This week has been an odd one for dreams. The last one which kept me awake involved watching over a very talented, but mentally ill street artist.
He worked in an abandoned grain silo turned into a multi-level studio. Black & white art & tags covered the entire silo wall. But despite all our efforts, he leaped from the window at the very top of the silo, two spray cans in his hand, leaving trails of black behind him.
I need quieter dreams.
Odd days. I had a dream Margaret Atwood was being chased down the hallways of my office at work by the android of Phillip K. Dick
"One of us, Margaret!" cried the android, whirring and clicking. "You can't escape it. Blood will tell!"This is what I get for reading debates on literature vs. the science fiction genre ghetto before bed...
I was trying to create some even, clam-shell style lighting at home. This was the first time in a long time I did a major photo setup with the cats about. Tellus stayed well back. Adia, on the other hand, insisted on getting into everything. Thus, I picked him up and he became part of the photo. I have to resign myself to the fact he's going to end up in every test photo I do from this point forward.
Life is change and transition. Just last year, the little guy in my arms wasn't even born. When he first arrived at my house with his brother, they were both big enough to fit in the palms of my hands. Now Tellus dwarfs several of the small, yappy dogs in the neighborhood.
My friend Angela visited me last weekend, along with husband and her son, Alex. They visited a free Science & Engineering show designed to get kids into the sciences, as well as the museums. It gave me a nice chance to catch up with Angela, and to experience the perpetual motion machine called a 3-year-old boy. Angela admitted it took a lot of energy to keep up with Alex, but she's handling things very well.
And, she's still managing to write and participate in creative projects on the side. I finally got to see her in the low budget zombie western A Fistful of Brains. We promised to swap novels - she's already read Elemental Metal so I sent her a digital copy of Running Black, but she said she'd be sending me her book when she's done. Talking about the process, about finding time and pecking away bits and pieces, or writing them out in notebooks for transcription, helped spark me a bit. It's good to hear from someone who is looking to balance their world as well.
Very good weekend, which made up for a less than spectacular April. I can only hope this presages a very bright May.
When she flew in, it was right towards us from Fairfax county. She banked and flew along the mall, escorted by her single chaser plane. Everyone talked about it and took pictures. I envied the professional photographers from the CQ Roll Call photo corps with their massive telephoto lenses.
It reminded me of when I was a young boy, watching the very first flight of the Discovery. I had my official NASA information kit in hand, and a poster of the shuttle on my wall. Then, I dreamed of being an astronaut - of exploring distant worlds and finally escaping this planet and the way it weighed me down.
If I could go back and talk to myself then... I'd smack myself on the head and say, "Get your head out of your ass." I'd immediately put myself into deprogramming to get rid of those stupid notions. Anyone who works to become an astronaut, etc. is a chump.
"You want to get ahead in America - to be able to live your dreams - get into finance and investment. After all, NASA engineers get taxed like the rest of the world. They can't write off their income at 13.5% and hide most of it overseas, then invest the money in massive ad campaigns to keep you from thinking this is wrong." That's what I'd tell my younger self.
It's all about the money. All of it.
- Mood:little cynical
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kylecassidy at post I've stolen this because Mr. Straub is one of my favorite authors of all time. He graced me with a signature on my personal copy of Mystery and has confirmed a deep appreciation for Sonny Rollins is not a sin by any means.
After Top Sekret Stuff with Chip and illustrator Mia Wolff I photographed Peter Straub in his stairwell looking a lot more sinister than he actually is. I've always been so cowed at how kind and humble he is (find some of his talks on youtube & see for yourself -- he's funny and erudite), he's a genuinely nice guy and you wonder where all these ghastly thoughts come from. ("He always seemed so normal....")
(For the photo geeks, this is one light behind an umbrella on the landing across from Peter triggered with a Pocket Wizard.)
Peter and I went out to lunch and I had some hideous beverage called a "watermelon martini" while Peter leisurely explained how you could poison someone with a martini, in various undetectable ways, all the while looking at my martini.
Peter spins a fine yarn -- I've been reading his opus of the 1980's Floating Dragon and enjoying it a great deal -- it's a bit the devil comes to Stepford, a bit Andromeda Strain, and more than bit Donnie Darko, a decade before Donnie Darko.
When we returned to his home, Peter invited me into his basement. "Tell no one of what you see here!" he warned, turning to look over his shoulder and waving a finger -- and friends, I can not -- I can no more tell you of what is in that place than I can ever excise the dreadful knowledge from my mind -- it has seared the synapses of my brain in such ways that always in my thoughts will be that horror relived -- but my friends I saw nothing for the sounds of that dreadful dungeon caused me to clench my eyes shut tight lest I go mad from the sights. The slithering and shrieking, the lunatic barking, the wet pad of a thousand footed beast -- (and what might possibly have been a clothes dryer) raised the hackles on my neck, I put one careful foot before the other, boards creaked, I thought at any moment I would be consumed or entombed but after some dreadful minutes of terror which I cannot force my mind to relive, I emerged with a signed copy of Peter's latest book The Ballad of Ballard and Sandrine which later that night, unbeknownst to us, would win the Stoker award for Superior Achievement in Long Fiction. Congratulations Peter!
My Megabus was an hour late leaving NYC and as a result it was entirely packed. There was a screaming 2 year old sitting across from me. I dealt with this by putting in my headphones and staring down at a book. An hour or so later I discovered that the woman in front of me had dealt with the screaming child by teaching her to sing a song in Japanese, they were best of friends and jolly as can be by the trip's end and the kid had moved from her mother to be with her new friend who delighted her to no end. I may need to re-think how I interact with people who bother me, or perhaps be content that my new headphones seem to work well.
This is not nearly all the news from Fortress Hennepin, there will be another blog post tonight about something important, a Top Sekret that's revealed and some sad news about a shurb. Until then -- do something fabulous. We are off to a birthday party in the park.
After Top Sekret Stuff with Chip and illustrator Mia Wolff I photographed Peter Straub in his stairwell looking a lot more sinister than he actually is. I've always been so cowed at how kind and humble he is (find some of his talks on youtube & see for yourself -- he's funny and erudite), he's a genuinely nice guy and you wonder where all these ghastly thoughts come from. ("He always seemed so normal....")
(For the photo geeks, this is one light behind an umbrella on the landing across from Peter triggered with a Pocket Wizard.)
Peter and I went out to lunch and I had some hideous beverage called a "watermelon martini" while Peter leisurely explained how you could poison someone with a martini, in various undetectable ways, all the while looking at my martini.
Peter spins a fine yarn -- I've been reading his opus of the 1980's Floating Dragon and enjoying it a great deal -- it's a bit the devil comes to Stepford, a bit Andromeda Strain, and more than bit Donnie Darko, a decade before Donnie Darko.
When we returned to his home, Peter invited me into his basement. "Tell no one of what you see here!" he warned, turning to look over his shoulder and waving a finger -- and friends, I can not -- I can no more tell you of what is in that place than I can ever excise the dreadful knowledge from my mind -- it has seared the synapses of my brain in such ways that always in my thoughts will be that horror relived -- but my friends I saw nothing for the sounds of that dreadful dungeon caused me to clench my eyes shut tight lest I go mad from the sights. The slithering and shrieking, the lunatic barking, the wet pad of a thousand footed beast -- (and what might possibly have been a clothes dryer) raised the hackles on my neck, I put one careful foot before the other, boards creaked, I thought at any moment I would be consumed or entombed but after some dreadful minutes of terror which I cannot force my mind to relive, I emerged with a signed copy of Peter's latest book The Ballad of Ballard and Sandrine which later that night, unbeknownst to us, would win the Stoker award for Superior Achievement in Long Fiction. Congratulations Peter!
My Megabus was an hour late leaving NYC and as a result it was entirely packed. There was a screaming 2 year old sitting across from me. I dealt with this by putting in my headphones and staring down at a book. An hour or so later I discovered that the woman in front of me had dealt with the screaming child by teaching her to sing a song in Japanese, they were best of friends and jolly as can be by the trip's end and the kid had moved from her mother to be with her new friend who delighted her to no end. I may need to re-think how I interact with people who bother me, or perhaps be content that my new headphones seem to work well.
This is not nearly all the news from Fortress Hennepin, there will be another blog post tonight about something important, a Top Sekret that's revealed and some sad news about a shurb. Until then -- do something fabulous. We are off to a birthday party in the park.
"Darkness is harsh term don't you think?"
Matthew Sweet
Best love song in the world
