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Your works of nature are unnatural

sovay, you asked for a picture of the new coat; here you go.

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In lieu of a post with any actual content, have some links to stuff I shared on Facebook a while ago and meant to post here.

First, have the acoustic mirrors of interwar England. I want to go see the ones on the Kent coast one day soon.

And also here's an article on the art of Bette Burgoyne. I first found her work illustrating the wonderful collection The Cathedral of Mists by Paul Willems, which is well worth seeking out and as vaporous as Burgoyne's drawings.

There's not so much to report from the last few days except fade_2_black and I don't agree over the taste of coffee-and-star-anise porter (I'm not sure how many other fans of it I'd find!) but we both liked the seaweed gin (Da Mhile, I think) that rounded off last night. I walked up to the local Tesco this lunchtime. There is a beautiful late-Victorian library in terracotta and redbrick next door, painted in apple-greens and the original gaslight fittings hanging over the stacks. I found a copy of Francine Prose's The Lives of the Muses: Nine Women & The Artists They Inspired for thirty pence. It feels like spring at last.

slide out of your skin and let me in

I needed to get the sun on my face today. I walked three or four miles via the cuts, down to Aston Science Park and turning off towards Digbeth. Catkins out, red deadnettle and gorse in flower; a Paul Nash-ish daymoon in the sky. There's a certain music to bridges: the slop and lap of the canal after a boat has passed, water dripping from a brick arch, the throaty croons and flutter of pigeons in the girders of a railway bridge. Some of the factories and buildings I noted along the way last summer have been demolished (it seems there's a crane everywhere you look in town at the moment). I ended up in the pub opposite the old Curzon Street staion which has been boarded up for a while after being used temporarily as arts admin offices (a mummified cat was found by workmen there a few years ago). Drank a tangy golden beer called Time Machine.

Speaking of Wells, the new R4 version of War of the Worlds is something of a disappointment. It tries to carry a visual iconic story through pretty much dialogue alone, when imaginative sound design and some of the original narration would do it wonders. You're better off relistening to the Jeff Wayne album. The rest of 4's current Mars season has been pretty good though, looking at various utopias and paradigms of the Red Planet.

I bought a new olive-green military coat last week and have been pretty much living in it ever since. It has rounded lapels like a smoking jacket and deep pockets, perfect for books, gloves, tobacco, oddments picked up on walks and the seventies "pocket binoculars" I got at the same time. They fold down into something like a cigarette case; my dad had a pair donkeys' years back and I wanted them badly.
Friday C and I went to see Leviathan at the MAC, a loose dance adaptation of Moby Dick. We ran into friends in the bar and chatted about theremins (I still don't know how you can play one with a cat and still have a face) and nostalgia for cassette tapes. The actor playing Ahab was superb - stalking about in undershirt and cargo pants with the energy of the obsessed and lost, followed by his crew like the Ascent of Man diagram (he turned to fell them all with a mimed gun); laying ropes across stage to trap his whale only to have his own leg snared, clutching at lights while he was hauled behind the curtain. The Leviathan herself rolled and undulated in splendid isolation, totally indifferent to her hunter. The crew turned whales themselves in the second act and ran Ahab down under their wave. A wonderful production, soundtracked by great Polish folk/ambient music.

I went back to my parents' earlier in the week. The field next door has been levelled (the smallholder died last year); sheds dismantled, gorse uprooted, the grass raked through. I thought of the times I'd rooted through the cinder-pit in the corner as a child, finding bones and bits of crockery. A bit of the past gone. I don't think that influenced my decision to hack my hair back to a collar-length bob. I haven't seen any foxes on the land in months but the jackdaws seem to be multiplying at least. I once told H I felt at home anywhere I heard them calling. Back at home I was on the balcony and watched a carrion crow scrabbling through the gutter above my head to find a crust of brown bread (dropped, I guess, by another bird). We looked each other in the eye, which was quite a thing.

Currently reading the new Mieville, "The Last Days of New Paris", which is great fun and has more than a whiff of his earlier novella "The Tain". I just discovered that R4 are doing a two-part dramatisation of "War of the Worlds" next week, and that makes me extremely happy. Less happy-making is my LJ's refusal to let me use the visual editor when writing a post. It's a small pain in the arse not to be able to post pictures and links or tag anyone. Any advice?

Hey ho, who is there? (part one)

Longtime readers will know I've had a fascination with the Mari Lwyd for a few years now, even going so far as to write a poem about her (which Strange Horizons were good enough to publish). Well, I've actually met my obsession at last! Last Saturday cybermule took me down to the Chepstow Wassail and Mari Lwyd. She picked me up from Longbridge. It was foggy and cold in the Midlands but the sky seemed to open up with each mile: a farmhouse picked out by misted sun looked like a watercolour of itself. Nick Cave's "And No More Shall We Part" was on the stereo. Getting into Monmouthshire the hills were still albino with frost where the sunlight hadn't had a chance to reach. I accidentally dissed Tintern Abbey by saying "That's a bit small, isn't it?" For which I got mocked a bit. We parked in Chepstow then followed a Morris dancer down to the Three Tuns pub. There were many many Morris people there, and I'm pretty sure it was a 50/50 gender divide among the dancers, which pleased me. Half a dozen sides there, one of them from near my hometown. All the top hats ever: glittered, enbadged, pheasant feathers and ivy. Strips of coloured rags; fiddles, accordions, drums. (Sovay, one of the Morriswomen was the spitting image of you, long sable hair under a wide-brimmed hat decked with fruit - is there something I need to know?) There was a huge silly grin on my face as I joined the audience, but then I'd just stepped behind a woman holding a Mari-head bedecked with flowers. This was one of the smaller ones - there were perhaps ten there. I don't know what the collective term is. Some of them were old school with leather harnesses and bells, some were glittered and ragged. Eyes of metal and glass and lighted eyes in the bone beaks. I'll tell you about my favorite Mari shortly. H (who took several pictures, which I'll include in a separate post) watched the dancing and capers for half an hour before following the crowd down to the wassail in the dell under the gaze of Chepstow Castle. We were too far off to catch all the words of the wassailing song, but they were hanging holed slices of toast from the branches of an apple tree. Another Mari stood alongside us. Scarlet-and-green tatter-mane, eyes of blank green plastic, tight Celtic spirals painted on the bone. Unearthly as hell. I made some compliment to the woman who led her and then the Mari laid her head on my chest in thanks. I stroked her. I got to PET A FUCKING MARI LWYD. I can't tell you how happy that made me. A few of them did a little nodding jig as a woman played some small variant of the bagpipes. It was bloody cold in that dell. An administering angel passed us cups of mulled cider, but it was getting too cold for us. We went for a pint at The Bell-Hanger and decided against staying for the meeting of the English and Welsh meeting "on the Old Iron Bridge". Next year, hopefully! We drove home and watched The Wicker Man over cheesecake and booze. The end of a perfect day. I'm back in Brum now, but I carried on the "folk horror" vein of the weekend by reading Andrew Michael Hurley's first novel The Loney, which is extraordinary, atmospheric, slippery and lyrically told. The rites and beliefs of a desperate Catholic family are every bit as strange as any local pagan magic. Recommended. Writing: currently making a (sketchy!) start to "Where Youth And Laughter Go", the story that would have been "The Concrete Child".

Misericords and nooses

I went home yesterday to my folks. Hoped to get some walking in, but it was too dingycold and mizzly to bother going out again. I found out an old friend of my dad's had died recently; someone I didn't know well but liked: I remember best the smell of pipesmoke and the parping tunes he made through the pipe when he wasn't smoking. My contributors' copies of This Spectacular Darkness were waiting for. It's a hefty book and a thing of beauty with a creamy yellow dustjacket and a small cover photo with various mugshots of the giants of weird fic in foxed sepia. I shan't start it properly for a while yet.I stayed huddled in bed for most of the day with James Agate's diaries and the latest Egaeus Press anthology, a gift from John, who I saw Saturday night. Christmas crowds made us detour to the gay quarter and the Old Fox, a nice theatre pub I haven't been to in years. Lots of old stage posters and geometric stained glass and a jukebox playing punk in the back bar. A fight broke out between a barman and an aggressively-pissed couple while I was outside smoking. I didn't intervene much more than to tell them to fuck off (as did a few other peaceable drinkers) but seeing someone's glasses knocked off in a scuffle gives me playground flashbacks. As to John and mine's conversation I don't recall much beyond talking about satirical cartoons, the last Quatermass serial, spomoneks, and Lovecraft's vignettes.

I couldn't sleep until 4 am this morning. At least in the city I often have company to listen in the form of the insomniac birds (song thrushes, I think) fooled by the dawn-con of the streetlights. My home seems too quiet now. I've not heard or seen foxes around there for a while now and that saddened me.

I start another "voluntary" (ie, at the request of my Jobcentre) placement at a charity shop tomorrow morning. At least this time I've got a degree of autonomy and control my hours (I'm just doing one day a week; I can't afford a bus every day). A few doors down from the place is the local Oxfam Books, where I nipped in today and bought a (hopefully) satirical Handbook on Hanging and a chapbook on the misericords of Wells Cathedral. It has such delightful captions as Alexander the Great being carried up to heaven by two griffins tempted by a piece of meat and Ape mimicking a pedlar (broken). All a bit M R James. It might inspire me to do a bit of drawing again.

How are the children now they are fed?

...is the question someone asked me in my sleep this morning, but I can't remember a dream associated with it. (The one I did have gave me an undercut bob and heavily-kohled eyes and I liked my face like that.) I woke up and there it was in my head, like a line from an old folk song. It needs a story as answer, and I don't think it can be anything but sinister.

I meant to announce this earlier in the week, but I've been busy with applying for jobs and editorial work: Supernatural Tales have accepted the first Nairns story, "To Utter Dust". It'll appear some time next year. I have no idea what to write next - not that my brain's blank, but I have a trove of fragments and images and no direction. Prompts and/or suggestions welcome if you have the time. Thanks if so. <3

Beers with John H tonight, thank God: the week's been a drudge and I've been too depressed lately to make much of anything.

And all the ashes turned to stars

I was writing the previous entry when the intercom rang. I went to answer - expecting a parcel and dreading the hoohah I'd had getting post back a few weeks ago - but it turned out to be some guy wondering if there were any Spanish-speaking people in the block. It was a short conversation.

Some bad dreams of late, involving death: breathing in poison I'd laid down for the huge slugs infesting my room; being strangled on a shingle beach in the middle of the city. My subconscious can go to Hell.

A couple of days ago I was smoking on Corporation Street and I noticed a small crowd gathering. A bunch of (white) policemen clustered around a black Muslim guy and his young family. My hackles rise whenever I see coppers around POC. What little gist I could get was that his little boy had been either jostled or insulted by a passer-by and the dad had taken umbrage. He lifted up his mobile to film the officers while talking to the crowd, most of whom were white and amused-looking. Those smiles nauseated me. It doesn't seem a huge step from smirking rubberneckers to open abuse.

In more pleasant news, "This Spectacular Darkness" has sold well: half the print run gone in it first three days of release. It'll go to an e-book edition now. I'm currently re-reading James Agate's diaries and I picked up Scott and Willis' "Botanicum" for a snip a couple of days back. It's gorgeously illustrated, in the manner of an expensive Victorian natural history tome: I couldn't turn down any book that depicts Carboniferous-era plants under a bell jar.

The city skyline was beautiful in yesterday's twilight, as seen from a sloping road in the Black Country: watercolour washes of dove and slate, rooves and trees deepening to blue, the BT Tower lights like beacon fires. I think I've found the church of the nightbell I've mentioned in older entries: it's ten minutes' walk down the towpath, a narrow steeple with green shutters. Perhaps too narrow for the way that bell sounds, but it's at the right distance. I need to get down there at the right time to make sure...

New myths

As usual, I've been away too long. Some news this time: yesterday Tartarus Press released This Spectacular Darkness, a collection of Joel Lane's critical essays on horror and weird fiction, edited by Mark Valentine and John Howard. Many of the essays appeared in the journal Wormwood. Joel always intended to write a full-length study on modern horror; this isn't quite that book, but it does collect all of his essays.

I've had some involvement in the book. Back in the summer Mark and John approached me to contribute an essay on Joel's poetry, as part of an appreciation of his own canon to round off the collection. I accepted readily, but not without some qualms - I hadn't written essays since my college days and I didn't know if I could give the poems the analysis and respect they deserved. But I set to it, with encouragement from cybermule, and beta-reading from sovay and gizmometer - thank you all for your support. And thanks too to Mark and John for asking me to contribute in the first place. It's been one of the toughest things to write, but it appears in the book as Where The Gods Are Rotting: the Poetry of Joel Lane. I am very glad TSD is out there now. You can find more details and order the book here.
I have spent most of this day numb and cold with grief and quiet rage. I didn't think this could happen. Woke up at eight, switched on Today and heard the news. Hoped I was having a nightmare, but we don't get to wake from this one. I wrote on Facebook: Another triumph for isolationist fuckwits. To all my American friends - you have my love and whatever support I can give. I wish I could offer you better. Look after yourselves, okay? Be safe. Fight the good fight if you feel you can; but don't give up. Please. <3
I listened to a TED talk on R4 an hour back featuring - what do we call this, surely not the music of the spheres? - a few minutes on the radio waves generated by planets and stars. Jupiter sounded like the scratches in a well-loved record. I wish I was a sculptor; I suddenly had an idea for an orrery, each little world with a recording of its "song".

I've just started Alan Garner's autobiographical/essay collection, The Voice That Thunders: one of many books cybermule lent me yesterday. Among the heap is a biography of the engraver and ornithologist Thomas Bewick and Ronald Hutton's study of pagan Britain. If I complain I'm bored over the next few weeks, feel free to mock me. There is a lovely oak on the common near her house, all hollowed and blackened by fire; the crows were coming into roost as we walked there, and the contrails had turned dark as grapes in the sunset; "old man's beard" seemed to thread every hedge: a West Country kudzu.

I saw John H last night after a quick curry with M and we talked a fair bit about Machen; I'd been rereading some AM over the last few days. (I had been pondering also restarting A Flute In The Factories, in the absence of new writing projects. There was a major stumbling block in that the story needs Pan in as a character with dialogue, and I couldn't for the life of me work out how to do it without it seeming shit. Until Thursday when I was waiting for the coach to Bristol and the solution just popped up. It's stunty but it could work.) We talked a lot about classic weird fic in general; and graphic novels; I discovered recently how many liberties the graphic House on The Borderland took with its source material and it enraged me. The night was brittle-cold when I walked back. November came and scattered sycamore keys all over the balcony.

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