Last Chance to Evacuate

Little over an hour left of '03 now. I've spent the evening hanging out with my lovely wife and Caren, getting pleasantly buzzed, having a laid-back New Year's Eve. Laid-back is good.

A little melancholy, a little relieved. So it goes.

Still, pretty good year.

Much love to you all.

Twenty-Nine, Thirty, Thirty-One

Three days left of '03. Weird.

Good Christmas. Especially good post-Christmas get-together out on the Hill with Jeff and Matt and Patrick and Bernice. Much wine was drunk, and certain plans were made.

It was nice coming home to our own house, but everything there is to do is more than a little overwhelming. It still feels like home-in-progress. Frustrating sort of limbo, being half moved in. I just want to unpack and be effing done with it.

On top of this (or possibly because of it), the post-holiday blahs have set in early. This is a phenomenon so consistent that I wonder if there shouldn't be some way of actively honoring it rather than just enduring it. I think a lot of predictable depression and melancholy might be weathered better by not pretending it isn't going to happen.

Anyway, that's how it stands in the year's denoument. At least the days get longer from here.

The Grey Havens

Well, I'm off for three days to WV, where the missus and I will be visiting family and doing the Xmas cheer thing. Happy holidays to all and sundry.

Updates on the weekend, when I return. Till then - slán. Tip back a cup of something warm and lovely in the meantime, and here's hoping you get lots of presents.

Dan v. Inner Critic, Part XIX

Just as my courage begins to be steeled, this. Dammit.

Sigh.

Come the New Sun

Happy Solstice to all and sundry - sources disagree whether it was last night or tonight, but in any case, lighting a candle or two in honor of Sol Invictus can't hurt.

Patrick writes more on this over at newly-bloggified Thing in a Jar. Go forth and comment.

For my own thoughts on this, I wrote up a midwinter blessing three years ago that pretty much sums it all up for me:

The long night is almost here. As each of us prepares for our personal celebrations of the winter holidays, let me send all of you my thoughts and blessings - a bit of cheer to keep with you at the winter's darkest hour.

Remember that, whatever holiday we honor, sacred or secular, festive or ceremonious, we also gather together to keep light in the darkness, reminding us that day and warmth and light return, and that death and bleak winter are necessary for the turning of the Wheel. Remember this in the colors of the season:

Remember it in deep red, color of blood and wine, for the sharing of life and joy and hearth with your best-loved, and the ties of hearts' blood and shared cups binding you together; and for the fire of vitality coursing in you and around you, even at the darkest of times.

Remember it in green, color of life and the earth, for the tenacity of evergreen trees in the cold winter, for the promise of summer's return in its time, and for the web of life that ties us all to each other and the world.

Remember it in silver and gold, for the richness of lives filled with good things, material and otherwise; and for light, sun's gold and moon's silver and the million glittering stars, honoring that which both lights your path and awakens you to the vastness and glory of creation.

And remember it in white, the pure white of new snow and winter skies; the white of blank canvases for new beginnings in a new year; of transcendence and spirit and intangible things; and of the pure light of the returning sun, about to be reborn and ascend, full of cleansing and possibility.

To all of you, my love and best wishes. May the coming year bring you richness and joy, and may you be merry and in good company always. You are in my thoughts.

If I don't get another chance to say so, happy holidays to you all, and my love. Keep the fires lit tonight.

I am the Middle Finger of Sauron

To all of you who have already seen (or are now playing hooky in order to see) Return of the King on opening day, I have only this to say:

You suck. You suck. You suck.

That is all.

Last Night on Maudlin Street

Well, now it's done. We moved the last of our stuff out of the old apartment last night and said our goodbyes to our old home. It was a bit sad - that place was ours for five years, and it's hard to let it go and move on, even though our new home is quite wonderful. Farewells are hard, better place or no.

Weirdly, it looked much smaller without all our stuff in it. Partly I attribute this to Stacy's superior natural sense of feng shui, though I also suspect our presence had something to do with it. I don't know if that makes any sense or not.

Anyway, it's done now. Our last few hours in our last (let's hope) apartment. Turned in the keys at the office on the way home. I hope it's as good to its next owners as it was to us.

Stacy's not feeling so well today, and came home halfway through the day. We've both been tired and stressed, adjusting to a new sleep schedule and a long commute; I'm not surprised something nasty took the opportunity when her defenses were down. Send some good energy her way.

And, finally, a small development: Thing in a Jar now has a cover page. Just a logo so far, but I'm all about setting the stage for style over substance. (Indeed, why stop now?)

"A Place Not Found on Any Map"

So - we are now moved into the new place, as of yesterday (moved as in "almost all our stuff is now here," not as in "unpacked and living like normal people," but so it goes).

Friday night it felt like it was never going to happen; last night it felt like it was hardly real. We are now residents of Edgewood, in our own house - too weird for words. But it already feels like home, even surrounded by boxes. I think this place wanted to be taken care of, and it's welcoming us in.

Our cable got installed this morning (Hooray!), allowing me to have an opportunity to blog and whatnot, and fueling the fires of procrastination for our unpacking efforts. I'm okay with that, though. It's Sunday, we're home, all is well.

Aaaaaah.

Under Deconstruction

Those of you who have been checking in on Tony's blog may have seen that there's some coolness in the works, in the form of the up-and-coming website Patrick's been kicking off for the three of us to do projects and weirdness and whatnot on. The fun will commence at thinginajar.com as soon as we all get some time to devote to it.

(Credit for that name goes, ultimately, to Spyder, her with the disturbing craft projects and all, whose reaction to our newly-christened domain was "I love you people.")

There's nothing there yet but a line of virtual bumblebee tape, but Watch This Space for updates. And expect a great deal of loopy strangeness coming from that quarter in the months ahead.

Black Tape on a Blue Girl

I noted with some wide-eyed shock that yesterday's new Suicide Girl was a Porcupine Tree fan from Long Island with blue-streaked hair who goes by Angel.

Dammit, Spyder, if you can't keep these people inside your head... well, I'm not going to be held responsible for the consequences, is all I'm sayin'.

I post this in the full understanding that I have totally busted myself. "What were you up doing last night, sweetie?" "Um, packing boxes..."

Suffer a Sea-Change

I feel about nine times better today than two days ago. Some emergency therapy helped, as did the support of all you good folks. Thank you; it means the world.

I think a lot of it has to do with this week of transition - the big change and all the hundred things that have to get done for it to happen on schedule. In a few days all that will be over, though.

I went up to the new place Monday night and felt so good about walking in (even empty, it seemed to welcome me home) that a whole lot of my anxiety dissipated. Plus, it's hard to feel too sad standing under a clear cold December sky on the night of a bright full moon. I think something wanted to let me know that it was All Going to Be Okay.

And even before that, I was driving up listening to The Highbury Working and "The Angel Highbury" came on just as the lights of Baltimore appeared on the horizon, which I took for some sort of Sign. Listened to the Tallis Scholars sing "Spem in alium" on the way home (very possibly the most beautiful piece of music written by anyone, ever) and felt very much that all shall be well.

Of course, what I really want to be doing is writing, the withdrawal from which is affecting me in some very odd ways. But I suppose I'd rather suffer separation anxiety from my novel than be sick of looking at the damn thing, which sort of happened last year. Does this make me a Real Writer now? Seems a bit of a mixed blessing. But I guess I knew that already.

Down Here

Black mood continues apace. It's getting hard to tell if it has to do with something real, something imaginary, something real but minor that I've inflated to tragic proportions, or just the fucking weather. But in any case, I've been bleakly unhappy for nearly a week now, and see no end in sight.

Also really did something unpleasant to my back this weekend, for that extra dose of crappiage. "Throbbing" is not always a good word, you know.

Whine whine whine bitch grumble moan.

Anyway.

Even though high
I am blue
blue as sky
cobalt hue
and if the sun falls
I fall too
to the sea
seeking you

and if extinguished I'd be happier
than alone on fire and free
would you then stay
down here
with me

And that's about it. Off to sulk in private now. Aren't I a beacon of light? Thanks, I'll be here all week.

The Hook

This has not been a good week, for a variety of reasons, none of which I'll bother you folks with. The upshot has been a two-day cloud of despair that's been hanging over me and, among other things, resurfacing all my doubts and fears about the worth of my work.

Well, no, that's not it. My work is something I feel pretty good about, by and large. My doubts have to do with the suspicion that I am exactly the right combination of neurotic and stubborn to assure that I will never be much more than a talented amateur. Part of me is okay with this. The other part is taking the opportunity to indulge in a bit of self-loathing over what a hugely messed-up dork I am.

(Other people talk about "fear of rejection" in such a way that I always think we mean different things by it, because it seems they mean "it's difficult and hurts my feelings" and I mean "it fills me with soul-crushing, panic-attack-inducing phobic terror." Nothing has ever, ever made this better for me, especially not the notion that, hey, you just have to learn to deal.)

None of which is anyone's problem but mine. Just venting. My apologies. Normal service will resume as soon as we figure out what the fuck that means.

Blues of the New Bards

Sometime today, if it hasn't happened already, the link to the right that reads "Dan on MP3" will cease to function.

This is because MP3.com (note absence of link) is undergoing what in the world of business might be termed a "reorg," which when I went through it meant they fired your ass and made you reapply for your own job. This isn't far afield of that. Which means that, for the nonce, I am a folksinger without an online home. I can't imagine I'll want to go back to MP3.com when it becomes whatever strange beast it will in its new incarnation; this is only the last and most dramatic of several changes made over the last few years that turned what used to be a great artist-friendly site for exposure and community into something that someone apparently hopes will make them wealthy in a hurry.

It's a damn shame, too, since for me MP3.com was the means by which I got the single best fan letter I may ever hope to recieve, from Tom Ligotti, in response to my song "Good Tom-Go-Lightly" (which was written about him, and about which he said, among other things, that "it's clear you understand your subject in a way most others never will"; I still get that out and look at it from time to time when I'm having a day of Doubting the Work). I can't imagine I'm the only one to have made a connection like that, which was a reward more real and priceless than any amount of cash I could hope to make from doing what I do. It's very sad that the kind of folks who want to turn online music services (and the artists who contribute to them) into money machines will never, ever get this.

When the insanity of getting into the new house is done with, I'll probably be looking into signing up on IUMA.com, which others have spoken highly of. I actually tried to do this a couple of months ago, and the site thought I already had, which might only mean that my future self is going to come back in time any minute now and give me the password. In any case, I'll update as it happens.

And this will hopefully coincide, too, with some new developments in the way of cool musical projects (which is what you call it when you're two or three guys with computers, because it's hard to think of that as a "band"). But no more of this just yet. As the Crims say - "we'll let you know."

What? No Asian Spice?

It's that time again over at Andy's blog - another list has been posted of proposed candle scents to horrify and amuse. This one may even be better than the last time.

I think Urinal Cake has potential, myself.

Whoohoo! Huzzah!

I did it, again. 50,381 words, right under the wire. That's two for two.

If you'd asked me two weeks ago, I'd've had my doubts.

Oh, man. I am one tired novelist now. G'night, all.

Sleep Has His House

Went to settlement today for the house in Edgewood. We are now Homeowners. Damn.

It wasn't really scary, even. Just weird to think how fast all this happened - three and a half weeks from "Hey, this one looks nice" to "Sign your name, here are the keys."

We're in the process of packing now, which is almost as much fun as I remember from the last time we did it. We officially move on the 13th, and bid apartment life farewell, one hopes, forever.

Thanks to all you folks who sent your good wishes and congratulations. We're incredibly happy about this - it's a new chapter in our lives, and one we're more than ready to start. And 11/25 is hereby proclaimed House Day.

...Have Pity On the Dead

On a sadder note, Caren's aunt passed away last night after a long battle with cancer. Any love and good wishes sent her way would be much appreciated, I'm sure.

Two and a half years ago, my own aunt and uncle (my mom's two siblings) passed into the Western Lands within six months of each other, and are still missed. It's never easy to say goodbye, no matter what; one of the things about grief is that you never get over it, you just learn to live with it. But you also learn that death is only hard on the living. I don't pretend to have any answers about what happens After, even to comfort myself in loss, but I can say that even feeling that absence gets easier with time. And you come to celebrate life all the more for knowing that it is, inevitably, terminal.

Have pity on the dead
Pray for the dead
Sleep has his house
Sleep has his house
Overwhelm me
Overwhelm me
Forever
Forever
Sleep has his house
Sleep has his house

Safe journey, Aunt Fran. You will be remembered.

Neil Knows

This just posted today in Neil Gaiman's journal, as if just for us struggling final-week NaNoers:

Sometimes lousy writing days are lousy writing days because you're still figuring something out, and you're not quite ready to let yourself know what it is. And sometimes they’re just days when your head doesn’t want to do the thing where anything worthwhile ever seems to make it out of your fingertips.

Wooch. Word.

Off now to see which sort of day I'm about to have.

Me and Ray and the Big Red Guy

At long last, the trailer for the upcoming Hellboy movie is now online.

Cue Dorkgasm.

I found out about this when Spyder both sent the link and called last night, sounding like she'd just been laid. (And in fact, after I'd sat and watched it with her on the line, one of us said "I need a cigarette," but damned if I can remember which of us it was. We are at times the Geek with Two Heads to a frightening extent, la mia sorella and I.) I think it was decided somewhere in there that I'll probably be trekking up to New York for that premier in the spring - it was, after all, partially a mutual love of Mignola that brought about that particular meeting of the minds a year and a half ago over email, when I got my first unsolicited fan art for a Jenny Haniver story I posted on Fantasybits along with a complimentary note that there was something a bit Hellboy-like about my tale, to which I responded that that probably wasn't a coincidence, and one of the Great Correspondences followed soon after.

And even now, as I sweat and labor over Jenny's exploits in the current NaNovel, I take inspiration from Mike Mignola's wonderful creation - especially in the knowledge that you can write a hero who's a big indefuckingstructible Mary Sue and, if you play your cards right, make him (or her) so much fun that nobody gives a damn.

All of which reminds me that I really need to put "One of Those Nights" online sometime, considering it also references a couple of other folks in our leetal community (not to mention John Constantine, Nobilis, Neil Gaiman, and Tom Ligotti, among others, and uses both "synchronicities" and "pugilist" in the lyrics - I really need to do an annotated version if I expect anyone at all to keep up). Not on MP3.com, though, which is "restructuring" again or some such nonsense soon - maybe IUMA, despite it having seemed to have eaten Tony's page there of late.

Back to the grindstone now - I got pages to go before I sleep.

Blogonomicon, Revised and Expanded

Catching up with the rest of us exhibitionists, my big brother Tony now has a blog, which has now been added to the Blogroll at right as well. Whoohoo and huzzah! Hopefully he'll get him some comments one of these days and properly integrate into our online circle o' love.

Also, that same worthy list now has updated its links to reflect the move of Vishal's Restart Twice (now, I should think, misnamed by several steps) to its new home, with camblog-enhanced fun. (I note that the Mumbai train station, at least from the angle there, looks disconcertingly like the MARC train platform right here in Union Station - something I'll be seeing all too much of in the near future - proving that the further abroad you go, the more familiar stuff starts to get. Or something.)

And, as a final update, those of you who, like me, were a bit concerned about the radio silence coming from Andy's direction of late - fear not. I spoke with him last night, and he's alive and well (and hard at work NaNoing), and promises a return to the Blogosphere shortly.

In the meantime, Dork Tower gives us this strange intersection of cosmic spheres. Come to thing of it, that Mr. Kovalic does look awfully sharp in his publicity photos....

The Magus at Half a Century

Today is the 50th birthday of Alan Moore, comics revolutionary, magician, musician, writer par excellence, snake-worshipper, and all-around genius. Drink his health in a blood-red cup, and let a chorus of scorpions rise to do him homage; we are lucky, here in Malkuth, to have had him among us. Long may the Mystery have him remain.

Now, there are those who praise Watchmen, and rightly so. And From Hell is a work of towering, staggering dark brilliance; and I have bright hopes for a future where young women (and men) have grown up on the hermetically-charged wonder that is Promethea. And this is not to mention the debt we owe him for League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, or the revival of Swamp Thing, or John Constantine. But V for Vendetta was the one that I can really say changed my life and the way I think.

"Anarchy wears two faces, both creator and destroyer. Thus destroyers topple empires; make a canvas of clean rubble where creators can then build a better world. Rubble, once achieved, makes further ruins' means irrelevant. Away with our explosives, then! Away with our destroyers! They have no place within our better world. But let us raise a toast to all our bombers, all our bastards, most unlovely and most unforgivable. Let's drink their health... then meet with them no more."
- V for Vendetta, p. 222

Happy birthday, Alan. My thanks, and many happy returns.

"And like this insubstantial pageant faded..."

The Tempest wrapped yesterday, after a fine three-weekend run, having reached its peak of greatness right at the end. Which is as it should be.

I'm sad it's over; it's hard to let it go after all this time. It was a milestone for me. But I got very, very lucky with this one. I had a talented cast who worked hard, and they made me proud. (A crew, too, who were consummate professionals, and who deserve as much applause.) I'll miss them; I'll miss seeing the work they accomplished here. I hope they stay in touch.

At strike yesterday, they presented me with Propero's staff (I was sure Brenden, who put all kinds of love and hard work into making it look properly magickal, was going to quietly adopt it) and a facsimile edition of the First Folio (which is difficult to read without getting flashes of Good Omens, unsurprisingly). I was truly, truly touched. Good people all around.

The Vasty Deep remains somewhat behind schedule, if not as grievously so as before. I broke 18,000 last night what with staying up too late (cue Nils Frykdahl) and at least I'm actually at a place where I think I can make it now. More erotica helped. Kind of nice to know, at least for my poor suffering heroine's sake, that it doesn't turn November but Jenny gets laid. All for the word count, baby, yeah!

Also, take Maija's advice and go watch the teaser trailer for the next Harry Potter movie. It's delicious. It looks like a Ted Naifeh comic come to life, and has Gary Oldman in the Sirius Black role, resembling nothing so much as a Songs from the Wood-era Ian Anderson. Hurrah!

"Looks like meat's back on the menu, boys"

Alex sent us this article yesterday, about the apology being given by the villagers of Nabutautau, Fiji to the descendants of the Reverend Thomas Baker for their own ancestors having clubbed and eaten him back when that sort of thing went on more often. They're hoping this will lift what they see as a curse of bad fortunes plaguing the community ever since. I suppose they feel that eating missionaries registers a bit higher on the Evil Meter than just eating your neighbors in the normal run of things, or else all of Fiji would be having "Sorry we boiled your great-great-granddad" parties all over the place, and time for little else.

(I don't know, though - I feel a bit let down by the whole event. Part of me feels like, if there was any poetry in the universe, they'd have gathered all those folks into the village, started to feel the effects of a few rounds of klava, looked around, and said, "Oh, what the hell, for old times' sake. Break out the forks, lads.")

We were in Suva too briefly to go see the Rev. Baker's boot in the Fiji Museum (apparently the only thing left uneaten; waste not, want not), but since we heard that particular nugget of island history I've been wanting to do a Jenny Haniver story set in Fiji, using that incident - one of the few recorded cases of white men being victims of cannibalism, by the way - as the seed idea. I may play with that after The Vasty Deep goes through a rewrite or two.

Speaking of which, since I'm not posting the WIP online this year (first-publication rights, y'know), if you're one of my loyal readers and want to get a load of this travesty while it's still happening, let me know. I won't vouch for the quality of either the plot or the prose, but it does have monsters, and magicians-in-big-coats, so that's good. And I just dropped in the first weird supernatural sex scene last night, right before 10k. Hooray!