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July 01, 2004
Wearing Brocades In The Darkness Of Night
1st July 2004 Broken skies, warm, breezy, shame there's no downpours.
Last winter I asked my spirit guide to give me a blog, because I was getting
irritated by the NEWS page on my personal site. I was keeping an occasional
diary there, and throwing it away every now and then, but it was clumsy.
I started something here on January 1st , and then didn't touch the thing
for six months. Clasic, eh. Six months is the blink of an eye, I assure
you, in my life. But when I came back my blog had forgotten all about
me, my key wouldn't turn... Well, it's fixed & here I begin anew.
Intriguing. This reminds me of my first steps into the digital world,
egged on by Bruce Sterling, many years ago. It was the feeling of entering
a huge public space, that I visualised as something between that BT ad
and the bureaucratic heaven in Powell and Pressburger's A Matter Of Life
And Death. Tiers on tiers on tiers of faces, going on forever, and any
of them might be watching me, listening to me; perhaps I will never know
(I don't intend to publicise) if anyone reads my diary. It's in a drawer
in my desk, the drawer is not locked, I know that random strangers come
into this room sometimes, but who will open this drawer?
Checking what other bloggers do, I skim the sf writer lists (no need to
look at Bruce S's, I hear about that blog all the time). Ken MacLeod does
his political opinions. Mark Chad has quit to write a book (hey, Mark,
when are we going to do that Aleister Crowley demo? You're a magician,
and you know what I am. We could do it at Novacon...) Neil Gaiman corresponds
with his fans. Hm. I feel the same way about party politics as I might
about the evil vagaries of the weather, if I were a farmer. Put up with
it. My place is in the permanent civil service, doing my best with whatever
clique scrambles into power -even hard left libertarians, my god. Correspondence
doesn't suit my aim. I expect I'll do the same as I'd been doing on the
News page, the same as I do in my novels (the ur-purpose); store away
little shards of my life. Try not to succumb to blogorrhoea (this is already
too long!). Sow seeds of disinformation, just for fun, and make the occasional
useful announcement. Such as: My son is not called Frank, Frank is a cat.
I did proof-read the bio on my webpage, and if there had been a misplaced
clause, I would have corrected it. Thank you.
So much has happened this half-year, and yet so little. The swifts came
back a week early, we grew frogs, Peter's thrived, mine did not. My last
froglet (I only had two by the fourlegged stage) set off to seek its fortune
last week. I have several toads with back legs tho. Did you know, toad
tadpoles are jet black until they metamorphose, whereas frog tadpoles
quickly turn mottled? It's been a froggy year, from that girl I like on
the mobile phone ads, to the Diana Room in the Winter Gardens, where six
sf writers in search of an audience discussed the spooky S&M relationship
between the screaming frog anguisette, and my cat, and I bestowed the
potential story in that on Jeff Vandermeer. Deirdre C. claims frogs can
climb through cat doors all by themselves, can this possibly be true?
(we reprised the screaming frog conversation at Anne Sudworth's private
view: where I discovered that the original of the beautiful cover picture
for Castles Made of Sand was going for £12,000. Wow. It's called
"Lost Thoughts". Thank God nobody expected me to buy it...)
Next week, thrash out Band Of Gypsies Vol 1 with Jo. She says there's
too much sex. What can she mean? It's not like Jo to interfere with me,
and I'm a model of propriety compared to the rest of them. I suggested
she try p258 of Steph Swainston's Year of our War. Ah well, mysteries
will be unravelled on Monday. And then to Jyväskylä, where I'm
going to make cat-ears, and I'm not going to talk about feminism. I haven't
decided whether to take my fool costume or not.
Posted by Gwyneth at 03:38 PM |
July 02, 2004
Rain
2nd July 2004
I knew we should have brought the washing in.
I really must do something about that Darko Suvin essay today. I've been
reading for it for a fortnight, trying to recall what I thought I had
to say about "soft" militarism (Elizabeth Moon, David Feintuch,
Lois McMasters Bujold; Boarding School SF: the world in uniform)...that
isn't inflammatory. The things that shock people, and the things that
don't shock people! Reading Ender's Game again, I'm once more stunned
at the criminal lunacy of the viewpoint. They let the Chosen Kid beat
a playground bully to death, then they ask him why he did it. "So
that he would NEVER come back" is the response... And all's well,
and Ender is judged sane, good and gentle even. Hm. I've met little boys
like that (not actual killers, hasten to add). I suppose they do grow
up to rule the world, but do we have to admire them?... Not that there's
anything wrong with an sf novel about criminal lunacy, it's a gripping
story, but the blandness of the reviews! & I don't mean the infantile
ones on amazon. John Clute's treatment of this book in the SF Encyclopaedia
still makes my jaw drop. I'm just not on the sf wavelength, am I? But
the future's going to happen to my kind too. I suppose that's why I keep
writing, as absurd as it feels to be me.
Posted by Gwyneth at 09:09 AM
Farah and Edward
3rd July 2004
On Friday night Peter and I walked down to
the seafront just to get out of the house, and found the bars and clubs
cleared of traffic by a stiff breeze, Beaufort 6+ for sure. Saturday however
a perfect English summer day, cool and broken sky, breezy racks of cloud.
We picked up Farah and Edward at the station, and spent the afternoon
in bowery Lewes, fighting the Battle of Lewes in dress-up clothes kindly
provided by the Castle, (slight altercation as to who should be Simon
de Montfort: Farah won); I wanted to be Gwyneth de Burrow, but was not
allowed, after Edward cruelly pointed out that the name of the family
in charge of the Conquest keep was not Warren, but Warenne, after a place
in France. Tuh. Historians. What can you do? Thence to the bookshops,
and tea on Southover lawn, and the Priory herb garden, which exhausted
my k. in very short order. What's this one? Erm, it smells of coconut
curry, it's the coconut curry herb. July 4th was another kind of perfect
English summer day, ie raining very hard, & our guests soon departed,
Farah having already risen phenomenally early to complete her chapter
on her laptop. July fifth, I went up to London to say goodbye to Nicola
Sinclair, off to pursue her solo career after 5yrs with Gollancz. Turns
out the porn film discussed on the Clarke's night really did get produced,
in a day, for under £2k... Erotic horror, way to go. Met Jonathan,
late of Amazon and Harper C., now the new publicist, & attempted to
ingratiate myself by sharing my chips. Jo Fletcher displaying her new
engagement ring, trophy from her holiday in Turkey: a Spring wedding she
thinks. Good for her, and Ian... We agreed on revisions to Band of Gypsies
Vol I, as usual with no dispute; no special mention of sex after all.
Took a few moments on the way back to the station to check out the Victoria
Monument area, view to blocking the big fight scene; tourists getting
in my way a bit.
Posted by Gwyneth at 03:06 PM
July 06, 2004
Herring Gulls
6th July 2004
I'm exhausted, they screamed all night. They've screamed all night for
weeks. I hate herring gulls. There should be a bounty on them. I'll get
an airgun and become a crack shot and string them up by the feet off the
gutter.
Posted by Gwyneth at 03:11 PM
July 08, 2004
Jyväskylä
8th July 2004
(Happy Birthday David!) Here I am at the great Arts Festival of Finland´s
lake country, after a day in Helsinki, with the gulls and the beautiful
flowers, and an acquaintance with Baltic herring which is really like
a sardine, and you eat it with mashed potato, you eat several of them
with mashed potato... Fine company, fine weather (It´s very warm
this evening) & more tomorrow. Signed Two Glasses Gwyneth ... which
is fairly bold, but nothing on Four Glasses Jonathan, or even ? glasses
Cheryl. Ambitions so far: To make Cat´s Ears, to see a flying squirrel
and to see a freshwater seal
Posted by Gwyneth at 05:10 PM
July 10, 2004
Trees, Lakes, Mountains
July 10th, still in Jyväskylä, from the Hotel Milton
It turns out I get free internet access here (there´s a technical
charge of 1e, but they´re waiving it). This country is so civilised
it´s frightening, and my theme of fairytale technology spookily
appropriate. But that´s my nature, finding spookiness everywhere...
Convention notes: spent most of the time at the pre-con gathering yesterday
evening talking to Jonathan C., who it turns out is a major historical
China authority, when not running naked through Finnish forests by night,
accosting Danes and discussing planetary motion (it´s a "sauna"
story. One day maybe I´ll have a sauna story of my own) and about
to write a book about Empress Wu. Aha! "Empress Wu!" says I.
"Loved that programme!" Cue fond reminiscence of The Water Margin,
Empress Wu, Monkey, all that great Chinese Adventure Fantasy tv of long
ago. Where are they now? Why can´t they come back? Nature notes
At the sf writers´´ house where I talked about short story
structure yesterday there´s a magnificent silver birch tree in the
garden, I never saw one so tall and fine, like a beech only in silver
and dapple bark. Late at night in the pearly twilight, bell flowers and
buttercups on Observatory Ridge. This morning, light on water, and different
plovers and wagtails on the path by the lake, should have brought binoculars.
The lake by the hotel here is called the Cornlake, but the one over the
other side of Observatory Ridge is Lake Doom.Sadly, nobody can tell me
why. Lost in the mists of time (or are they hiding something?) Jonathan
says people go there to try and find out, but nobody has ever come back.
After the pre-con, I was v. carefully escorted by my two minders Tino
and Käti to the Jazz bar, where Plutonium 74, DJ Anna, proved to
be as quiet as a Finnish press conference, which suited me very well.
Sat there for a long while, sipping my lemon coke (they´re giving
away cans of lemon coke in the street, it´s a promotion), watching
the Arts Festival world go by, to peaceful chill out music. Excellent
retreat, I´ll probably be there again this evening, before the Heaven
and Hell party... At which I intend to wear my jester´s costume.
Interesting to hear the English words emerging from Finnish in Con announcements.
Finnish finnish finnish Heaven and Hell finnish finnish finnish, Fetish
Club.... Ah, to see ourselves as others see us. As I said to Käti,
really the English besetting vice is being funny. We can´t help
it, adding this sauce to every line we speak, it´s like a disease.
Disease is called Autocondimentation (CF Midnight Lamp).
Posted by Gwyneth at 09:10 AM
He burned the books and buried the scholars
July15th 2004
Went to see Farenheit 9/11 last night. It was intensely depressing. I
came out of it feeling like a collaborator.
It's another grey day, and back to work on Band of Gypsies. Yesterday
we went out, as we'd promised ourselves, and bought a last minute holiday
in the high street. It seems -beginners' luck- to be a genuine deal, unlike
the offers on the internet, which were uniformly the kind of rock-bottom
"sales goods" that have never been anything else So next Tuesday,
day after Gabriel's diploma exam, we're off to Crete for a stolen week.
Gabriel's piano teacher just called. Wants Gabriel to buy him some cakes.
Wonder what that's about. The spoils of Finland, including the strange
things I helplessly buy in airports, have mainly been devoured. Except
for Tino's black bread, which should last us another six months
Posted by Gwyneth at 09:31 AM
July 18th 2004
Finncon note, La Cenerentola is now posted on my Gwyneth Jones page. I'll
illustrate it later. Itinerant guest writer note: am presently in cautious
negotiation with WFC about purchase of my air ticket...
Weather continues malicious combination, grey and humid and close. How
I hate being indoors so much.
Terrible thing happened today, Gabriel's beautiful Kawai, tuned only a
few weeks ago (for the first time in about 18 mths, I can't get used to
the way a new piano holds its tuning) suddenly developed sticking keys,
the day before his Diploma exam. He does not NEED to practice, but it's
a shock to be deprived of his piano. It's the humidity in our dank basement
maybe?
Anyway, tomorrow we'll splash out on breakfast at Pause, and make our
expedition to Portland Place. Bon chance, Gabriel. Tuesday morning early
early, we're off to Crete for a week. Time stolen from revising Band of
Gypsies, but it will be well spent. I need to meditate, get back to writing
by instinct.
Finished my last reading for the Dark Suvin essay on "soft"
militarism, the real sf, the punters' sf. Interesting how closely the
benign-totalitarian plots of the pause resemble each other (c/f Honor
of the Queen and the Serrano Legacy's "Rules of Engagement");
and how differently a woman writer treats of female officers being humiliated
by wicked mysognists. The pause? (other than nice cafe on Preston Circus)
Between the Cold War and 9/11, of course.
Posted by Gwyneth at 02:20 PM
Finncon in a nutshell
The animecon fans were amazing, especially on Saturday. Floods and floods
of teenagers and pre-teens in costume, pouring over the University forecourts,
flat roofs and concourses. Yoshitoshi Abe says (according to Jonathan
C) he found the Finns frighteningly Japanese. I'm sorry I didn't make
a point of assigning some time to Animecon, I had mistakenly believed
there would be plenty of opportunity, and committed myself to a digeridoo
concert, in the conviction I ought to see something of the Arts Festival.
The digeridoo concert was -tell the truth- not much, with a hefty dollop
of snake oil. The presenter, doing a spirited Clive James impression,
did a lot of talking. Three musicians and dancers from Arnhem Land, in
full Stone Age drag, kind of pretended they didn't spik English, and did
the fish-hunting rhythm, the lizard-hunting rhythm, the Three Nights rhythm,
& so on... Digeridoos styles come in two varieties, one has the trumpet
sound, and one not. Maybe I just didn't get it, maybe hey, it's a living.
We who are also part-snake-oil-merchants salute you.
Science Fiction research, fairytale technology, magical science, that
was my strand. Many thanks to Megan Lindholm (aka Robin Hobb) for reminding
me of an essential entry (the repetition carried over from the oral tradition)
in my discussion of the Natural History of Fairytales (which I rewrote
over the weekend, and presented in mangled form on Sunday morning: I can
never stop myself from rewriting my "papers" on the spot). Many
thanks to Johanna Ahonen from Turku (who also presented me with a flying
squirrel encounter of the first kind...); Anna-Liisa Paukkonen, Janne
and Satu (which means fairytale)Wlinovsky (sp?) and their baby Taika (which
means magic); Taipo Salomaa, Markus Tornqvist, Kristoffer Lawson, Kimmo
Lehtonen, & anyone I've missed out, from the Kaffeklatch where we
talked about dreams, structure, and the psychology of storytelling. Many
thanks to Irma, for inviting me, and to Kati and Tino for their double-minding,
and to the gentle lady who took me from the dead dog party into the woods
so I could sit on the ilokivo, where the faculty used to sit and sing
when the univerity was young, Jvaskyla a tiny lakeshore town, surrounded
by boulder strewn flowery forests; and Nokia not even a twinkle in the
eye.
Science Fiction research: John Clute, who loves a book as a physical object,
spoke passionately about the dreadfully poor bibliography promulgated
by the net. Me (whisper it, I read paperbacks in the sauna...), with no
such respect (more of a writer's detachment from the published commodity)
I still feel, with Megan (aka Robin), that the internet's sf presence
is the enemy of academic research. Even the most reputable sites are staffed
by people who review eight or ten books a week, and the often extensive
plot summaries, character names etc are as untrustworthy as those dates.
On the other hand, sf/fantasy scholarship does exist, and grows, and does
not restrict itself to those necessary, frustrating canonised texts. See
Justine Larbalastier, and (my current favourite) Jean Marigny's "The
Vampire In the Literature of the Twentieth Century". Are their works
riddled with innaccuracies to annoy the writer and infuriate the specialist?
Maybe. But it's the nature of scholarship: the organism survives.
Posted by Gwyneth at 09:19 AM
August 16, 2004
The Airman's Grave
Monday August 16th
Back after an unscheduled break, during which we visited Crete and I plunged
into a revision experience, total immersion, and I'm only writing this
because I just deleted a lot of spam from my previous entries, now visible
to the world again so I felt I should try and make them a bit respectable;
and thought I might as well put a new cap on. Spam! A sea of parasites,
they get in your mouth, they get in your hair, but I should be used to
it by now.
Prassanos Gorge was v pretty, & we had it all to ourselves. Eccentric
balisage, arrows pointing to the sea. In case we should run mad and try
to scale the cliffs, I suppose. Lots of marten scat, good to see, and
one little old grey woman of a toad, size of my thumbnail. Raptors and
oleanders. Peter's friend from the pool tournament brought chilling reports
of the Samaria Gorge. A thousand people on the conveyor belt, he reckoned.
My God! That's a real case of the frog in the slowly boiling water, how
much will it take before the tourists realise that this is NOT what walking
a thrilling gorge is supposed to be like.
He said, the locals wake up when the tourists go to sleep, they have drag
races and fights in the bars at 5am. "I wouldn't live here for a
big hat"
A healthy animal has a minor parasite load, when there are too many, the
animal is sick. Cause or correlation? I don't know.
Sunday August 15th, feast of the Assumption. A dead, heavy, humid day,
thick cloud. Why does the rest of the country get terrific thunderstorms
and floods (tho' not pining to live on Battersea Reach this season)???
While all we get is drizzle. My head was burned out so I took a day off
and we walked from Fairwarp Church, failed to find the start of that walk
(again) but we found the waterfall! A waterfall in the forest, it seems
so unlikely, but there it is. I stood in the dark hollow, and tasted iron
in the water. That settles it, the airman's grave wins out over the Isle
of Thorns.
Watched some of the swimming, and the horse riding. What a hard job the
English have to keep smiling (I know I should call them British, sorry).
Most fantasy writers seem to work like Tolkien, constructing and researching
their imaginary worlds in such a crafted sort of way. How differently
I operate... Fragments, glimpses, like a dusty walk in the Ashdown Forest
the heather fading under a heavy sky, a certain romance about a particular
spot, like the elective-squalor of a music festival campground by a riverside,
and the rest is pure froth on a daydream.
Posted by Gwyneth at 09:05 AM
12Sept. Dog-exhausted from finished on Friday,
I crawled out of bed and forced the others to come with me to Preston
Street, to the launch of Planet India, the new venture of the younger
generation of Rupanis, who have decided to get out of
the corner shop business. It's the end of an era, no more will the price
tags on our bombay mix and beers and catfood read BOB LIVES and FLOWER
POWER. It's a terrible blow, as witness the fact that most of the population
of Roundhill Crecent seemed to have turned up for the launch. The food
was excellent, and also the genuine Indian soft drinks.
Then straight to Worthing Assembly rooms on the train for me and Gabriel,
whereupon Imodestly retired to the very decent £11 seats while he
took his birthday present place, and Idil Biret was indeed amazing playing
Tchaikovsky's II piano concerto, and now I know that the second, and much
more difficult concerto is the one nobody usually plays, and I also know
it was much altered after some editorial whinging, but inspite of mishaps
on the way to this performance, (whole score had to be reSibeliused on
an emergency basis) we got the real deal. Memories of several previous
visits to this hall with the blue and white seahorses flanking the stage,
with their finny hooves... Gabriel says he's going to play a concerto
soon, fairly soon. Er, how much will that cost, I wondered. Hm. Whole
lot of people up there on stage, all got to eat, ah well.
Watched a good movie on Saturday night, called Tape or something like
that. Three hander, stage play wisely left as was, but puzzling for us
as Peter came back with no v. clear idea of what he'd hired. Was this
a home movie? When would it start being a thriller? Where's Morgan Freeman?
Can Peter possibly have gone down to the Business and come back without
Morgan Freeman? But we kept watching, impressed by remarkable characterization,
and by Uma Thurman, who must be genuine, if she does this kind of thing,
not just Quentin Tarantino's almighty crush... I think she should have
turned the b88888s in for real. But I can see that would have meant paying
a couple more actors, which might well have broken the bank, even at union
rates, which I presume is what the principals were being paid. (But who
knows, maybe this is Very Expensive Simplicity!) Freed from the burden
of SF Militarism Lite (not that I think I've got away with the essay yet)
I've been catching up. Thought Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell was lovely,
tho' hard on the wrists. Nicolas Stuart Grey kind of fantasy. It made
me think of Tim Powers The Stress Of Her Regard. Wonder if it WILL be
the next Harry Potter? Wonder if something strange really did happen in
1816 or thereabouts, the weather records for our region wd certainly seem
to bear this out... And I enjoyed Liz Williams Nine Layers of Sky. 40
Signs of Rain not so much. The River Gods, no, it's no use, I gave up
after 100pages or so, feeling like I had disagreed with something that
ate me...
September 13, 2004
Deliverance
13th Sept
Two copies of Band Of Gypsies in the post today, one to my agent and one
to my editor, wind and rain. I'm sorry for Peter's tomatoes, gnarled strange
things that they are, but I'm glad the weather's changed. The aubergines
never did anything. From the look of them they require some v. dainty
turkey-basting, or else a highly specialised insect that doesn't live
around here.
September 16, 2004
Home Page Paralysed
15th September
Clear blue, crisp morning, wish I was out in it.
I have to thank Farah and Edward over again, for that trip to Lewes in
July, from which I brought back Memoires de l'Outre Tombe, in several
withered yellow paperback volumes. I've wanted to read this for so many
years, probably ever since I read Rene and Attala: and then also because
I knew that Chateaubriand's form, his style and his examination of the
process of memory, had been one of Proust's templates, maybe even the
most significant. So I started to read it last week, and it's wonderful.
The bibliographising that precedes the text is an object lesson in futile
scholarship (IMHO) Ooh, he wroted this sentence twice, in different drafts,
and the revision is different!; but shows the merit of sticking with Plan
A. If he'd kept the whole thing to himself and really, truly only let
it be revealed posthumously, bet he'd have got a better reception... But
then again, a dislocation of centuries, as he says himself, falls between
Chateaubriand's youth, when his attitude (definitely the right word) was
formed, and the eighteen forties.
Home page still paralysed. It turns out we lost a lot of our nuts and
bolts software in the great crash (I mean, the most recent one), including
Terrapin FTP. Serious investigation had to wait, pending Band Of Gypsies
delivery: now I find I have no evidence of my Terrapin password, and we
can't reconstruct it by guesswork (which I suppose is a good sign).
Is it ever right to be unkind? The meaning of the word suggests not, but
this is my private diary, I don't publicise or network it. Enter the extended
entries if you choose, but be prepared for indiscretions.
Posted by Gwyneth at 09:00 AM
September 20, 2004
Equinox
20th September
Everything conspires to melancholy, a day for long walks in the rain,
but I'm going to manchester on the train. Dark morning, blustery and threatening,
feels good. Peter's tomatoes are on the kitchen windowsill, I've given
them a banana to play with. Huge spider in the bathroom this morning.
I tried working on the 'gwyneth jones' page yesterday, but nothing doing.
It's a real mess, depressing to look at, and Dreamweaver has not recovered
from the last crash. It does not recognise Flash, and all my images are
coming up blurred. But that's probably operator error... Gave up after
some frustrating hours.
Posted by Gwyneth at 08:47 AM
September 28, 2004
I was going to...
28th September
Grey, dank day. Ginger brought a frog in again. Frog unharmed & very
perky.
I was going to demolish my spinach patch this morning, because it's nearly
time to put in the broad beans, but when I was down there picking leaves
for Mongo, I found a hawkmoth caterpillar, willowherb hawkmoth (which
makes sense, sigh), and that's that for a few weeks. Spiders' gosammer
trails and traps me, spiders fall into the colander, a very pretty squirrel
bounced about, either burying things or imagining it was burying things,
while I stirred my pot and watched from the kitchen window. Offered Gabriel
(recovering from Fresher's Ball) a Resolve, he proudly refused, says he's
fine... Phone call from my brother, who reads out to me part of Amanda
Craig's review of Jonathan Strange from the New Statesman, where she says
the book spurns a noble tradition in which magicians have always been
of lowly birth, proof that talent does not rely on high connections...
Huh, there goes my excuse for not turning anything into gold. Citing Harry
Potter as example. Very odd...I'm no great fan of the saga, don't like
the Enid Blyton values, but wasn't Harry Potter the orphan child, cruelly
abused by ugly, nasty lower-class people, who turned out to be the legitimate
prince?
Finished my WFC presentation yesterday. I wonder if Kathryn will remember
the original commission. This morning, frog restored to natural habitat,
spinach picked, Mongo cooked, hawkmoth caterpillar ided, I will do my
taxes (not a complex task), read new scientist. How short the days are.
Btb, Twinks, if you are a real person, I'm sorry. You should know, no
comment stays on this blog unless I recognise it as a genuine message.
Gabriel lost his zippo lighter that he bought in Athens at the Freshers'
Ball. Poor boy, such are the casualties. Otherwise, he had a great time.
Posted by Gwyneth at 11:17 AM
September 30, 2004
Bono Addressed the Labour Party Conference yesterday
30th September
Bono addressed the Labour party conference yesterday. I didn't hear it,
I've listened to part of Gordon Brown's speech otherwise I'm not paying
attention, me and mine have restricted our attendance to the Cafod et
al rally on the seafront on Sunday but apparently he gave them the works,
Trade Justice, Oxfam, all of that. Oh, and I hear the House of Lords is
about to be reformed in accordance with something they're calling the
Billy Bragg protocol (Billy Bragg is a right-on Protest Singer, for those
who don't know), which means we'll have a form of non-elected proportional
representation, if that makes sense. Members for the Second Chamber drawn
from a pool of suitably qualified and respected persons nominated by the
different parties (!!) in proportion to the vote cast in each region (!!!)
Sounds like fun... But these things, especially Bono, not to mention the
Boss, with his "Born In The Usa Caring Rockstars' platform, makes
me wonder, what exactly was the problem with Bold As Love, that had certain
sf apparatchiks spluttering, this cannot be done! a rockstar getting into
politics, this is ridiculous, pathetic, impossible idea...both sides of
the atlantic. Leave aside the movie star governor issue, or the movie
star President (pseudonymised as 'Lassiter' on the West Wing, hahahaha,
did anyone notice that's a Zane Grey, Riders of the Purple Sage reference?).
I'm still bemused about that reaction. (Not really bemused at all, I'm
convinced I know perfectly well what was going on, but that's between
me & my blog, dear secret reader).
Anyway, it was good to be out with them again, the truly radical wing
of the Counterculture, and with our genial host, Tony Robinson, (Gabriel
was very impressed, he idolises that bloke). And just for the record,
did you know, the whole Third World Debt illusion would vanish, if their
gold was just revalued at current rates? Of course, I'm probably misunderstanding
the numbers there.
Sadly, I've never liked U2. Unlike Guns n' Roses, always on my Absolutely
Bonkers list (and what a joke, that they -or rather Axl Rose and his hired
hands, as they say- came storming back onto the stage, after I'd decided
to land my sober goody-goody virtuoso with such an embarrassing name...
What was I saying? U2 have always been on my B list. Too blokeish. And
the story of a "Bono", the rockstar who believes God died for
him, but still hasn't found what he's looking for, (!) is something I
couldn't invent. That's not the material for an adventure fantasy, more
a brooding mainstream novel. Or a brooding Guinness advert. I'll stick
with my special effects, and the modern pantomime. The hazards of close
to the market extrapolation, to call BAL "near future" is getting
ridiculous. I went up to Manchester by train last week, hazarding the
Virgin option, (how can a railway company have such an appalling record
and such good train-staff? It's a mystery), and reached my parents (very
late) to find them watching a programme on the steep, steep slide into
post-petroleum. Drive to Manchester in a five-seater car, only one person
in it, said my father (94 this year). How could you justify that?
Today I took Ginger into King Death's Garden. Laborious, but fun. Found
the trees still on this side of turning, the beautiful great maple at
the end of the first path from the hole in the wall shading from green
to lemon, not yet the sun-gold it will be next week or the week after.
Conkers lying about, shining, and the jays hazed her a little, once, but
not too aggressive. The air is damp, and full of pollen, which seems weird
when you first notice it but then you remember the ivy.
Posted by Gwyneth at 09:29 PM
October 01, 2004
Going To the Movies
1st October, another dank dull sky.
Going to the movies, over at the Marina is our favourite entertainment,
that and going down the Park Crescent for a pint or two of Sussex. This
week it was Collateral, which Peter rated absolute tosh, I thought on
a par with Bourne Supremacy, Gabriel rated above Bourne. On reflection
I incline to Gabriel's judgement, tho' I'd recently watched Die Hard again,
and every shot in the showdown therefore seemed very familiar, (the hero
could count himself lucky, he got to keep his shoes and socks on). And
what was that guff about Miles Davis? But it was a fable, strong on sentiment
and emotion, weak on making sense, on plausibility, on all that area:
true to its times. The Jamie Foxx character (Max) not only paralysed by
fear for himself and for others, but also utterly fascinated by the assassin,
as who would not be? This unbelievably ferocious wild animal -cf that
very unlikely wolf they encounter on a lonely stretch of 101- has befriended
him, allowed him to come along on the hunt... What a privilege. Of course
Max is going to turn the tables on Vincent, but he's going to have trouble
re-creating himself as partner for Will Smith's wife, the Smart Black
Unusually Moral Lady Lawyer... Given nothing to do but quiver and tremble
in suitable genre style when the glass shards start flying, I still can't
imagine her putting up with Max's "underachiever" attitude for
long, esp when we translate this very real dilemma out of its Hollywood
glamour. It's a terrible world when every taxi driver has to be getting
ready to own his limo company. Bane of my life.
But I liked seeing Los Angeles, the moving pictures of LA were very good,
very impressive, and that's what counts. Hence the expression, eh? I'm
going to be back there in a week or two. Wonder what the LAPD will think
of my driving, I mean driver's, licence? But maybe my tattered scrag of
paper will not be called into question, I do not think my companions on
this trek will ask me to drive twice...
Posted by Gwyneth at 10:39 AM
October 04, 2004
Homepage Not Paralysed
4th October
a dark and blustery morning, all the leaves turned inside out.
Hey, hey, hey, Mount St Helens is on the edge of eruption, and I'm going
to Seattle in ten days, what fun. The first time I visited Seattle was
in August 1980 (or was it September, I forget), camping through Washington,
and I remember we used to say "A volcano in a car is equal to an
elk on foot" = you can't get past them without making a big detour.
This time I'll be in a plane... We got rained out from the foot of Mt
Rainier (sp?) and retreated to the fleshpots of Seattle, where they were
volcano crazy, people dressing up as volcanoes, having volcano parties.
The other news is that my homepage is running again, and updated, and
I don't have to do anything more to it for a while, so I can start thinking
about the Band Of Gypsies pages. I set my ships a-sailing, who will click
around and find the trapdoors? Maybe no one. My homepage resembles a homemade
cake, or a house where the people do not have a cleaner, they do their
own housework, er, sporadically, or the fashionable dress of someone who
shops at Age Concern and Dr Barnados. In other words, it's scruffy. Sometimes
I hanker after clean corners and shining surfaces, but in the end I prefer
things this way. Squishy, sunken homemade cake can be very tasty.
Appropos Tony Blair's surprise announcement of early retirement (is this
like one of those surprise denials of resignation plans? Maybe, maybe
not) you have to read the piece on TechCentral condemning Cherie as an
underachieving feminist with girlie compassionate values. It's hilarious.
Calibrating.
Just noticed I've been reading up on China since March, since my trip
to Microcon. I'm getting to know the big stories quite well, same as I
know about Robin Hood and Richard the Lionheart. It's illuminating: salient
memories create the self of a culture, same as a human being. This is
the way I research, I read, and read. I do not go and find the old Sealed
Knot Armourer, and ask him/her how to fashion a musket... I am convinced
I would never ask the right questions, plus I have a grim suspicion there's
no such thing as an old Sealed Knot Armourer who is not also a would be
writer of historical fantasy best-sellers; and who would therefore resent
being ripped off. Get yourself a Culham scientist to consult nowadays,
you'd find you were treading on the toes of his/her best selling expose
novel...
Interesting layers and interference patterns. Four Sisters of Hofei, a
memoir compiled from personal conversations by Annping Chin, wife of the
US China-scholar Jonathan Spence, is a history of Republican China, from
the point of view of four gentry-sisters. One of them married Shen Ts'ung
Wen (Sheng Congwen), a writer very much revered in China in the twenties,
born in Hunan, never collected any qualifications, wrote mainly short
stories and essays, utterly idolised his wife, which annoyed her no end
since he was at the same time spending money they didn't have, and turning
her from a liberally educated ambitious, free-thinking dreamer into a
bitter housewife. Ah well, wrong on both sides, no doubt, those were tough
times, but the couple stayed together, though often at odds, through his
descent into paranoia and depression; when she was at first able to live
and have a career with the new regime (later of course all gentry had
a hell of a time in the Cultural Revolution decade) Very different perspective
on this same story in John Gittings "Real China": the family
account has Shen Congwen slitting his wrists and drinking kerosene in
response to the political climate of 1947, Gittings calls this 'an unexplained
attempt at suicide'
Posted by Gwyneth at 09:31 AM
October 05, 2004
Mourning Dove
5th October
Yesterday Frank killed a collared dove. I saw the three cats in convocation,
and went out to see what was engrossing them, Lyra came running up the
wall to me, Frank and Ginger remained fascinated by Frank's prey. He hadn't
killed it. I hesitated too long on the project of leaping over the wall
into next door's garden, where the scene was taking place, and off he
ran, dove in his mouth, blood and feathers trailing. When he came home,
I yelled at him and booted him. There's no way round it, keep a cat like
Frank and he will kill things. Keep a cat like Frank indoors? I can't
face that. Well, the worst thing is to do nothing because you can't do
much. I'll just make very sure he knows I don't like him killing birds.
It might have some effect...
Might make him keep these awful scenes out of my face.
To London, to buy music in Denmark St and take a copy of "Life"
to my agent.
Posted by Gwyneth at 09:43 AM
October 08, 2004
Mourning Dove #2
8th October
Fine weather continues. I planted bulbs yesterday and on monday, flamboyant
clear scarlet little tulips, some pale, cloud-coloured iris, anemones
and something else that Peter chose & I can't remember the name. Good
luck to them. The other dove, the one Frank did not kill, flies alone
and perches alone on the bar of the swings that belong to Ben & Emma's
kids 2 doors down. I wish I could do something. I can't even say I'm sorry.
(Not that the regrets of the evil young punk's patrone would be v. tactful)
Wonderful considerate and kind message from Borderlands Books in San Francisco,
about the event there weekend after next. I hope it works well for them...
The last time (other time) I was in San Franscisco was on same trip as
the St Helens trip, I remember going to meet a lesbian friend of mine
at a cafe, which she had not told us was Women Only. For quite a while,
as we waited for my friend Libby to arrive, the women behind the counter
stared and murmured & I wasn't too surprised, we were a very unisex
looking couple and Peter was a very pretty boy in those days, he got attention.
Gradually they plucked up the courage to come up and ascertain if the
blond one really was a guy... And out he went. I returned my taxes yesterday,
and the world is mine, I've awarded myself a holiday, studying the Biology
of Seeing and the Ten Bamboo Studio.
Second thoughts about comments, what if I leave the top one open, and
close it when I write again? Would that work? It's not even that I'm a
big spam victim, I'm too private. It's not even that I get offensive spam,
or that I get offended by junk mail anyway...It's the sheer drudgery of
cleaning off the mechanically-deposited gunge from every single entry.
So, we'll see.
Posted by Gwyneth at 10:32 AM | Comments (0)
October 13, 2004
Squirrel in the pear tree
13th October. Dark skies, lot of rain and wind, thunder and lightning
in Lewes, here not so much. Switched the heating on last night, for the
first time There's a squirrel in the pear tree in the garden beyond Emma
& Ben's, checking the fruit, makes a nice composition. Why do I always
forget Indie hype is the same as the other kind? Dead Man's Shoes was
a big disappointment, dull, self-important geezer revenge fantasy with
a ludicrous ending. A great leap backward from A Room For Romeo Brass,
one of the best homegrown movies of the nineties.
I prepare to depart for America, (a project which seems rather unreal,
I suppose I'll believe it when I'm on the plane); and so does Chateaubriand.
He saw the first heads on spikes being paraded outside his window in Paris
(allegedly he entered into conversation with the mob, while his sisters
yelled at him from the back of the room, get away from there, Francois!
They're not kidding, you know! They have muskets! They'll blow your stupid
head off! But I wouldn't be too sure about the dashing details...) Anyway,
he saw the severed heads being bandied about, and it came to him he'd
like to explore the forests of the Irquois. So off he sets for Florida,
leaving the revolution to rage without him, accompanied only by his imaginary
girlfriend...who later became translated into Attala.
Posted by Gwyneth at 06:12 PM | Comments (0)
October 18, 2004
Sleepless in Seattle
17th October
There are no dreams, for there are no nights of sleep...
All last night it rained, and most of today, but now as dark falls there's
only the wind, blowing many-coloured leaves. I'm living in the back of
Timmi Duchamp's house, dazed from lack of sleep, two events into the grand,
combined, Tachyon and Aqueduct Press tour of the West Coast, culminating
in a flight to World Fantasy Con. Eileen Gunn's insectoid Barbie (with
mandible comb) is obviously going to be the star of the show, and I really
hope she'll tell me where I can buy one of those pet crickets, I know
the cats would love one...
The port-of-entry formalities gave me no trouble, possibly because the
officer had just met a famous golfer and wanted to talk to me about that,
rather than cross-examining me about my desire to enter the Land Of The
Free; or possibly the fingerprinting and photoing has speeded up the whole
process. You have to take off your shoes and put them through the X ray
machine for domestic flights, and they put a slice of lemon in the beer...don't
know why.
So nice to meet Nisi Shawl, and Steve Swartz (sp?) and his new wife, and
Vonda MacIntyre again, not to mention Nicola, and Kelley.
Yesterday I walked down the rollercoaster hill to the Puget Sound, everything
seeming familiar from 1999, but nothing I precisely remembered. White
yarrow, rainclouds, clover, a cormorant shaking its wings.
Posted by Gwyneth at 02:59 AM | Comments (0)
18th October
Alcohol Cure
It's colder here today, and dark weather. I walked down to the Puget Sound
again, and contemplated going to the Seattle Aquarium. I read through
the window of the volunteers' station the news of October: Thor died on
21st August, however Red Octo laid her eggs on the wet table and has now
been released with her newly hatched young... I should have gone in, because
it turned out the Art Gallery was shut. Bought some dahlias at Pike St
Market, and some tights at a drugstore (they are called tights when they
are thick, isn't that interesting) having discovered that the tights I'd
thought I bought at the Co-op were actually pantyhose (ie far too sheer)
Took a picture of a Russian submarine, and another of the cormorants,
but you can't see them and neither can I, because I only brought an instant
disposable camera with me. So we must wait. Police officers looking sinister
on bicycles...Ah, voices begin to be raised in cheer and greeting and
so on, I think I'll go and see if this evening's party has started.
Posted by Gwyneth at 03:11 AM
October 19, 2004
now, voyager moment
19th October
Still fairly sleepless, still in Seattle. Actually it was Sunday when
I took the alcohol cure. I'm tired of this, I decided (no pun intended),
I want to be unconscious and I know how. I don't get on with prescription
drugs, so having downed several glasses of wine and a hefty slug of cognac
with my delicious salmon, (and I don't like cognac at all, I was doing
this purely for medicinal purposes), I went to bed, and sure enough everything
went black until 7am. Yes, I had a hangover but it was worth it.
But last night after a blamelessly convivial evening, said goodbye again
to the lovely Nicola, (not kidding, she is lovely, but everyone knows
that...) She and Kelley will be in Portland (or is it Eugene) same time
as us, but we won't see them, they'll be ministering to Bono in some capacity...
I retired convinced my circadian rythym problem was solved, woke at 3.30,
and couldn't sleep again. Oooh I hate white nights. At least if you have
proper insomnia you have something to do, you can worry about whatever
trouble it is that's keeping you awake... Empty-headed, I convinced myself
things were looking up because three thirty in Seattle must be seven am
in Brighton! Unfortunately Timmi and Eileen tell me, no that's New York.
Three thirty am in Seattle makes no sense at all. What planet am I from?
But I'm still standing, and if I tilt my head, peering into the mirror,
I can find an angle where my eyes look a little less buggy than yesterday,
well, anyway, I can hope. Onward.
And so farewell Seattle, we're off in the rented Malibu fullsize, with
room for all the books. The rental company accepted my rag of a British
licence without demur (I heard you have to do an exam or something before
you can drive in Europe, is that true?), Eileen looked me over sternly
and opined that we should go for comprehensive insurance, wise woman...
Don't know if you'll hear from the West Coast tour again. Eileen says
it's raining all the way down to Portland, and pi- er, pouring ( English
deleted because this is the US tour) in San Francisco.
Posted by Gwyneth at 09:54 PM
October 31, 2004
You may have been wondering...
31st October, Tempe Arizona
You may have been wondering why I have not been blogging the West Coast
Tour. Well, partly it wasn't convenient. I have no laptop, and don't care
to borrow one to make private diary entries. Partly it would be superfluous.
I believe Timmi is going to post an account, and that will do fine.
Driving out of Seattle, Blonde on Blonde on the sound system, I saw Mount
Rainier again, white with early snow (invisible all weekend), and remembered
the first voyage along this coast, long time ago. Last campfires never
die.
It's very quiet in Tempe Arizona today, hardly a car stirring on the broad,
bright streets. You'd think it was Sunday, you'd never think it was Hallow'een.
At Mill and University, students hold up placards "Honk 4 Kerry".
Not many takers.
Ah, WFC, where the publishers and the editors gather, with their wives
and courtesans: the legitimate commercial writers and the others who are
kept purely for show, as pets; for mere pleasure. I'm one of the courtesans,
of course, and I wonder, did anyone in the hall make that connection with
my Kushiel presentation??? (Tho, like many dashing ladies of the night,
it has to be admitted I practice free love on the side, with Timmi and
Jason and Jeremy, and the kind connivance of my official protector).
I found the arboretum yesterday, it was shut but I'll try again tomorrow.
And I've climbed Hayden Butte, but I want to do it at sunset, maybe today.
In the parking lot where the arboretum gates are, there's a cool pool
with magenta lotuses. Wonder if that's where the drinking water comes
from. It certainly has an authentic desert tang.
Hey, compadres, fellow demi-mondaines. You
never know. History may call us wives.
Posted by Gwyneth at 07:06 PM
November 10, 2004
Mourning Dove: Situation Update
10th November, Brighton
I sat down at my desk on Monday morning this week, first time since I
left for the US, looked out of the window and there were TWO doves sitting
on the cross-bar of Ben and Emma's kids' swing, cuddled up close, billing
and cooing. Result! The mourning dove has already found another mate!
I realise there could be other explanations (Frank realised why I was
upset and ate sad dove, so it could join its beloved; and other couple
moved into territory. Sad dove died of broken heart, ditto; eg). Ah, but
why would a staid married couple be doing all that courting behaviour,
at this time of year? I prefer to look on the bright side.
Another result, my dendrobium compactum is flowering again, spikes all
over, one of them already opening. (The individual flowers are thumbnail
sized, delicate, pinkish lilac with mayfly tails, if you want to picture
it) I'm so impressed with myself. Although, have to admit, my other orchid
is mainly dead. It requires much more non-UK, tropic, orchidish care and
conditions than dendrobium...
You may also be wondering why I didn't blog WFC. Same as the road tour,
not necessary, I saw plenty of pro bloggers about, let their record stand.
What could I add? That the Guests of Honour were not allowed alcohol during
the Banquet? Well, it was probably wise... we were some hardened sinners
up there. Who knows what might have happened.
I did find my way into the arboretum, a strange little enclave on the
north end of Hayden's Butte, and wandered there almost alone on Monday,
except for a work team reporting urgently on the state of the new waterfall
and pool; which had developed a gusher (of water, hasten to add). Little
leaf Palo Verde has chlorophyll in its bark -hence the expression- so
it can feed itself when all the leaves have fallen off in drought conditions.
Palo Brea, however, has a waxy deposit, which native people scrape(d)
off to use as glue and for other purposes, hence "Tar skin".
There's one called Blue Skin too, but it's just green. Actual Mourning
Doves (ie, species, not emotional distress) are the commonest birds around
here (the Mourning, or perhaps, getting-cheerful-again dove back in Brighton
is actually a Collared Dove, formerly an occasional visitor but naturalised
in England since 1952. Don't know if I made this clear); but there's also
a large thin noisy finch which is called the Cactus Wren, and big bolshie
black thrush sort of things with long spoon-ended tails, that I would
call drongos, if this was SE Asia...
Later I was taken to the Desert Botanical Garden, which was not quite
as impressive as the Grand Canyon, but closer and very charming. This
is where Shahan my minder (you say it Sean) told me about the Cactus Wren,
and how cattails, unlike bullrushes, grow with a spike coming out of the
top, so you can tie someone down over a patch of mud and they will get
stabbed by living daggers cf bamboo. They have a scientific hostel for
migrating Monarchs, staffed by inimitably clueless volunteers. "Where
are the caterpillars kept?" I asked. "I don't know.". "I
just meant, do the researchers breed the butterflies, they surely can't
CATCH all of these???" Volunteer looks V. much as if she has no idea
what a caterpillar IS... "I don't know. You'd have to ask, uh, someone."
It's every fourth generation that migrates, I read that on a notice. They're
fatter and amazingly strong, they can fly two thousand miles, and here's
where they end up if they are not careful. Swarms of butterflies, great
wings like orange and leaded stain-glass, huddle against the gauze by
exit hatch, plotting and waiting for their moment. That damned fan! Some
of us are going to have to choke the vent, and die that others may live...
Notes from Novacon. I've got some pictures I could put on here, taken
by Ian Whates (sp?), member of the Guest of Honour's Northampton Crew,
but I can't be bothered right now. Maybe tomorrow. Ian Watson himself
was in fine form, as was H. G. Wells, that dangerous individual, who was
in charge when I arrived, sporting a sprightly ginger moustache looking
just like it was cut off the edge of a new doormat. Not far off the truth,
it turns out, as Ian had shaved his upper lip, due to a sore throat or
some story. The Committee panicked when they saw him so transformed, and
the resourceful GoH was obliged to adventure into deepest Wallsall, to
find a Joke shop. Serendipity served
me well, tho' I was attending as a zombie and feeling unbelievably tired
and spaced (a condition I treated with several pints of Black Sheep, naturally).
The Biomimetics talk, which I had been looking forward to, turned out
to be a bit of a woolly jumper, if you take my meaning, but the Nick Pope
UFO talk was terrific. All the secrets of the MoD's Flying Saucer Working
Party revealed. Ha! What are the plans, what would happen in England if
there was an alien invasion? A genuine alien invasion? You wouldn't believe
me if I told you. You couldn't make it up, you really couldn't.
I was a civil servant myself, long ago. Once, when there was an IRA bombing
crisis on, we were required to review the emergency proceedings, our sealed
orders for situations upto and including a nuclear strike on Brighton.
Apparently if our office had been demolished or rendered unsafe we were
to report for duty at Burgess Hill. If there was no available public transport
and/or the roads were blocked, we were to make our way there on foot.
Bless. You know, on consideration, those aren't bad instructions. You're
dying of radiation sickness, your family's been fried, including the cat,
etc etc etc, but thank God and the Permanent Civil Service, you have something
to take your mind off things. Walk to Burgess Hill! It's a plan!
Tomorrow it's the Worthing Festival, riding shotgun for Gabriel, for the
last time.
Posted by Gwyneth at 10:28 PM
November 18, 2004
Hunter's Moon
18th November
Dark morning, thick wintry cloud rushing in. Apparently it's going to
be cold by the weekend, another of those mean little "cold snaps"
I suppose, then back to the sludge of modern Decembers. How I miss the
cold! Nothing polar, nothing spectacular, just English winter weather.
I was reading Miss Mitford, (in a small old volume, given to me by my
sister, which did not like living in the plane any more than I did, the
back boards are all warped now) on the flight to Arizona, painfully captivated
by her description of the rimey, frozen silence of a winter morning in
Berkshire: I want that colourless stillness back, the white frost on dead
bryony and bramble, ice-starred puddles, I want weeks of it.
I finished re-reading Tarka the Otter, which is another reason why I'm
thinking of the cold. That book has some of the best cold-weather nature
writing, the Icicle Spirit chapter, I remember it from long, long ago.
The starved little cub with no eyes in the frozen reeds, the ice that
closes over Marland Jimmy's skull... So much beauty and horror! The things
they used to give to children, what a record of brutal tragedy. Current
affairs connection: I dislike both sides of the Hunting Ban dispute so
even-handedly that I've been bemused by the attention it's been getting
on our tv news. I suppose the Hunt itself is decorative, more decorative
than Fallujah, it makes good tv, all the pretty horses, and the trotting
hounds, and the folks in tight-fitting fancy dress, but what's the big
deal? Farmers will kill foxes cruelly, no matter what. The new ruling
caste trying to annoy the old ruling caste, why should I care. But then,
reading Tarka, there's Henry Williamson's relentless descriptions of the
otter hunters, the horny-hearted country people who love their traditions
but do not understand pity, and deride it in others. That's the Hunt too,
and another thing, those Hoorays are violent. It's amazing, scenes such
as I haven't seen since the pitched battles between Travellers and police,
in the early nineties. How different from the respectful relationship
between my kind of dissent and law and order... I remember Amnesty International
East Timor demos where the police were our only audience, and they listened,
and thanked us.
They totally deserve each other, the Countryside Alliance and this govt.
Now, whatabout a combined guerrilla action? Rightwing and leftwing green,
ecological(sotospeak) "direct activists", joining forces, getting
up a reign of terror...
Posted by Gwyneth at 09:41 AM
November 22, 2004
Ditchling Beacon
21st November,
Mist on Ditchling Beacon, and a lonely Bird's Eye Walls ice cream van
in the carpark, silent bloke gazing from the cab. If he's a wage slave,
nice quiet way to spend a grey Sunday; if he's a concession, he's got
to do some thinking about this.... The low thorn bushes on the chalk quarry
slope stripped of leaves, black mats of branches laden with wet, dark
red berries. Down the bostal and across the Common. The dropping mist
makes Chinese landscape painting of the Sussex countryside, the dragon-ridge
of the downs almost looks like a real hill. Somewhere around here there's
a tank track, prepared sixty odd years ago in case we were invaded, is
this it? Nah, surely too narrow. Scarlet holly berries in thick wreathes
high in the hedgerows, ropes of crimson briony, everything is wet, leaves
and bare branches and berries all jewel-coloured and mild. As we came
along to Plumpton racecourse we stopped to watch a fearless young robin
have a long, industirous bath in a puddle. There go the horses, oversized
voice of the commentator and a little Worthing Music Festival sized crowd
to cheer them by, do people pay?
What's that furry relic in a glass case up on the wall in the Half Moon?,
it's too low for a fox, & you don't usually see polecats stuffed in
trophy cases. Oh no, it's an otter, yep, it's Tarka up there. We're almost
alone, it's long past lunchtime, two young women in earnest conversation
by the fire, one of them wears a Furious Farmer sweatshirt... Old Cock?
Nobody touches a bitter calling itself Old Cock! But we did and got rightly
punished for sentimentally supporting the Mr King (of King & Barnes)
who is setting up again in Horsham. And then up the hard track to the
top of the ridge, and a mile and a half along the South Downs Way in the
dark, half a moon struggling through the cloud behind us. What a privilege
it is to be out in the night, in open country, and know exactly where
you are.
Tomorrow, I run through the last two chapters of Band of Gypsies (view
to final line edits coming up soon), and then back to Band of Gypsies
#2, thank God. Got to get that title sorted out.
When I was a little girl I thought it was very mysterious that the sun
and moon both rose in the east. Surely they should go opposite ways, I
thought, since they are opposites...
Posted by Gwyneth at 08:58 AM | Comments (0)
November 25, 2004
US Economy
25th November
As some wag once said about western civilisation, ever thought of trying
it, cousins? The way things are going, I'll be reminiscing about the fall
of Great Babylon while shivering on a doorstep with my home packed into
a shopping cart.
from a small investor, who just saw her pension funds statement
Posted by Gwyneth at 01:21 PM
November 26, 2004
M.I.A and the Grand Canyon
26th November
Grey and misty rain.
Lisa Tuttle sends me an article from the New Yorker, another Fiorinda
candidate. (outrageously talented, tortured, angry teenage daughter of
a nasty monster megastar, in Bold As Love) The first for me was Cerys
Matthews I'd made up this drunkanddisorderly punk diva in a party frock,
switched on the tv one night and there she was on Later, belting voice,
cool lyrics; and Welsh, even... Thea Gilmore, suggested by my friend Peter
Wong. I bought the cd, it's nice, but I don't think she's going to set
the Thames on fire. Lately they've been World Musicish, and rather old.
There was Lila Downs, and now this one's a 27yearold Sri Lankan born British
singer/film-maker called Maya Arulpragasam, a protegee of Justine Frischmann,
apparently. Will she swim the mainstream? Maybe she has outrageous talent,
but on this evidence, nah. Too interested in world around her, hungry
enough but not greedy enough.
Interestingly, Justine's band Elastica has long been associated in my
mind with Bold as Love dyke-rockers, DARK... on account of a jokey strip
cartoon about them in NME, which I really wanted to copy, and have a jokey
NME strip cartoon on the website, about Fiorinda and DARK; the catfights,
and Aoxomoxoa being Fiorinda's best mate. Sadly I can't draw, can't pay,
and didn't have the brass nerve to ask my illustrious graphic novelist
connection to do it for free...
Email from San Francisco about the dreadful
things happening in the USA, inc an item on biblical plaques going up
in the National Parks. I thought that one was a bit of a sideline, tell
the truth. We have biblical plaques in our National Parks... At least,
I know there's been a pair of stone tablets the size of gravestones on
Dartmoor, with the Ten Commandments carved on them, since Revivalist times.
They just lie there, romantic feature; they don't do anyone any harm.
I am so ignorant! I just typed Age of Grand Canyon into my search engine,
and found out it's become a huge, divisive issue, hahaha. The next Civil
War may be fought over the age of the Grand Canyon. You couldn't make
it up.
Internet "scholarship" and "science" is the work of
the devil, anyway. Trust nothing.
Posted by Gwyneth at 10:26 AM
December 12, 2004
Mathoms, Melodramatic fools
12th December
Family members get recyled presents. My sister started this tradition
years ago, the rule is you take yourself to the Charity Shops, auctions,
junk stalls, church fetes and cast about for completely random, but in
some sense (I think I still have the plastic vampire cloak somewhere)
attractive items, and you don't break the bank, I mean, £5 would
be steep. Children under ten get new stuff, as do elderly parents, unless
you happen upon something stunningly appropriate.
This kind of shopping makes me feel like a treasure hunter. Shopping in
the malls and chains makes me feel as if I'm being mugged.
It's a time of giving. Cat Eldridge of GreenManReview promises me cool
cds and chocolate. Norbert Spehnler sends me his Marginalia, a french
language, comprehensive and scholarly genre research tool, three times
a year, he promises. Excellent work, I look forward to the next issue.
Revising "Wild Hearts In Uniform' (sf militarism essay for Darko)
to Green Day, on a dark December afternoon. From Ender's Game to Nick
Seafort... the hugs, the passion and the tears. Shall I make the style
more academic, or more like popular science journalism? Oooh, I wonder.
Gabriel just brought me remains of an excellent toastie. Cheddar, mozarella,
Lierdammer and bacon... Reminds me, must find a spot for the myxamatosis
joke in Rainbow Bridge (currently in progress, the renamed 5th book of
Bold As Love).
Posted by Gwyneth at December 12
December 15, 2004
Stood up in Albert Sq
Manchester in December, Christmas shopping. The air is as warm as spit.
The Euro mart in St Ann's Square spookily like the stare rynek in Kracow,
where I was, just about this time last year, but no likelihood of snow.
I bought a mug of hot applewine & ate my gingerbread, toasted my dear
Anna (hallo Anna!) and oh, great, online, I find I have a message from
Katti (hallo Katti!) And from Lisa T, who says I don't publicise myself.
Stood up? By my friend Mary, who was going to take me to Tampopo last
night (it means Ball of Fluff, and more famous to me as a comedy movie
about food and gangsters...) But she was poorly and couldn't make it.
December 29, 2004
Ginger Has Licked
29th December
Ginger has licked all the green from one of my marzipan holly leaves on
the Christmas cake, she's also licked the yin-yang sign so it looks more
like a squashed football now, ah well. Some art must disintegrate, I have
the pictures. I had a cake to be proud of this time, which is a relief.
It's a very competitive business and I usually screw up. Last time it
was my turn the Three Ships design didn't really work at all... People
were kind, but I knew it.
But that's all the depredations the cake has suffered so far, & I'm
wondering how long the heaped goodies will be with us. At this precise
time of year I get a hankering to play desert islands: the rule is we
can't buy any more food until the indulgent, needless festive items has
been eaten up. No butter, no bread. After Eights for breakfast, salted
nuts and artichoke hearts for dinner and how about that desert cactus
candy... I think it would be fun.
GTA 3 gets more and more baroque, Half Life 2 is an absolute pig to install,
green Man care parcel cds continue to please, but the Sufi flautist won
a predictable response from my loved ones:
Take that off.
You'll make yourself ill.
Ice on the little pool two mornings this week, in the early mornings when
I get up alone, because I'm back at work. The sun comes through the window
and sends green and pale scarlet and gold lights spinning, from the foil
lantern Peter hung from the ceiling beam. I think the decorations are
the best thing about Christmas.
Late at night, lying awake around two am, I realise what I'm listening
to, bertha don't you come around here anymore!, good heavens, the seventeen
year olds are partying down there to Workingman's Dead.
Hope they know to take that off before Black Peter.
December 30, 2004
The Three Kings
30th December
No lightshow on the ceiling this morning, the sky is low and grey.
The Three Kings are meeting elephants and crocodiles today, which is enterprising
of them on a trip from Persia to Palestine. They're going the long way
round by sea.
I watched the news from Aceh last night. I don't usually watch much television,
especially not at Christmas, and especially not to rubberneck grief and
disasters, but I couldn't stop myself. God help them.
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