The Dream I Dreamed

Who among us doesn’t have the Suddenly Realizing I’m Not Wearing Pants dreams? WHOMST?

The great thing about this is it’s not limited to one type or genre of dream. So last night, I’m dreaming about this extremely troubling three story, spacious mansion, and of course the walls are red, parce que why wouldn’t they be, non? And so this is a Serious Dream, and the top level, which you can’t avoid because the staircases are confusing and shouldn’t be because they’re all visible and dead center of the house and they’re just like branches off each other and why is this so difficult to explain (hi sleep brain imagery)? So yeah, the top level is all closed doors, but too close together, like is it just a huge floor of closets? Also the doors are also red up there, which just feels wrong, and I don’t like it.

Anyway, the second floor has every single bedroom. Not just in the house. All the bedrooms ever. They’re all there. And I’ve clearly been sleeping in one of them, but it’s anyone’s guess which one, now that I’ve been downstairs with people, but see, I have to remember which room (and stop accidentally going up to the third floor) BECAUSE I NEED TO PUT ON SOME PANTS.

The best thing about these dreams is that no one else notices you’re not wearing pants until you do. It’s very Emperor’s New Clothes meets The Garden of Eden. But now I’ve noticed so dude downstairs has noticed, and I NEED these pants, people.

The icing on all of this is that there’s an extremely wicked movie playing in a loop in one of the rooms, that involves children and torture and all the little things that make life great, and because this is MY DREAM, the audio is leaking out through an intercom system this house shouldn’t have, and so you hear this movie in the background no matter where in the house you are, but is it louder when you get to the third floor? YOU BET YOUR SWEET BIPPY IT IS.

So this is me, going into a bedroom I’m sure has pants, only to find it’s the wrong room, there are no pants, and I have to keep searching, and accidentally ending up on the third floor, doubling back, trying not to hear the movie playing, etc etc. And what was I doing in this dream before the Great Pants Search? Who can know such things, friends.

Pants

 

That’s it.

That’s the post.

Of course, of course

I have never heard of The Horse Latitudes as a metaphor, a reality, an obscenely popular title for books and poetry. Now I fear I shall think on nothing else.

Katharine Coldiron reviewed MEM for Locus*, and then was kind/awesome enough to come meet me at my Los Angeles launch event! (This is where I would put a picture, if I’d had the presence of mind to take one, like COME ON. So here’s a really unflattering one where I had to take my glasses off to read because according to the specialist I finally say, I may have a thyroid issue but I definitely have a focusing mechanism failure and I’m too young for bifocals but have to have them.)

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Imagine looking this good at your launch event, eyes awonk and manspreading for the gods while Amelia Gray looks far more composed and presentable, thank the Lord.

*Understand that just typing that phrase and remembering that’s a reality made my brain melt in WHAT IS LIFE. Also, that’s a link, get thee to heaven, Beatrice.

But back to Katharine (not pictured), and reviewing MEM, and then Horse Latitudes. O_O She shared a new review/collection of mini-reviews today, and I DIED. And went on this little Book Soup reminiscing tangent to explain the connection and why I am writing this blog (if you can call it that).
screenshot 2019-01-28 14.58.21
Tell me that picture doesn’t sell it. And then, if you’re like me and had no idea what the concept was, it just gets weirder.

 

Wow, I thought, how many books are called that? And can I write a group review of them?

A lot, I learned after some investigation, and yes, you’re reading it right now.

The books are then ranked and rated according to enjoyment, title relevance, and a quote is given. All of which culminates in an offer to send one lucky reader all twelve of the Horse Latitudes.

Yes! I bought them all and now I want to give them away. Desperately.

In summary, Katharine Coldiron is a delight, and if you’re dying to read a little or a lot about horses tossed overboard or eaten…you know where to go.
jericho

You Cannot Make Sense Of This

The title is your fair warning.

Yes, I am here because I have nowhere else to go. You knew what this was. Do not be petty, just accept me when I randomly appear, and don’t make a big deal about how long I’ve been gone. That’s all I ask.

So, basically I am that dog in a room on fire. Like, outwardly, I am an object completely at rest, and then internally I am that spastic cat on the bed. (I’m apparently Gina Linetti and am unable to express myself without invoking comics, gifs or emojis.)

Serious question, for the writers among us. Why. Why do we do it. Not the writing – that’s life and necessary. I mean the part where we do a month-long marathon where we’re just like creatively bingeing. We know – WE. KNOW. – what comes after.

During binge:

DanceLiv

Moments after you write “The End”:

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I don’t know, I couldn’t really find a picture of Kerry Washington looking ravaged, y’all. Basically she just did a color run, but whatevs. Anyway, my point is I am internally destroyed. And we know this happens. Like, seriously, the come down is the worst because my brain is still circling that story and even though I have another project I’m super obsessed with, I know I’m not there yet.

But no, this time’s different anyway; there’s a new, fun layer. It’s called waiting. LOL, waiting is not new, querying and revising and writing in general is totally all about waiting, but this is waiting for things that are going to be on shelves and sent out for public consumption and it’s oh so quiet, Bjork, but like maybe not in an hour or so? So my brain wants to stay on alert and therefore is ravaged, preparing, plotting other project, listening, stopping suddenly in the middle of conversations and then the other party’s like, ….are you okay? And then I lose my train of thought because what were we talking about?

AND I’m keeping secrets so I can’t even bother you incessantly about the one thing I can occasionally get my brain to run with.

So anyway.

This is fine

 

What Is Life

Today I have been tested by way of:

(1) Letting the landlord and a worker into my bathroom only to realize that my dog had apparently gotten into the trash and strewn all its contents throughout. And so, yes, humiliated that in their minds I live in a constant state of abject squalor, I locked myself in my bedroom for the duration.

(2) Literally feeling my pulse in an eyelid vein set to twitching by the torturously simple and redundant song of what I can only assume was a mentally enfeebled bird directly outside my window.

(3) (In a return to abject squalor:) Tugging the garbage bag out only to find that said bag is decidedly NOT Hefty so when I had adequately stretched out the top and momentarily set it down to get a second bag in which to encase it, this happened.

Cartoon approximation.

Ewwwww, garbage water!

All of which threatened to lead me here:

Because I am but flesh and blood.

And this is not how you treat a Thane of Whiterun!!!!!!!!!

Talkin’ It Up!

Talkin’ bout issues. Talkin’ bout – crazy cool medallions.

So two things on which I wanna remark and let’s just make that three because the first – and the foremost – is that I have had to edit this singular sentence four times already and that in itself should have convinced me to leave serious talking points for the post-congested-head Bethany, but EQUALITY NOW. I deserve just as much stage time as any levelheaded person whose sinuses aren’t pooling and then draining and making me think things are good things to say but then I lose my train of thought.

Me too, Corrina.

Thing the 1st: You know how to ruin what is possibly the current pinnacle of someone’s career? Don’t allow them entry until your lack of diversity has become a headline. That way whomever is chosen will be the New Black Cast Member for Saturday Night Live, as opposed to a deserved comedienne. That way her basking moment will be significantly dampened by the claims of unfairness (“She only got the job because she’s Black!”) and overzealous criticisms (“She’s not even funny! Lemme pool all of the unfunniest things she’s ever done so I can prove to you how unfunny she is!”) that make life on Earth decidedly unfunny and occasionally disgusting.

Sasheer Zamata: 1

It’s A Hard Knock Life For People of Color: A Grillion

Luckily, she’s been Black for a while now so she’s primed for this. Congratulations, Ms. Zamata!

And you know what, that’s it. I’d rather not bury the story by talking about anything else. And I love you, The Choir, but the only thing that should make us feel any better about this rampant ridiculousness is an actual self-reflection and conversion of someone who didn’t get this before now. I WANNA BELIEVE PEOPLE CAN CHANGE.

I Might Need Security

I know Montreal loves to bring the drama, but today on Decarie, it was a little much. It was the old guys’ turn, and they showed up in great form, ready to prove that you don’t have to be young and foolish to be foolish and just extra.

I mean, honestly, guy walking toward me who’s making super creeptastic uninterrupted eye contact while I look everywhere but directly into your gaze. When you wait until I’m a few steps away and raise your hand and slap it repeatedly – which I guess is supposed to energize me to the point of high-fiving you?! – I don’t know how fast or far to run. Because I’m a lady in a pink and white striped dress and I need you to treat me as such. Cross the street if you must, I’ll wait. Physical contact shan’t. It shall not.

Hey there, buddy who raced around me? I wasn’t gonna pick up that open bag of whatever it was sitting on that bench at the bus stop. I wasn’t gonna stick my hand in and start eating whatever it was. You win, friend. The mystery trash food is all yours. And no. He did not look like he’d fallen on hard times, nor was there any activity that would’ve made me suspect he might race up to a bag on a bench and start eating. Having done so, of course, I give him a pass. Because…a guy just ate out of an open bag on a bus stop bench on Decarie. The verdict is in.

Lastly, there was the old guy riding his bike super fast on the sidewalk. Toward me. And a family walking pretty much with me – which we won’t even question. They’re affectionate. So geezer on bike who starts aggressively swiping the air with his hand, which is apparently meant to make us get the heck out his way? Apparently, his voice did work – jury’s still out on the brakes sitchiation – because as he passed through us, face still tight in what I’d assumed was a disapproving grimace? “Have a good day, you guys!”

In a super sincere tone? After trying to mow us down with a seemingly homicidal snarl of misdirected hostility? ….k.

But don’t let any of that distract you from the bus that didn’t show or the metro that sat for 18 minutes. Because I certainly didn’t.

 

 

The Enemy’s Gate Is Down

I’m a writer. (Doy. But there’s always a reason when I state the obvious – because everything I write here or speak in real life is measured and precise. …. Just kidding, I’m an idiot.)

Okay, so I’m a writer, and I write projects I intend to present through various mediums. I also started as a film major in college, which we’ve already talked about somewhere and also, who cares. More to the point, I made a film while there, based on my own short story. Moral: Things change in the translation. They have to. I won’t bore you with the details (suffice it to say my favorite part of the movie is the title…and the fact that we did it). So I said all that to say, I do not consider a novel and a film based on a novel to be the same thing, nor do I expect the film to attempt plastering book pages to the screen.

And I honestly, genuinely, consistently feel that way.

Unless Ender’s Game forces me to give up that religion. O_O

[youtube:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2UNWLgY-wuo%5D

….and of course, I can’t really say what concerns me about that trailer in any sort of detail because I’m trying not to help the editor do what s/he was clearly trying to do which is RUIN THE GREATEST SCI-FI STORY EVER BEGUN. (Begun because – come on. Speaker For The Dead. I will seriously die next to that book.)

I mean, seriously, this looks like a pretty (aesthetically speaking) rendition of the “He’s our greatest hope because he’s just a military/warrior god” Independence Day dealie but with a kid. AND NO. IT IS NOT. So that’s *one* reason I’m concerned.

Another would be the glaring error in what I hope is just the approach taken by the trailer team. WHICH I CAN’T COMMENT ON BECAUSE OISJDJOFJLDIJDFGL;DFG.

I just. No. I get that a film is not a book. BUT WHY ADAPT THIS PARTICULAR BOOK IF NOT BECAUSE OF THE WAY IT GUTS YOU AND IF YOU’RE GOING TO DO THAT WHY RUIN THAT FROM THE GET?!

You’re making it really hard to keep my faith, Trailer.

…Get it together, Trailer.

Jesus, Take The Wheel

Today’s my due date but not my birthday ’cause I shows up when I wont to, boiiiiiiii.

::ahem::

You know how kids wanna scare the ever-lovin’ crap outta you, all the time? You know?

Here are just a couple ways my super dependably cautious son has tried *not* to make it to his upcoming ninth birthday:

(1) Stick hand into ball dispenser at bowling alley.

Let’s just stop right there, right, because. Who. WHO. does that. Whodoesthat.

I was not present. By the time I heard about this, his hand was free, swollen and scuffed. And he was doing his Ezra-the-Confessor bit, which my father clearly didn’t see coming because he’d intended not to tell me until way later? MY CHILD WILL SPILL THE BEANS, DADDY. COME CORRECT. And having been told by the child who clearly wasn’t dead or missing said hand (which my dad thought a possibility and poor dear, he probably looked a lot like that owl at the time), I still almost passed. out. Don’t.

(2) Get bit in forehead by family dog.

Okay, this wasn’t his fault and maybe bite’s the wrong word but his skin was broken and AGAIN I WAS NOT THERE AT THE MOMENT BECAUSE THE LORD WAS TESTING MY BLOOD PRESSURE. “Let’s see how many times she can find something out after the fact, see that her son is alive and mostly intact and still have a heart spasm.”

(3) Fall off bed in the middle of the night and against the corner of the nightstand. So that an inverted teepee shape was right – some might say, decoratively – beneath his left eye.

I promise, if there was somebody to whoop, they’da got whooped. Latifah had in all seriousness had it up to here by this point.

All of these happened in California on our marathon vacation. And then today…

(4) Rub his eye – which was irritated – with a visibly soiled rag.

I can’t. Eye swollen. Doctor called. Steps taken.

Dead.

 

And So It Is

New idea: let’s talk about all the ways I’m dumb.

The most obvious way (to me – and feel free to chime in, friends, with things you’ve been dying to say but haven’t) is that I am loyal beyond reason. No, I’m not talking about toward people although, yes, even there I’ve experienced how that can be unhealthy but let’s stop being serious and let me ramble. I’m loyal in the way that one cannot not buy Crest and also doesn’t know why and I don’t have to set here and answer your questions. (Sorry. I watched Ali yesterday. Which won’t stop being on my top 3 favorite movies ever for always amen.)

I’ll just…put this here for ya.

So Crest. Loyalty. It’s like I think this is some intrinsic aspect of my personality. As if if people thought I used Colgate (which is a stupid and LUDICROUS, obviously) they would somehow misunderstand me in a very meaningful way and I would be misrepresenting myself and the whole system would fall apart.

And so, I find myself having to – or attempting to, at least – give long-winded, unwarranted and uninteresting disclosures (which totally works on Twitter, by the by) when discussing my writing soundtrack. Because there was a time that it was 100% Hans Zimmer/James Horner/Thomas Newman – and if James Newton Howard, Antonio Pinto and Dario Marionelli make their way into heavy rotation, I’m not hurting anyone.

But then Daft Punk’s Tron Legacy soundtrack sort of overwhelmed the writing of Cait, or maybe the revising, I can’t remember… and Florence & the Machine actually seemed to be singing about Avrilis, which was fine because I was reading, not writing. And when I was actually writing new words on new pages, I was still for the most part going back to my mainstays. Imogen and Elsie, they were conceived legitimately. (Was that a weird way to phrase that??)

And then I don’t know what happened. I re-envisioned one of them. And I can’t even really remember how I came upon it but I made a playlist of Tycho, Hammock and God Is An Astronaut. O_O And that’s all I’ve used. And I love it. And am also ashamed. … WHO is ashamed of things like this?! Seriously. What is going ON. When I talk about what I’m writing to, I feel the need to give back-story-info-dump on my progression and how maybe this shouldn’t so much be considered a progression (which the other party never said it was in the first place because they truly don’t give a good doggone beyond initial interest in seeing what other people listen to while working) because I still very much consider Zimmer/Et Al to be my writing companions even though, no, at the moment, I’m not listening to them but I’m sure I will – and, believe me, I understand such info dumps to be an occupational hazard. Yet I am helpless. Rendered ridiculous by a strong sense of loyalty to SOUND, when it comes down to it.

I dunno. Pray for me.

Oh and also, this:

Hiiii, angles that make me look ALL of the wide!

Hiiii, angles that make me look ALL of the wide!

Go Home, The Following!

I wish instead of being able to capitalize all of the letters, I could instead make them so tiny that you could SEE MY RAGE. (Through squinting.)

Are we still doing this, The Following?! Early morning call after late night prison break?!

“We need you back.”

“But I’m not an agent anymore. I’m drinking myself to sleep every night to escape the nightmares associated with everything I’ve seen in my celebrated career that ended badly!”

“I know things didn’t end well with the Bureau,” said every caller ever. “But you’re the only one who can PFFFFFFFFFFFFT!

STOP. STOP IT. No more! Oh and you were seriously injured in the line of duty, too? HAVE YOU NO DECENCY?!

::ahem:: Pardon me. I’ve lost my head. Where are my manners. ::shuffles papers::

I’m sorry. I’m upset the way one can only be when one has hoped. And I did, friends. I truly tuned in hoping – nay, DESIRING – to be *destroyed* by this show. You heard me right. That’s what I was signing up for. I didn’t realize it would be death by cliche, with moments – snatches of milliseconds, rather – of possibility.

….we’ve gotta stop meeting this way! This blog is quickly devolving into that place where I just yell at people who are innocently continuing their daily lives with no consideration of my irrational anger, and rightly so.

Okay, quick, here’s something I like!

Wait. That probably…didn’t make me seem any less craycray. Hmm.