It is currently 75˚F.

Meh.

Half the day was spent on the ms. for the new edition of From Weird and Distant Shores, and I am done save the three-story bonus section for the lettered edition (or the numbered, or whatever it will be). I wanted to get the whole thing done today, but I reached a point thing afternoon when I'd had all of it I could take. Oh, and I want to write a short preface for the new edition, but we'll see. I was going to work on Winifred today, but I spent so much time and energy of the ms., that it just didn't happen. All the email I'd pile up and had to answer was the last straw. Tomorrow.

Generally speaking, new technology enters my life only when it is forced upon me. Or if it's pretty much free. Usually, that's the way it is. This is especially true with phones. I used the same old cellphone for about eleven years, until I finally managed to get a $1 iPhone from Sprint in the summer of 2015. We used it for six years, so that's 16.6¢/year for that phone. Not bad. Anyway, like much of the world, we have been forced to face the reality of 5G and Sprint/T-Mobile had a deal, which is mighty fucking considerate of them, given they were forcing us to ditch a perfectly good (if somewhat ancient) iPhone. It better last me at least six years. Oh, and while I'm on this, I really did not want to know there are people in the world so goddamn stupid that the WHO has to tell them that COVID-19 and other viruses cannot be spread by 5G mobile networks. If you believe even for a moment that, as a species, we're getting smarter just because a tiny percentage of clever humans are coughing up all this shiny tech, well, you are very sadly mistaken. We are at least as dumb as we ever were. It's just gotten easier the spread the idiocy around. 5G might not be a vector for COVID-19, but it's great for conspiracy theories.

Yeah, so. New phone. They made me.

We're watching The Big Bang Theory again, and last night we made it into Season Three. Bazinga!

This afternoon, no movie. Kathryn and I watched a new episode of Nova about the Hindenburg disaster and a new Nature about sharks in Hawaii. And I read more about South Polar dinosaurs.

I leave you with beets. I have no idea why, other than Kathryn thought they were pretty.

Later Taters,
Aunt Beast




1:43 p.m.

Hot again today. With the heat index, we made it to 101˚F. I went out back about 6 p.m., and it was still very hot. Currently, it's 84˚F, with the heat index.

Grim shit, everywhere I turn my head.

And insanity.

Anyway....stuff I posted on Facebook today:

“Loneliness is a part of writing, isn’t it?” —Jean Rhys

~ and ~

Apparently it is becoming commonplace to refer to me as a "polymath." I suppose that I am flattered.

~ and ~

In 2020, our civilization has reached a point where you depend on science for, essentially, everything: the internet, medicine, entertainment, IT, food production, monetary currency, automobiles, water, energy sources, national defense, communication, travel, and the very fabric in your clothing and the materials used in the construction of buildings. But. Now you will not listen to scientists who say simply wear a lightweight cloth or paper mask to save your lives and the lives of others (and the economy and our way of life)? Your world would not exist without the fruits of scientific research, and if you fail to listen, it may not exist as you know it for very much longer. You don't get to pick and choose, America. Science is a package deal. You're either in or out. And you no longer realistically have the choice to opt out.

I all but forgot to eat today. I had half a peanut butter sandwich and a banana.

Later,
Aunt Beast




5:41 p.m.

And today was a day.

Sunny and warm, for starters, though the real warmth comes back tomorrow. Our high was 78˚F, and it is currently 64˚F.

I had a doctor's appointment for 10:30 a.m. And just as we arrived at the clinic, the car died. Right after we pulled into a marvelously shaded parking space beneath a huge magnolia. I was pretty much sure it was the battery, but we had to go inside and worry about it later. Well, actually, we had to wait in the car half an hour until we were called in, since the waiting room is not being used due to Covid-19. My anxiety and a close call with a panic attack aside, I seem to be okay. Mostly, I'm doing a shit job of taking care of myself. I've lost about ten pounds, and Dr. Armour knew I was dehydrated by listening to my heart and hearing the mitral valve clicking, which was simultaneously alarming and sorta cool. I'm on a vitamin D supplement now, and I have to eat more and regularly, and drink water, and go outside, and get some exercise. I go back in late August, and hopefully by then I'll be more presentable.

Anyway, after the appointment we walked down the hill to the pharmacy (also harrowing), and then back up the hill and called AAA. A thoroughly jovial man showed up about forty-five minutes later and confirmed that it was the battery and swapped the crappy old one for a shiny new one. And we headed home.

It was the most eventful day I've had in at least a month. At least. I actually kind of enjoyed it all, I think. I know that might sound weird, but...I'm making myself sick hiding in this cave trying not to get sick, and I have to find a happy medium, some sort of balance.

Meanwhile, though I've been avoiding the news the past couple of weeks, I saw this morning that over 80k people have died in the US. Tonight, that's up to 83,019 people.

And this, something I posted to Facebook a few hours ago: I'm sure that someone wittier than I has already said this, but...wearing your mask so that it doesn't cover your nose, that's pretty much the same as cutting off the end of a condom before you fuck.

Oh...Spooky made me saag paneer and basmati rice for dinner and I ate it all.

Later Taters,
Aunt Beast




12:34 p.m.

I think I am too entirely tired for a journal entry tonight. Weather? It's cold again. Currently, 44˚F, windchill 38˚F.

McWane? Good day, but I worked my butt off. I finished the jugal, and it looks great. I made significant progress on a cervical vertebra. I spent another four hours on the air scribe...which is why I'm so tired and sore.

I came across this idiotic declaration this morning, and I posted it to Facebook:

Left-leaning people produce art. Right-leaning people appropriate art.

Yeah, some twit-wit actually said that. And I, fool that I fucking am, pointed out what a stupid, wrongheaded comment it was and cited Ray Bradbury* as evidence, as if any evidence is needed, as if the wrongheadedness and ignorance and stupidity isn't self-evident. And so people said a lot of even stupider shit, compounding the original act of stupidity, and I didn't have time to deal with the nonsense and finally took it down. The stupid wins.

Also...

As I said last night and night before, we're trying to bring in a little money from eBay while I wait on an overdue check. So, first up, a copy of Das ertrinkende Mädchen, the SOLD OUT ON PUBLICATION German-language edition of The Drowning Girl: A Memoir. Plus! A copy of the ALSO SOLD OUT Subterranean Press edition of Houses Under the Sea: Mythos Tales. Please have a look, and thanks.

Later,
Aunt Beast




3:21 p.m.


* He was the first who came to mind, almost randomly, of the hundreds of conservative writers, musicians, actors, painters, and so forth that I could have listed that this person seems to want to pretend have never existed.

I awoke to streaks of blue sky and to sun shining through the breaks in the clouds. But it didn't last, and soon the gloom and rain were back. The day got colder and wetter and wetter and colder. It was 60˚F at 10:50 a.m. At 5 p.m., it was only 49˚F. We are told we get sun tomorrow, after a foggy morning. It's been raining here since before Christmas. And it rained almost every day in December.

Whether or not we actually make it out into the field tomorrow will depend on the weather.

Today, we went to my mom's and washed clothes (and there was trip to Bass Pro Shops for tick repellent and to WalMart for socks). We'd not been to my mother's since the 11th. We got dinner from Milo's. I spent much of the day studying aerial photographs and reading about the Selma Group and Cretaceous mollusks.

Last night, we finished Mars. Very good.

Oh, and for my part, if people wanna do the Bird Box challenge, I say Netflix shouldn't fret over it. We call this natural selection. As of this morning, there are almost 7.7 billion humans on Earth. We can spare some of the dumber ones. (Also, awful, awful, stupid, sadistic movie.)

Later,
CRK




11:43 p.m. (last night)

I didn't think coming back would be this hard. I genuinely didn't. I thought the visit would give me strength that would help me endure. Help me abide in the coming cold. The cold that is here now. As with very many things, I was mistaken about that. If anything, the trip to Alabama only served to drive home how profoundly alien this place is to me and the sense that in no way do I belong here. It may be that it was a very bad idea, going.

I've been back three days, and, beyond a little email and a conversation with my agent, I've gotten nothing done.

And the anger is coming back at me. I've been living in role-play scenes, sleeping in between, trying not to think about it. But the role-play inevitably leads me to anger all its own, because people piss me off. Sooner or later, almost everyone pisses me off.

I need to find a way to push back the anger and work. Just work. Shut out everything else, but, really, there isn't anything else for me. I need to write a new story for the next issue of Sirenia Digest, which is #104. I need to find enough of the story for Alabaster: The Good, the Bad, and the Bird that I can get started on it as soon as the digest is out, because, as it stands, the script for part one is due on the twenty-third. The page proofs for Cherry Bomb will be arriving any day now.

More and more, the journal seems utterly fucking irrelevant.

Here's a series of photographs I took our last night in Leeds:

( Collapse )

Regretful,
Aunt Beast

After a brief interruption, the "vacation" resumes. Press PLAY.

This year, I have a motherfucking Xmas tree. Why? Blow me. "But, but...Aunt Beast! Aren't you betraying every fiber and tenant of your ideology, your atheism, your very being?!" Blow me. No one ever bothers to comment, anyway. Also, it's the first live Xmas tree I've had since about 1983. Also, it isn't having to be murdered to be my Xmas tree, and after the holidays we'll be planting it down at Spooky's parents' farm, where it will likely outlive us all three times over. To wit:



Chamaecyparis lawsoniana (photo by Spooky)

By now, all Sirenia Digest subscribers should have #84, our "Special Doomsday Issue." It went out late last night.

---

Believe it or not, I try not to make fun of stupid people. Well, okay. I sometimes try not to make fun of stupid people. Anyway, when I don't find them angrifying – stupid people – they can be quite amusing. To wit (again!!!), this Amazon "review" of The Drowning Girl: A Memoir, in which Jane Easterly of Somewhere, Illinois, felt compelled to write:

I'm not quite sure how to describe or review this book. I can't really say I enjoyed it, but it kept me interested and I had to keep reading until the end. I'm not even sure what happens in the book, but I think that is part of the author's intent. The scenes of mental illness certainly felt real; the ghost stories, I'm not sure.

And I suppose I ought feel like a shit, since this is sort of positive, since she is positive, in a mealy mouthed sort of way, even though she "can't really say I enjoyed it." Sweet and charitable lady, she is.

Look, folks. The Drowning Girl, it ain't goddamn rocket science. "Felt real"? This is what happens when people spend their lives "reading" Stephen King, Laurell K. Hamilton, Nora Roberts, Tom Clancy, Jim Butcher, et al., instead of actual novels. You grow up dumb. Precious reading comprehension cells never mature. It's bad. Now I'm reading back over the review, and wondering if, instead of being a moron, Miss Easterly is a weird sort of genius. Like, ingeniously clueless. See, it's not as though she's wrong on any particular point. In fact...um, never mind.

I'm a wicked, wicked beast.

Never Minding,
Aunt Beast