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Gold light feels right
Well, I am dead on my feet after NecronomiCon. I slept into the afternoon and dreamed that Ben Mendelsohn was starring in a film adaptation of a Dick Francis novel that I deeply resent not existing, because Ben Mendelsohn as a professional gambler who does not actually care about horse racing per se until someone starts crooking his main source of income is a premise that should have been shot yesterday.
Assorted details from the aftermath.
1. I suspect I forgot to mention that Fiona Maeve Geist wrote an appreciation of me in the souvenir book that still astonishes me. I want it on the covers of all my future books.
Sonya Taaffe's work is a numinous reenchantment of the real, where myths and history cohabit closely amidst the mundane—a territory often dismissed by the fantastical that she imbues with a deep weight of importance. Her work is often deeply intimate pictures of individuals grappling with the past or the supernatural (often entwined), which serves to highlight her many and varied interests: Judaism, queerness, her education as a classicist, noir (and film in general), and music. Forgotten, neglected or discarded things matter in the present of her work in powerful ways . . . The surface of her work shimmers brightly, drawing readers into fabulous and rich depths of history, longing, language, loss, and searching. I invite anyone to drown in it with me.
2. Until the night of Saturday's room party, I had not been inside another hotel room of the Graduate. I had no idea the still life of donuts and the clam lamp were standard decor. Or the armchair patterned in violent zigzags of white and blue. Or the carpet in lozenges of blue and taupe that clashed with it. Or the grape-cluster curtains that clashed with both of them. Or the bookshelf wallpaper. Or the empty brackets on the same portion of wall. That last is the item that really blows my mind—did they remove the same piece of art from all the rooms? Is it a deliberate effect of slight dorm-room derelictness? Do they just assume that everyone who stays at the ex-Biltmore wants to hang their marionettes between the windows? I got nothing but nothing. But that was the same evening I realized that the paisley pattern of the hallway carpets was actually composed of donuts, coffee cups, and coffee spoons, and I got such a case of Prufrock from that, all else was garnish.
3. Why is the H. P. Lovecraft Film Festival held on the other side of the country from me? The weekend before my birthday? I missed their entire film track at NecronomiCon and I cannot afford to travel to Portland, Oregon in October. Teleporter, teleporter.
(Meanwhile, in news of linear transit, the MBTA closes our bus stops.)
I feel like this weekend crystallized the traditional New England August conversion from sweat-melting summer to cool bright autumn, which would incline me to walk around my neighborhood if I thought I could leave this couch.
Assorted details from the aftermath.
1. I suspect I forgot to mention that Fiona Maeve Geist wrote an appreciation of me in the souvenir book that still astonishes me. I want it on the covers of all my future books.
Sonya Taaffe's work is a numinous reenchantment of the real, where myths and history cohabit closely amidst the mundane—a territory often dismissed by the fantastical that she imbues with a deep weight of importance. Her work is often deeply intimate pictures of individuals grappling with the past or the supernatural (often entwined), which serves to highlight her many and varied interests: Judaism, queerness, her education as a classicist, noir (and film in general), and music. Forgotten, neglected or discarded things matter in the present of her work in powerful ways . . . The surface of her work shimmers brightly, drawing readers into fabulous and rich depths of history, longing, language, loss, and searching. I invite anyone to drown in it with me.
2. Until the night of Saturday's room party, I had not been inside another hotel room of the Graduate. I had no idea the still life of donuts and the clam lamp were standard decor. Or the armchair patterned in violent zigzags of white and blue. Or the carpet in lozenges of blue and taupe that clashed with it. Or the grape-cluster curtains that clashed with both of them. Or the bookshelf wallpaper. Or the empty brackets on the same portion of wall. That last is the item that really blows my mind—did they remove the same piece of art from all the rooms? Is it a deliberate effect of slight dorm-room derelictness? Do they just assume that everyone who stays at the ex-Biltmore wants to hang their marionettes between the windows? I got nothing but nothing. But that was the same evening I realized that the paisley pattern of the hallway carpets was actually composed of donuts, coffee cups, and coffee spoons, and I got such a case of Prufrock from that, all else was garnish.
3. Why is the H. P. Lovecraft Film Festival held on the other side of the country from me? The weekend before my birthday? I missed their entire film track at NecronomiCon and I cannot afford to travel to Portland, Oregon in October. Teleporter, teleporter.
(Meanwhile, in news of linear transit, the MBTA closes our bus stops.)
I feel like this weekend crystallized the traditional New England August conversion from sweat-melting summer to cool bright autumn, which would incline me to walk around my neighborhood if I thought I could leave this couch.
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I now require at least the novel, even if the movie is too much to ask for. I don't suppose you'd write it, would you? It's not as though Felix Francis is up to it, after all.
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I have unfortunately not displayed any affinity for the writing of novels rather than short stories or novellas! Or things without at least a glancing supernatural component. I agree that I don't want to give it to Francis' son. I just want it.
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Maybe we can loop
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