sunslinger

 So, after almost two months of doing nothing of note on the book, I've managed to write three chapters in two days. Between 2 and 3 in the morning usually.
I'm quite convinced these are possibly some of the best things I've ever written.
It would be lovely if that turned out to be true.
One of them made my girlfriend cry.
I am unsure if this is an endorsement.

The lesson here is, real life may impede you during most of the day, but you can always chase your dreams in the dead of night, when real life is fast asleep.

In other news, exhibition opens in two weeks.

Drumming Song is beautiful.

I miss everyone in America something terrible.

Johnathan Stroud is surprisingly good when read in tandem with A.S. Byatt.

 This week's research/topics of finding outness in order of nothing at all:

The Fianna
Ice Cube
Cold War interrogation techniques
Symptoms of PTSD
The Targum Johnathan
Cults of ancient Carthage
The warding properties of rosemary and rowan
Hard Rock Returns to Prison
Rokia Traore
Revolutionary Suicide
Mouse Guard: Winter 1152
Ahsoka Tano
How to make robots function in a desert environment
If it's possible to braid pigtails onehanded

Thank sweet baby Moses I'm having a break weekend down in L-town, or my brain would be falling outta the front of my face.

I hope you are all having a fine time.

So given that  FBI Director Robert Mueller has apparently lost all sense of diplomacy, sense or perspective, I thought I'd weigh in with my irrevelant and lightweight two cents. 

Regarding Al Megrahi, I see the opposition to his release falling into two camps.

1) Justice is not being done. To which I guess the answer is: If our society has reached the point where we need to fetishise the incarceration of a dying man to fulfil our need for 'justice', something has gone terribly wrong. The continuation of suffering does not somehow manufacture justice. It manufactures, at best, revenge and bitterness. Compassion is not a quality which must be held distinct from a justice system.

2) It is a Conspiracy! Megrahi is being traded to Gaddafi for oil and money and kinder eggs. Well, so what? Politicians politic. If letting a terminal cancer patient return home nets some shadowy concession somewhere, I don't particularly care. The act itself has merit.

I can understand the distress being felt by the family of the victims. This is a horrible, convoluted case, and with Megrahi dying, the last chance at answers probably goes with him. But insisting on the flagellation of one man will neither bring back your loved ones, nor bring forth answers. There reaches a point where you're just flogging flesh to hear it scream.

And the rest of you Americans, self-righteously threatening to boycott Scottish tourism?
Get fucked. 
Your country is tearing itself apart prostituting its poorest and weakest to the whims of big business and this is what you choose to focus on? Take your self-righteous pseudo-Christian bloodhounding somewhere else, because I'm sick to the back teeth of it.

 Hello Internet,
I ask you, is there anything better than finding several long lost and obscure tunes faintly clinging to life on an old battered CD-R? Tunes that even the internets will not provide.
No Internet, there is not. That is the answer to that question.

And Joh's coming up at the weekend.
Small mercies, small packages.


 

The collection of Artist's Books at the Dean is unbelievably impressive. Wrote some mighty fine pieces this week, even if I say so myself, which,I never do. Also, Venus is going in the exhibition, and the gargoyle story is nearly done, just need to get it bound and copyrighted.
Off to Spain this weekend, partly because my cousin is getting married, and partly because I really need to get out of this country, even if only briefly. 
Not that the  rest of the world is doing much better. America rots and China burns. Iran gluts itself on the blood of its youth. Twitter journalism spits faked false photos of imagined resistance.
So it goes. Nothing changes.
It isn't just that humanity is atavistic. It's that I suspect that it wants to be.
Eatdrinkfucksleepkillburndie.
Rinse.
Repeat. 

 Miro rocks.

Fin.

Unexpected discoveries this week:

Swedish electronica sufficient to make me buy new speakers solely for the pleasure of hearing it.

A plethora of bees.

My Milk Toof.

Inspiration.

In roughly that order.

Dear lord, if I bite my tongue any more this week it's going to drop off. 

Anyone fancy a revolutionary movie night sometime?

I'm thinking:

The Weather Underground




Chicago 10




Masked and Anonymous




Badassss Cinema




and Agnes Varda's Huey!



Any takers?

I always imagine Exalted to be like this, somehow. It never seems to turn out that way.

 Has been a discombobulating day today. I put waaay more thought into marking review scrips than I really should.
Also, I have some steampunk horror based on the Turners to finish.
And a story about gargoyles.
Consoling myself with strong tea and 2000AD, which continues to be the merry old load of wank it always has been.
Thank God.

So, a good friend of mine died last week, from a heart attack. It seems appropriate to make a note if it, because she was certainly one of my inspirations as a writer, perhaps because I saw a little of myself in her work, perhaps because she had such felicity for the strange and the curious, the profound and the profane. We were both very much looking forward to reading at the Gallery in May, and this has come as something of a hammer blow.
Best just to say that the world will suffer a dearth of beautiful words from now on I feel.
But, we all soldier on, because, as one of the gang put it, Gabrielle never used full stops.

La muerte es una vida vivida. La vida es una muerte que viene.

I was told by phone this evening that I won the National Galleries of Scotland writing competition.

The official results aren't out today.

I hope they didn't get it wrong.

Glory be. This is unbelievable. Not really coherent enough to comment further.

Lord.

Wow.

As I'm sure you all know, The National Gallery and the National Galleries of Scotland have been offered the unique opportunity to purchase Titian’s ‘Diana and Actaeon’. To do this they need to raise £50 million before 31 December 2008.

If funds can be raised, the two galleries will then have the chance to purchase the second picture, ‘Diana and Callisto’ for a similar amount. If that's are successful, the two Titian paintings will be displayed in London and Edinburgh, alternating between the galleries every five years.

If we don't secure these masterpieces for future generations, it'll be an absolute tragedy.

I have begun actually writing the PhD. So far, it seems easy. I assume this is because Fate is lurking behind me in the metaphorical prison shower of my mind with an expectant smile, casually lining up a selection of soaps with an inordinate fondness for gravity. I'll enjoy it while it lasts mind. Like a strawberry bootlace of progress.
In non-academia, plans are starting to take shape for an Indie Games Weekend, which should proceed thusly:

Day 1) Play Games.

Day 1 Evening) Go to restaurant with everyone. Eat massive amounts of fine things. Return to base. Booze/caffeine/1920's zombie movies featuring Bela Lugosi's eyes.

Day 2) Play Moar Games.

If this sounds like the sort of thing you'd be interested in, let me know, and I'll cut you in. If not, how do you know me? Will hopefully be dragging people from outside of Edinburgh, so limited bedspace may be available for them as needs it.

In non-academia, non-geekademia, the book will be copyrighted and up on its own wiki site as of this weekend. Anyone interested in serving as an intermittent proofreader/idea springboard, again drop me a line. Some of you, I will be deliberately hunting down because I know you are prone to saying nice things. This is mainly a device for me to straighten out plot strands prior to writing the last few chapters, but I see no reason not to subject myself to my adoring (lawd) public once again.

Musically, I'm stutter-stepping between Champion Jack Dupree, thanks to the benevolence of Folkways, and Kala, which I still can't get out my skull. $20 remains the best Pixies cover I've ever heard. Leaven it with a bit of P.J. Harvey and Alina Simone, spice with a little Seth Lakeman, and we are cooking. In the kitchen. The Kitchen of Sound.

Lastly, has anyone read the Dark Tower by King. I really, really need to have overly intense wine-fuelled discussions with someone about it. Seriously.

That will be all for now, dear readers.

So, America just elected its first African-American president.
I'll let that hang there for a few seconds,

It doesn't get more significant than this. A few short decades ago blacks and whites couldn't drink the same water, ride the same bus, or eat at the same counter in the United States.
If you're American, you should be very proud right now, and the rest of us, we can breathe a sight of relief.
Here's hoping Barack makes the most of this incredible opportunity. I like to think he will.
I feel bessed to be alive to see such progress, we all are really.
I'd be more coherent, more analytical, but damn it's late.
This is awesome.
This is  beautiful.
This is momentous.
This is a day for the history books, and I've never been happier to say it.

Can we do it?
Yes, we can.

I'm off to watch his speech. This is going to be unbelieveable.

I'm convinced that Chirpy Indian girl routinely leaves one copy out of my requests just to test me. I know it's not Suave Tall Guy, or Disturbingly Cool Bald Guy, because they are Suave and Disturbingly Cool. It's not Funky Gele Woman, because she doesn't go near the photocopier, on account of she's the queen bee, and it's definitely not Infinitely Knowledgable Chap, because that would be contra-existential for him. It could be Perky Latina Girl, but she exudes Pep, so I doubt it.
So that leaves one suspect.
I'm onta ya, C.I.G.

Historian Vs. Archivist. Place bets now.