Since Mars is so big and gorgeous right now, I pulled out the telescope and checked it out. Considering I live in a pretty light-polluted city, it was probably ideal star-gazing conditions as I'm going to get. No moon, clear midwinter skies with not too much cold. Lounging on my back deck in my cushy bathrobe, I was able to see Mars through the basic lens on my telescope as a sparkly red dot. I tried my hardest to see it through the higher-powered lens, but when I was oh-so-close my muscles finally cramped and I gave up. The field of vision is so narrow at that power that any bump makes it shake out of position, and focusing is a bitch.
But, using the low-powered lens, I also checked out:

The Andromeda Galaxy --a big smudgy blur, but hey! it's a galaxy.
The Orion Nebula--pretty but disappointingly monochromatic. And
The Pleiades--Gorgeous.
I think maybe I saw the Beehive Cluster, but I'm not sure.

My iPod has a simple planetarium program that shows where stuff is, though it doesn't show individual star names, or anything but the Messier designation of deep-sky objects. Still, it was pretty helpful.

I dreamed I went to a museum in downtown Seattle with my parents. We parted ways when the museum closed. I had to get to the ferry, and decided to walk the few blocks. I kept getting encouraging text messages from my dad. The phone would go off with a gentle >ping!< Then, I woke up, and the pinging continued. WTF?
Turns out, I'd forgotten to turn on my alarm. I was using a streaming radio alarm on my ipod, but I wanted to test it first and therefore leave my regular alarm on too. Forgot to do that latter part. For some mysterious reason, my streaming radio program doesn't use radio as the alarm, but rather, this gentle, soothing pinging.

No wonder I was dreaming of heading to the ferry. My brain was telling me I was on my way back to waking.

I'm almost feeling bac to normal. My head's still foggy, and my throat still aches, but not as much as before.

Warning, jargon-filled spirituality talk ahead:
I finally got myself a copy of The Middle Pillar, by Israel Regardie*. (Garden of Pomegranates, too, though I haven't started on that one yet.) I haven't read it since J left, but it influenced me a lot way back when. Now that I'm more mature and focused, I'm able to consider it more deeply. It works as a very good Guide To Understanding Large Swaths Of My Philosophy, so I'm letting myself mark it up with comments and underlines, something I never, ever do. The edition I got has comments by the Ciceros, which I'm grateful for because I agree with them that sometimes Regardie pulls a WTF. It drives me bonkers that he identifies the Freudian id with the highest levels of the Qabalistic soul. Even if I didn't just want to leave Freud out of the picture entirely, I'd say the id=nephesh** and leave it at that.


*Recent occultist who studied Qabala through a Jungian lens. Re-reading him, it looks like he's got the same Catholic slant that I've got.

**to be simplistic, the animal soul. If ever you see the word "ghost" or "corpse" in the Old Testament, the original word may well have been "nephesh." One the reasons I like Qabala is that it gives me a new way of looking at the Bible and faith I grew up with. It's gone a long way to reconciling grown-up me with childhood me.

These past couple of days I've been sick and lonely. And because I'm sick*, I can't do much to alleviate the loneliness. I'd actually forgotten what it's like, being lonely. I think I'm starting a new phase of my life, and should actually go find a club or something. Maybe a crafting one, since I really need to do more of that.

*At least, I'm fighting off sickness. I'm good enough to go into work, just not to do much thinking. At least I didn't get the nasty stomach bug some of my friends had.

Jessamyn West.

One Jessamyn West just started guest blogging on Boing Boing. I saw this last night.
This morning, I opened my book to a short story by another, older, Jessamyn West (no relation).
Just now, my Free Will Astrology horoscope involves a quote by Jessamyn West, (the elder).

My monkey brain isn't pulling any profound meaning out of this one. (And indeed that horoscope was boring. Admit you had happy times in your childhood, it said. Already done. Boring. Free Will is usually nice and synchronistic, but lately it's either boring or infuriating.) I hate it when synchronicity isn't profound.

Just got back from Avatar 3D. It was just what I expected--beautiful imagery, standard plot and characters.
What I want to talk about is ancestors. Has anyone written a story about what a lousy idea it would to take advice from your ancestors? Specifically, being able to speak directly to your ancestors, not just the general praying for protection that you get in a lot of cultures.

Because seriously. While there's something to be said for the wisdom of age, there's also something to be said for ignoring a giant collective mob of homophobia and racism who just might tell me that the answer to my problems is to marry a nice man. Granted, they might not say that. It would be interesting to see how the genuinely mature ancestors balance out your great, great uncle who got kicked to death by his horse when he fell off during a drunken lynching.

I found a new poet to adore. V Penelope Pelizzon.
She has my love for tropical aquarium as metaphor.

I'm going to try to keep my GoodReads up to date, if for no other reason than to remind myself that I actually do get some reading done.

I just finished Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, the second book for me to finish reading entirely on my new iPod. It's both an amazing and frustrating read. Amazing because every event and description is vibrantly drawn and usually mesmerizing. Frustrating, because there's a LOT of vibrantly drawn description.
I read it for Captain Nemo, since I want to write a short story featuring him. He's by far the best drawn character in the book, and if you want a look at how to define a character solely by their motivations, self-made environment and actions, then read this. His back story is only barely hinted at, his relationships with his crew mostly one-sided (he likes his crew, his crew likes him. That's all we know.) I was disappointed to learn that everything I know about Captain Nemo from movies and such, is pretty much all there is to know (however, I'm going to read The Mysterious Island next, which should add a little more.) However, he's mysterious and evocative and by leaving so much to the imagination, the reader is able to make a lot out of him. I definitely place him among my favorite characters ever, probably because like me, he's a hard and thoughtful person, but he's driven in bold ways by a level of passion I wish I had.
I wanna be a pirate roaming the seas with my band of bitter, bitter buddies being secretive and feeling better than everyone else!

However, worst ending ever! A lot of things are out of date in this book, of course (Dugongs=not ferocious. South Pole=not sailable to.) but worst of all is that Verne predates the memo that tells writers not to leave out the climax and instead just skip to the end and say, "And then I woke up in a fisherman's hut."
He also missed the memo that says, "If you're going to write a sequel that takes place sixteen years after the first book, don't say it takes place two years before the first book happened! Especially don't have your character die two years before their adventure that took place 'sixteen years ago.'"

Author contradictions mean I won't fret over putting Captain Nemo twenty or so years after he supposedly lived!

Having heard that awriter has never seen The Goonies, I remedied this tonight. Probably...you have to have grown up with it.

However.

One thing I'd never seen, which was included with the special features, was the Cyndi Lauper music video, which I will here embed for your pleasure. Probably you'll need to be on as many drugs as Cyndi and company were when they made it. It's Loooonnnggg... originally a two-parter, I think. However, at least try to watch the end, which has the weirdest and best deus ex machina ever. EVER.
About 10:30 minutes in.

I want Summon Andre the Giant as my superpower!

Scientists finding ways to turn rattan into artificial bone implants.

Ancient Egyptian eye makeup may have had health benefits.

Kit Whitfield discusses why it's bad when horror movies make us sad rather than scared. Or, how to deal with the consequences of the emotions you evoke in your stories. If you want to make someone sad, you have to give them space to grieve. In horror, there's no time for that, therefore you shouldn't try to evoke sadness in the first place. Kit's got a lot of other interesting things to say on horror.

Religious optical illusion. Only click if you can handle really bad puns.

Gambling on volcanoes. Mt. Rainer's got 11/1 odds of a serious eruption in the next year.

And Lo! I have written a novelette!
It's that B17 bomber story I worked so hard to research last year, the one that I didn't intend to be about being a lesbian, but totally ended up that way, because it's still hard being a lesbian in the 40s, even if you're stuck in an alternate WWII with Pan's Labyrinth-esque fairies.
I love this story, even if there's probably some rough and saggy parts in the middle.
And at 14,000 words, I think there's like three markets where I can send it before sticking it up on my website to show what I'm capable of.

So I'm researching The Montana Book, perusing Google Street View, which has expanded since I last explored the valley with it. Now, I can see that, sweet bejeezus, this withered old snag that was a withered old snag twenty five years ago when I was still a kid visiting my grandparents in Montana is still standing. It's weird what sticks with you.

I'm jittery right now, thanks to the new roommate situation. We've got one woman stopping by tonight, and we're meeting another guy for coffee tomorrow. This is putting me seriously off balance since hey, my home and my roommates are an important part of my life and identity, and I'm going to be intentionally bringing a complete stranger into this. At least I have a nice impression of our current candidate. I hope she likes us, too. One interesting thing to come of this is that I now feel like an editor. I got sixteen responses in less than 24 hours on the Craigslist ads. So here's a hint to people looking for a room: describe yourself and your living requirements a little. Offer to meet for coffee and please, if possible, don't have spelling errors. Assure us you've got a job. However, a generic "Hi, I'm Joe, let me know if the room's still open", is better than a description that makes you sound creepy.

In addition to roommate stress, I've probably got some post-novel ennui. So to keep myself distracted, I read a book (see previous post) and then sketched out my next novel. That helped, but exacerbated some stress, since this next novel is The Montana Book, and is exploiting the intense emotions I have wound up in the Bitterroot Valley. (The main character and I each have the same goal--to understand and banish the power this place holds over us.) And so, thinking on the book stirs up emotions.

Screw all that. It's time for the Day Job.

Last night I finished reading Cherie Priest's "Those Who Went Remain There Still". (About some Hatfield/McCoy analogs fighting monsters in creepy gross caves.) I shut it, put it back in the little plastic sleeve Subterranean sends out their books in, went to the bathroom, then checked Twitter.
kaerfel was saying she was in the mood for some horror reading, Silent Hill-style. And I was all, OMG and unwrapped the book for her.

Green Night is officially finished. Thank the stars and quasars it's done and out of my hair until it comes back from one final reader. Ugh. I still have to write a synopsis and query and all that. I'm getting pretty good at synopsizing, though, thanks to workshops.

I'm starting line edits today. This is the first time I've used The 10% Solution on something this long. We'll see if I go nuts by weekend's end.
I'd thought my novel was a clunky 145,000 words, but then I realized I was still including some scenes that I'd hacked out in a fit of ruthlessness. (I feel like an abusive parent, but hopefully I'm hacking off unsightly tumors rather than cute pink toes.)
And so, my novel is 135,769 words, pre-polish. Ten percent is 13,577 words, leaving it at 122,000, which I can live with.
Already I did the first scene, taking it from 1,841 to 1,793. Okay, fifty words isn't ten percent, but it's still satisfying.
Time for a celebratory cookie.

I've just started another month-long round of dieting. I think I've successfully ended the decade at the same weight I started it--about 170. In high school, I was 150, and college totally gave me the Freshman Fifteen. By my second year, I'd wandered up to 170, and there I stayed, at least in my head. It wasn't like I owned a scale, so when I drifted all the way up to 195, I was in denial. The revelation of my fatness coincided with my breakup/seizing control of my life. Exercise, and later, these rounds of calorie control have been a good source of discipline and self awareness. When I'm not dieting, I understand my metabolism and know how much I can eat to maintain my weight. By February, I'd like to be, minimum, 165. (I got close back when I was suffering from some kind of Victorian Wasting Disease, but the need to eat to heal eliminated those gains.)
I am happy at 170. I feel pretty and healthy, but I know that as time goes on, I'm going to gain more weight and eventually lack the energy to lose it, so I'd like to have as small a starting point as possible. Besides, it's like a Couples' Retreat for my brain and body, giving them a chance to fight and get closer together.

Yeah everyone's doing it, but it was good for me to review my life.
( Read more... )

So my horoscope says to set an improbable quest for myself. davidlevine just did this for himself, and lo and behold, he gets his wish, so here's my own list of possibly improbable dreams.

1. Go to Mongolia. I just quizzed Orbitz about this, and it looks like I could fly there for about 1,300 dollars. Not bad.

2. Okay, I can't think of any others that don't involve travelling. I don't care where I go, as long as it's someplace I've never been. With my current financial status, that means I end up visiting places like Ferndale.
All my other dreams involve me becoming a writer, which isn't improbable.

Forks, land of Twilight, is getting its own reality show.
I really, really hope Forks manages to get some silver out of this cloud of degradation they've been plunged into.