I have so much to say, and nowhere to say it. Nowhere, save where it should really be directed. Isn't that true of so much of life? We stare out of some window somewhere, watching dark hints turn to purple bruise and sudden splash, crossing sand, crossing territory, moving somewhere new. Explorers of the night, but unwilling; a metaphor for life and waves and something new that we can never be.
I recently began to seek out Harlan Ellison books; anything I could get my hands on. Harlan's fond of his forewords, and in a funny twist of fate it reminds me of some of the writing we have on e2. Writing I'd downvote in an instant. His stories, too, they're often strange, unpredictable beasts. Perhaps I'm not appreciating them properly, but to my mind being trained to appreciate something is akin to learning to love lettuce when you're on a diet; there's so much else out there that tastes better, so why gnaw on the padding?
A Boy And His Dog was what inspired me, though The Whimper Of Whipped Dogs was a long-memesorbed story that may even have influenced my own writing long before I ever came across the film version of Harlan's novella. They call it a novella; I'd call it a long short story. But you can read 3,000 words and not notice, sometimes. Harlan does make each word count; I'll give him that.
But The Beast That Shouted Love At The Heart Of The World. I've missed the point, I think, or maybe I got the point but just missed the storytelling, which seemed banal, maybe even trite. It's the title piece of the book, I know, but even Greg Egan's fallen foul of this - his short story collection Luminous featured an eponymous story that was good, but by no means the best. Mitochondrial Eve or even that one about Chernobyl was better.
This afternoon I attended a classical concert. I took a bottle of cava with me to ensure my full enjoyment, but I'm pleased to say I'd have enjoyed the first half anyway. The second half was a little less baroque and a little more jazz, but still had hints of folk to it that made it bearable. Mind you, I came across The Elysian Quartet who've been performing a piece by Gabriel Prokofiev - that's not theProkofiev, just his grandson. I'd advise him to stop, just stop now, but then I've only heard a little, as the sound of his grandfather rapidly revolving in his grave drowned out most of the thirty second previews on iTunes.
That said, I downloaded Drive the other night, by some band called The Cars. It's one of those classic eighties things, and it drew something out of my partner, Jan, that I've never felt before. We met once while it was playing, and it kind of pushed me into an eighties revival orgasm once he'd started. He was like an animal, fucking away, and I just couldn't help myself; I shot about a gallon of cum. Still, there you go.
Mother's fine. She's settling into her new flat fine, and she doesn't seem to mind the neighbours too much. I think they're druggies, but I had a quick puff of their 'cigarette' to be polite (I didn't inhale much) and I see their point of view, although I must say the world went dizzy for a few moments and reminded me of lighter times. She might be okay if they keep an eye out; there's no reason for them to nick from her I don't think. They helped us unload her DVD player thing and her widescreen telly. She's got one of those LCD ones because she says her bifocals play havoc with the plasma ones in the shops. So she says; I'd feel more respect if she just said she was sitting on granddads pension and might as well spend it. The druggies seemed to like it, anyhow, and when she turned it on one of them scurried upstairs for a Deep Space Nine CDVDV or something. They shoved it in - well, one of them did - and bugger me if Nan didn't like it. She says the wormhole reminds her of when she looks at the chip shop lights without her glasses on. They say she can borrow them all, but I'm suspicious of the lot of them all coming down to watch. But she does have an inside sit-down toilet now, anyway. So that's good.
Mom died one year ago today. I put flowers on the first Saturday of the month, though, so she's kind of missed this year. Miss you, too.