Minty Randomness
March 14
I didn't write last night. I went to Au Coquelet and read Red by Jack Ketchum, which is a small masterpiece; I'm going to review it, and I'm going to say very nice things. A beautiful, short, wonderful novel. It comes out in May in an expensive limited edition... don't know if a more affordable edition will come out. It's too bad; the book deserves a wider audience than it's likely to get. Maybe my review will convince a couple of people to buy it who wouldn't otherwise do so.
I found something very nice in my PO box in Berkeley; Erin Donahoe, poet and fellow Ism, sent me Your New Favorite Band by The Argument, and a nice postcard, to cheer me out of my woes. It's always risky to send someone music, but it's a lovely CD, by a band I might never have otherwise encountered, and I thank her a thousand times for the diversion and for thinking of me.
The image of a woman in a box keeps recurring... "Inflatable Amy" by The Argument conjures the image, especially insofar as it reminds me of "Girl in a Box" by the Blake Babies, and tonight Heather mentioned Boxing Helena (which I've never seen, but Heather told me all about it a while back), and then in the new porn Heather brought home for review there's a scene where a guy opens up a big footlocker/chest and a girl in a nightie pops out... it's an odd and disturbing image, in any of its varieties, but I suppose its recurrence is only coincidence. Just like two days ago, when I saw five people in five different places walking beside the road on my way to work, when normally I don't see anyone on foot... no consequence, but such things are suggestive to a mind like mine. Being a writer. It's like that.
People continue to say nice things about "Bone Sigh" to me, which is pleasant. I wouldn't have said it's one of my best pieces, as I tend to like my longer, more complex stories better, but apparently it works well. I'm glad; when I wrote it, I wanted to do a short mood-piece, contemplative and image-based, and I seem to have succeeded.
My co-worker is correct; I forgot to mention the singing kung-fu hamsters in my last entry, and what could be more surreal than they? She provides a link to an informative page about kung-fu hamsters, so I won't bother to do so (though I truly like the last line in the description, "Check out all our Singing & Dancing hamsters"; it's a masterly bit of copywriting, isn't it? So enticing!). I work in a strange and sometimes annoying and often wonderful place.
Someone did a bit of slightly inexpert culture jamming over by Macarthur BART; even though it's not perfectly executed, it still cheers my vaguely anarchist heart. The big ad that normally reads "If news gets broken, blame us", Channel so-and-so News, now reads "If truth gets ignored, blame us", Corporate News. The letters aren't quite perfectly aligned, and the background doesn't quite match, so even at a glance it doesn't look real... more's the pity. Still. Good to see the effort.
(Go here for links to all you ever wanted to know about culture jamming; and, of course, check out Adbusters and their jam gallery for all the latest jams. I love this stuff. It's so discordian.)
Hmm. I was achy and feeling ill, today... not sure if I'm sick or what. Last night I went to bed at 11:30 (which is 2 or 3 hours earlier than usual), and still I was worn-out all day. Sigh. Not a good sign. I was quite nauseous this morning, too, but fortunately, it passed. I didn't even call in sick; aren't I virtuous?
Tonight, Heather was away, so I laid about on the couch for a while, then mustered the energy to go to Au Coquelet (which seems to be where I go, lately, though it's not exactly convenient, as I have to take the train to get there; but I like it, and there are always tables, and I can work well there). I read a good bit of Threshold (having finished War for the Oaks last night), by Caitlín Kiernan. It's a very good book, so far, amazingly well written. I sometimes find her writing confusing and vague, but not so here... I read a novella by Jonathan Carroll today, Black Cocktail. Quite cool, but the last 2 pages covered 2 years worth of events in a brief summary, and the ending was sort of dropped out of the sky. It clearly could have been novel-length if he'd written that last bit in the same detail that he did the rest... I wonder why he didn't. Maybe he just lost steam, or didn't like the characters anymore, or maybe it's just exactly the right length for what he intended, and it simply didn't work for me as a reader. It was nice to find something new and substantial to read by him, since I've read all his novels (just waiting for White Apples to come out!) and most of his stories.
I'm right there with Jed when it comes to mint chocolate; I can't stand it. In fact, the other night I bought Heather a pint of mint chocolate ice cream so that I wouldn't be tempted to eat it myself, which is usually a problem when I get her ice cream. I like the peanut butter girl scout cookies, though, and Heather bought me some, so all is well...
I wanted to write tonight, but my wrists hurt rather badly from computering, and I couldn't seem to concentrate at Au Coquelet well enough to handwrite anything substantial; I started a poem that didn't go anywhere, though the idea may become a short-short story. Maybe. Who knows? I want to write a lot this weekend, though... Heather and I both plan to do a lot of that sort of work.
More lucid dreams last night. When the wad of hundred dollar bills we found in the suitcase in the ditch by the boat turned out to be counterfeit, I exerted control and made them be real again, and thus the dream ended happily instead of in disappointment... it's like being a petulant and rather absent-minded god, this lucid dreaming business...
Two blogs I've been reading lately: Wil Wheaton's (yeah, me too) and Charles Stross's. Very different. Both interesting. When I'm suitably motivated I'll add them to my links page.
I suppose I've wandered all over enough topics for tonight. Bye.
Words written since February 1, 2002: 29,100
Words written since last entry: 0. Sick, bad wrists, can't think. The usual excuses.
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