C.S.E. Cooney

First PSEUDOPOD sale!

LA LA LA!!!

While I did not shed half a salt tear for New Moon in that movie theatre surrounded by three hundred nubile Abigail Williamses, while I, like Goody Proctor, sat stiff and cold (not really), I did, upon watching Karate Kid with my youngest brother on Sunday afternoon, find myself misting up when Mr. Miyagi started talking to Daniel about the importance of balance. You know the scene. It follows the birthday part and the gift of that fantastic yellow car.

The chemistry between those two actors! The natural rhythm of the script and the acting! The lack of gloss and slickness! The nature of the mother! The silent absence of the father! Daniel's unusual sensitivity to beauty, which in no way undermines his anger and charm. The sweet, skinny, awkward, normal-looking actors! Oh. I do like the 80's.

Does anybody remember "Journey of Natty Gan"? Same thing. Nobody makes movies like that any more. Less pretty. But more daring. More true.

So THIS is what nostalgia feels like! Ha!

I have seen NEW MOON. I went with Katie, last Saturday. It was her idea, but I admit the prospect of eating sushi then going to an Actual Theatre to watch a movie overwhelmed my squeamishness on seeing that Particular movie. After all, I'd watched the first with her, last year. There was a kind of continuity.

I've not beheld so many abs since 300 came out.

I'm not going to write and slam it. I have many disparate thoughts on the entire industry of Twilight, and I wish I could untangle them all. I know that, for instance, I kept laughing into my sleeve when around me women and girls soaked crumpled up Kleenexes with their tears.

I did enjoy the shirtless boys, wolves and vamps alike. Who wouldn't? "I'm a woman. I function."

But for myself, I had to conjure some antithesis to the Gospel of Masochistic Adoration that those movies and books perpetuate. I found it in Leonard Cohen.

The kind of love I've witnessed and experienced in THIS world, in MY world, goes more like this and less like Romeo and Juliet meets Glittery Unicorn Vegetarian Vampires:

"I remember you well in the Chelsea Hotel
You were famous -- your heart was a legend
You told me again you preferred handsome men
But for me you would make an exception

And shaking your fists at the ones like us
Who are oppressed by figures of beauty
You fixed yourself
You said, 'Well, never mind it.
We are ugly -- but we have the music.'"

The TWILIGHT SAGA is very pretty. It is so pretty I feel old and frumpy and unlovable and full of longing for beautiful, deathly things I am not permitted. Nor should I be permitted them, for my own health and sanity! BAD CANDY!!! It took a day to shake the effects; my mind kept turning back to red mouths and heaving chests. It was like a heroin shot to the endocrine system.

And then Leonard Cohen came to my rescue. I thought to myself, "So I may not be a figure of beauty. But I might have the music. I might have the music."

The box office records show that Twilight has its own kind of music. But it's Brittany Spears.

***

And Samu came over on Sunday night.

He gave me his notes on The Big Bah-Ha... At last! And such notes! And I HEARD one of the SONGS he's been recording. It is fierce DOOM METAL, and, looking at his notations, I am astonished at how musically complicated it is. Astonished, yes, but not surprised, for his brain is one of the most tortuous, lovely, incomprehensible things I have ever encountered. So many things going on at once!

Musically, he's borrowed everything from 14th century chants to Finnish folk melodies. His lyrics are exquisite... Of course, you can't actually HEAR them as the singer screams them out in paroxysms of despair and agony. Articulation is not high on the lead singer's list of priorities. I believe it ranks after "torment," "murder," "drowning," and "being eaten by giant sea-things," which, as you can imagine, distorts the voice somewhat. But you can just catch the drift of those lyrics in the monster's roar. Phrases like flashes of light, or gasps for air. The singer's ragged screams seem just one more instrument in the symphonic cacophony.

The EP, entitled, "Raise the Cairn," follows a sea-voyage, ending in death.

It could be very silly. But it is not.

And those moments of lonely acoustic solos, before that typhoon of sound rushes back to smother them in distortion and drumbeats? Slaughter me.

In retaliation, I made Samu listen to Talis Kimberley's "Archetype Cafe" and "Santa Lucia." I read him the first chapter of my new novel and had his reactions. Mostly we spoke of our heart's work -- music and words -- and towards the end, as we sat at my kitchen table, with his feet propped up on a chair and my head resting in my arms, we talked of other, deeper things, which I will not repeat here.

He'd been fighting a cold. His voice was almost half an octave deeper and jagged at the edges. It was very sexy, and I told him so, to which he replied in a typically Samu fashion, "Such things do not concern me."

And yet, despite being at the very last shred of a growl, he offered to read me pages and pages of reviews he'd written. He could have just emailed them, and I knew it, and he knew it. I said, "Well, I've no objection. I'm very much enjoying the sound of your voice."

I think, really, that's why he offered.

***

44006 words, as of this morning. The novel's almost done.

This is the second day in a row an older gentleman patron of the bookstore has brought me a sweet thing to eat. And the third time this week.

Twice now has Harry C. brought me something. On Wednesday it was a slice of chocolate mousse pie. Yesterday it was a (stale, dry, not very good) chocolate doughnut. He sat right in that chair there and read me a play (his first piece of writing ever, and he a septuagenarian!) he wrote for our next open mic.

WE HAVE INFLUENCED A NEWBIE WRITER INTO BEING!!! And his writing is NOT BAD either! Much better than the doughnut. Simple, but comic. And he named a character "Clara," which I found amusing.

Today, my buddy Mohammad brought me an incredible cranberry muffin from Panerra Bread. He bought two more D.H. Lawrence books, and contemplated a Graham Greene and Beowulf. Alas, I could not convince him of the Beowulf. He knows the man who wrote "Three Cups of Tea." Rumor has it, Mohammad was a well-known surgeon (a brain surgeon? something) in Iraq. Now he lives alone in Barrington, and burns leaves and branches every night, until his eyebrows and mustache are singed. He's one of my favorite customers.

But as to the care and feeding of Claire?

It CAN'T be that I look hungry. I am not a starveling thing. I do not suffer from lack of LAYERS, you know? I generally feed myself quite well. Aaaalll toooo wellll.

But the truth is... I DON'T REALLY LIKE SWEET THINGS!!!

I rarely buy desserts for myself, and generally end up having to give most of it away. I'm much more into the salty things...

However. The muffin was fine. I meant to save half of it for Katie, who lives for pastries. Did I? Did I? NO! And the mousse? Well, you can't go wrong with mousse. Besides, I was very hungry at THAT point, on that fine Wednesday afternoon. And a polite bite of the doughnut sufficed to satisfy Harry's hawk eye. Later, I tried to give it to Katie, but even she politely chucked the remains into the trash.

A strange week for sweet things. Strange and passing strange! But I grow fonder of my older gentlemen, for the effort is as sweet as their gifts, and I don't know why they should bother. I shall remember this, and buy someone I like a sweet thing someday in the future. For no reason whatever, except I like them. Yes. That's what I shall do.

... I follow a link Kyle Kratky posts on Facebook, and about near cry.

http://www.theparisreview.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/5646

Novel? At 36664 words.

Had three writer friends over last night, and we all ate chili and wrote. When we weren't talking about music, or contemplating a "boy-lesque" act featuring Charlie Chaplin and "The Little Tramp." Use your imaginations.

Patty-Hawk brought over HORSERADISH HUMMUS -- which, if you never -- my glorious gods of the abyss!!! -- EAT IT! And guacamole, too. She did. She brought that.

And Geoffrey brought over red wine. A velvety wine so dense you could not see light through it. And my cheeks got very very very pink, and goodness, it was warm up in my little aerie, despite the weather and the large imperfectly sealed windows. I had two glasses. TWO GLASSES! As I very rarely drink, the effects were significant.

Crazy Ian brought nuthin' but his own bad self, and by bad I mean "awesomely cool!" and his crazy hair was everywhere, and his crazy spectacles gleamed, and his crazy grin encompassed us all. Of the four of us, he's the only other one serving the Good King NaNoWriMo as I am. Patty was busy with her blog and Geoff was working on his awesome Isle of the Undead fantasy novel he's co-writing with Jesse.

***
What else?

Oh. I finished my Amal-letter. And put stickers on it. It only wants a stamp and off to the Old Library it goes. I owe Joshua a letter to Norway, although if it's anything like the last one, it will come back to me with angry Norwegian markings on it indicating I had the address in error. Never mind -- he wrote me a fabulous letter anyway, answering all the questions he thought I MIGHT have asked in my letter. Very entertaining reading. I wish I could reproduce it here. But I won't. So -- pine.

***
Can I finish this thing?

I think my protagonist is about to crack and transform the Scratch Brothers into three pink rabbits. Then she has to put her undead housekeeper back together again. Right now she's just a bunch of wriggling gray flesh scraps in a canvas sack. Poor Goody Graves!

So long! I must to work!

Oh.

You'll want to see this:

http://silenttheatre.com/Upcoming_Events.html

More info here:

http://www.dcatheater.org/shows/show/carnival_nocturne

I went to Carnival Nocturne's dress-tech last night. And although it was everything a dress-tech should be (a bright mess of light-cues and chaos, stalls, starts, wrangling live musicians and coughing actors, etc), the glimpses of the play beneath were stunning.

Stunning, I tell you. Like Disney gone to the dark. Or Edward Gorey joining the circus. Gold coins, magic books, silk-dancers, ring-masters, white flowers, deals with demons, hunchbacked goblin girls, dog men, and a girl named Crow who wears a cloak of rags and red shoes.

It was the red shoes that got me.

And the feeling of "Doctor Seuss went a little wild one night and cuddled Lovecraft in a darkened alley. The results wear sequins, but you should see the fangs."

Go see it. Cross-post. Tell all your friends. Any brainchild of the Great Gillian Hastings, brought to fruition by Tonika Todorova, sorceress and director, is worth the effort.

Again:
http://silenttheatre.com/Upcoming_Events.html
http://www.dcatheater.org/shows/show/carnival_nocturne

Storefront Theatre. Randolph and State. Opens this Thursday.

HAPPY ANNOUNCEMENT:

pattytempleton, oft referred to in my own entries as PATTY-HAWK, is on LIVEJOURNAL now! I adjure you, O Daughters (and sons) of the LJ, by the gazelles and the wild does, GO BEFRIEND HER!!! You won't regret it, not for a minute.

I have other happy announcements but I can't make them yet. What else?

Had a great time at dinner in Lombard last Saturday night with John O'Neill, his fabulous sons Tim and Drew, the Black Gate Web Master David Munger and Rich Horton, who for all his soft spoken ways, has a brain like a, a, I don't know... something delicate and subtle and maybe with a robotic scalpel monster tentacled professor thing... WHY ISN'T THERE A WORD FOR HIS BRAIN??? Anyway, I always like to talk to him, when I can. I consider him one of my champions. And HE says my writing always makes him laugh. HURRAY!

On Sunday, I finally spoke to Sam. For a lovely long time. On phone. This is so rare it merits a mention. I left him two messages and on the second one had the wisdom to wheedle, "I have news, and it sort of HAS TO DO WITH YOU," to which he FINALLY left a message in return that said, "Very well, you intrigue me," which made me feel manipulative, but also... smart. Ha! And I talked to my mother. And Kiri.

Then went to Lincoln Square for the first time and MET andelku!!! AT LAST! And the universe was NOT destroyed!!!

We ate at a crazy German place, where the ladies wore red sequins and boats for hats and they sang really loudly, and we ate sausages.

Today I had breakfast with Mrs. Q at Yolk. We walked through the Agora Sculpture in Grant Park...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=adaQz4djknk

... then went to the lake and walked there, with all that cold wind blowing our hair every which way. And we came back to her office at Columbia College and watched the Doctor Who special "Waters of Mars." Ooooooh! Now I got my Doctor jones on and I must borrow all those seasons (again) from her. And also borrow 28 Days later from someone, so I can see Chris Eccleston's great evil without having to revert to Elizabeth. Not that I don't love Elizabeth, but it's really all about Geoffrey Rush at that point. "I am Norfolk." "You were Norfolk."Gah!

Now I am at library. I looked at the Ideomancer Galleys for December. I am very, very, very excited about that.

My word count: 35086. Only about 15000 more words to go.

If I hadn't skipped three nights of writing last week, I might be finished by now. Ah, well.

... And the spaceship looked like a very industrial chapel, with concrete floors and metal walls, and there were a whole bunch of us in there, from small children to Mir and myself, who are in our late twenties. We'd been kidnapped, culled, something, thrown together and taken off planet to be experimented upon.

Samu was there too, and his whole band (not based on any real live band; I've never met _those_ fellows in my life - nor has he entirely, as I believe they are scattered across the nation), who were all appropriately pretty and stylishly grungy young men. Samu had lopped off his hair (a tragedy; his is longer than mine, straighter and thicker, a color caught between a lion's mane and a jar of amber honey) and not only had it been cut, but colored, so that it alternated rich sable with shock-white highlights, with a tiny tuft of cobalt blue at the crown. He looked very smug and rock star, and I didn't quite know how to behave, so I scolded him.

So... as the chapelshipthingy began to rip from the Earth and ascend (very rickety) along these weird vertical sky-rails, I glanced over Mir, who was the only one among us with a beatific expression on her face. She was just leaning against the metal wall, grasping the chains for handholds, and SMILING.

"That's right," I remembered aloud. "You've traveled across INDIA!"

And she laughed and nodded. After the trains in India, astral travel was as nothing to her. And at least she wasn't crowded on all sides and locked to her own luggage.

We were taken to the planet... colony. And sorted into types of workers. Some great experiment going on. Definite cast system.

Samu was regarded almost as a young prince or god. They called him "The Ender" after the kid in Orson Scott Card's _Ender's Game_. Apparently, Samu was among the best of the "movers" -- a type of telepath, people who had the ability to influence thought and action, to "move" people to their least will. Samu could do it without conscious intent, even. He had the most freedom of movement of his fellows.

"Finally!" I thought. "It all makes sense! That's why you were always first and best at everything, why everyone liked you, even though you hardly had to try."

The realization brought no rancor -- actually, more a sense of relief.

At the opposite end of the caste system, the lowest of the low, were the "brainwhacks" or sometimes "brainjobs" who were mostly little children, and who were used as lab-rats, to have their minds stripped and pushed about by amateur movers. They were sad, scrawny, filthy little figures. Very pathetic.

I think I was given a job as some kind of miner cum gardener. It all fades. Mir had a higher caste than I, and she and Sam and I all had to meet in secret. We were trying to overthrow the system or escape it.

***

Anyway. I didn't write last night. I took a bath and read a book instead, but most importantly, I did dinner and laundry with Patty-Hawk. This is far more exciting than it sounds, and if you knew Patty as I do, you would understand.

31116-something words. Don't remember ezzactly.

I exacted vengeance upon my poor protagonist by exploding a capillary in her right eyeball last night. Not that I've popped any blood vessels myself recently, but still, my eyes are QUITE PINKISH from all these late nights I've spent pouring over the computer screen. It's just that I feel a nincompoop if I DON'T finish a full chapter!!!

"Poor old Marat, in you we trust
You work til your eyes turn as red as rust."

Going to dinner with a whole bunch of BLACK GATE WRITERS this Saturday.

"That's right!" I told John O'Neill, "I'm ONE OF THEM now, aren't I?" and felt very pleased with myself. He'd called to tell me he upheld me as a shining example of writerly diligence to a writer friend of his who's been slacking.

I did not dare interject that my diligence is enforced by the MIGHTY ARMIES OF KING NANOWRIMO! And that, though I have accomplished some few things this year, I have not done nearly as much as I might have, had I regarded the annum entire as a contest with my best self.

After all, I gotta get my kudos where I can.

Open mic tonight. Laundry night tomorrow. Black Gate on Saturday.

I wanted Sunday for Samu, but we shall see if he eludes me. Regarding my suggestion that we meet up on Saturday (before I received that OTHER invitation), and well after I'd suggested it, he wrote:

"Though you may not believe me, my intention was to accept your most reasonably couched proposition. But now you got stuff goin' on, and it is my turn to say, 'Bollocks on your business,' without rancor."

WHATEVER, Sam! Maybe if he answered my TEN THOUSAND emails (and at least two phone calls) IN A MORE TIMELY MANNER! O Reticence, I called him. Bastard Boy Child. Dimpled Devil. Troll Prince of Scandinavia!

Of course (and unlike yours truly), when he says "without rancor" he means it. He'd rather practice guitar than see me (or most non-musicians) any day. He'd rather live on the moon, eating nothing but apples, than do practically anything else, ever. And why shouldn't he???

Still, I do like to engage him from time to time. Selfishly, for I never laugh so much as when I am with him. And that is saying something.

In the ongoing course of our name-calling game, he addressed me as Elmer. "And failing that," he wrote, "Etrus." Which I'm still figuring out.

Monday, I shall see Mrs. Q for breakfast. And Gillian's dress rehearsal for Carnival Nocturne.

I do not think I will finish my novel this weekend. Le sigh.

...Wrote me THIS on my Facebook status update yesterday:

Rory Cooney:

A Palatine playwright named Claire
Sought a role model for an affair,
This was her dilemma:
Straightforward, like Emma,
Or "moor" staid and pale, like Jane Eyre?

She Red Lined back home to her attic
Our neo-victorian fanatic,
"Of sigh and of thigh is
That Ninny Anais
The queen of the ball, most emphatic."

After studying Veda and rune,
And the Gesserit witches of Dune,
The fire in her belly said,
'Maybe Ms. Shelley?'
And she fell asleep, still Claire de lune.

He posted it in response to my friend Jill's limerick, wherein she blithely said of me:

There once was a tree nymph named Claire~
Who's locks of curly blond hair~
Would entangle young men~
Bring them into her den~
Then discard them after a mad affair~

***

Of the two, of course my father knows me better. I'm much more likely to be in bed dreaming of fictions than entertaining wild young lovers. 99.99% more likely, I should say.

Still! It is the thought that counts!!!

And whose mother and older brother and godmother/aunt just bought whom a ticket to Mir and San Francisco for her 28th birthday next month?

WHOSE?
WHOM?

I'll tell you whose and whom and ALL THE WHOS IN WHOVILLE!

MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

You know, I have been consciously, with effort, care and my whole heart full of yearning saving for this trip FOR A YEAR. A year. Yes. A year.

You want to know how much money I have in my savings account?

...

I told you, but then I erased it. 'Cause it was maybe enough for a McDonald's meal, if I order from the $1 menu. And you think I exaggerate? Well, you never know with ME, do you?

HA!

*dances to her own soundtrack of leonard cohen*

I am completely in love with my family! No one DESERVES these things. One can only ENDEAVOR to repay in kind or equal measure elsewhere. Ai! I hug myself. There is no one here to hug. I will hug my MIR in December. My MIR in SAN FRANCISCO! My MIR OF THE SEA! With whom I will spend my BIRTHDAY WEEKEND!

"DANCE ME TO THE MUSIC WITH A BURNING VIOLIN
DANCE ME THROUGH THE PANIC TIL I'M GATHERED SAFELY IN
SHOW ME SLOWLY WHAT I ONLY KNOW THE LIMITS OF
AND DANCE ME TO THE END OF LOVE..."

wouldn't it be AWESOME if i finished it this weekend???

nice, claire.
good, claire.
thou shalt not break thyself.

oh, but I COULD, couldn't I? COULDN'T I JUST???
and it wouldn't break me AT ALL!!! i am NOT so fragile.

no, really, i totally could.
it'd be sloppy but worth it.

***

OPEN MIC TOMORROW!!!
COME TO IT!!!

The Belgian said, "I will not commit yet."
"We'll feed you," I said. "Maybe even pizza."
His eyes brightened.

Yesterday, I gave him FABLES to read. I've owned it for two years and only just read it last week myself. I have the collection called MARCH OF THE WOODEN SOLDIERS, so it's right in the middle.

He agrees with my Geppetto Theory.
Then, last night, he dreamed of wolves and bears.
Is anyone surprised?

Me, I dreamed disgusting things. Not cool-disgusting, just sort of quotidian-disgusting. Blech. But I AM enjoying Lord of Light, and perhaps I shall dream of Kali or the Buddha Sam or Mara or something. Soon.

***

Mack Cobb is totally different than I thought he'd be.
FUNNY HOW YOU CAN HAVE PRECONCEIVED NOTIONS OF YOUR OWN CHARACTER!!!
Out of my hands now, folks. Hee hee.

In the realm of fictional lovers...
Yes, yes, in fact, I WOULD take Francis Crawford of Lymond over Jamie Fraser.
And maybe Jamie Fraser over Miles Vorkosigan.
James Cobham ties with Jamie Fraser.
Miles Vorkosigan looms over Edmond Dantès.
In fact, I'd say Edward Fairfax Rochester beats out Edmond Dantès too.
You know, I think Miles and Mr. Rochester tie.
I'd visit them every other Tuesday.
Baudolino's in there somewhere.

Heathcliff? Nah. I've outgrown him. Maybe I'd keep him at the bottom of the garden.

But, really. It's all LYMOND LYMOND LYMOND. And I ought to reread him, except the last time I did, I gulped all six books in a week and was left with shattered nerves and a twitching eyeball. And besides, I'm writing. And Dunnett makes me want to give up writing in despair, for I shall never be as clever, or as deep, or as witty, or as good.

My powers, at the moment, lie in being funny. Isn't that funny? My sense of humor was late in developing, but I'm sure glad it did.

La la la, and I think I've just talked a lady into buying the first of the LYMOND books. We had to gush over Barbara Kingsolver for awhile. She thinks I should read Cutting for Stone.

HA! But (and I didn't tell her this) I am reading LORD OF LIGHT by Zelazny instead, and isn't it FINE??? It is. It is indeed. I like the Buddha Sam. He gambles with demons.

http://cerebralphantom.livejournal.com/88232.html

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XGK84Poeynk&feature=player_embedded

Star Stuff! Science! Symphony!

Courtesy of mon pere.

Only 500 words more words since yesterday, bringing total to 13805.
GAH!

In the meantime, here are pictures I took last week of my solipsistic self.

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=121017

One brother directed. Two brothers acted.
One plays Jenga, the other is the Devil.
Some total stranger wrote it.
Cute little wooozums, kiss my bros!

Teaser here:

http://cerebralphantom.livejournal.com/88045.html

WORD COUNT: 13,293

First appearance of Mack Cobb. Midnight adventures. Two lady monks from the House of Bone. A nice moment with the undead housekeeper and some fresh baked bread.

Watched the first third of Jane Eyre while gearing myself up to write. Just until she saves him from the fire, and he puts his dressing gown around her shoulders, and they're silhouetted against a banked hearth, and he swallows and his Adam's Apple goes Gul-Up.

And she's holding her hand to her lips like a sacred relic because he touched it. Jane, Jane, Jane. He's kinda a bastard, right? Next he'll be bringing home a rich blond chick to flaunt before your grave eyes. Mmmmn. Why can't I just be home watching Jane Eyre and writing an assassin novel today?

The NaNoWriMo "pep-talk" email was from Jaspar Fforde. Which is cool, 'cept he was talking about how he wrote a novel in month, because he was DOING NOTHING BUT THAT. And that it was a colossal waste of ink, because he scrapped the thing entire, but it was not a colossal waste of time, because he LEARNED something.

Well, excuse me, Mr. Fforde (ahem, and thank you very much for the Thursday Next books; I first read them in Ireland and am very fond, especially of Landon Park Lane. Possibly they've been an, ahem, influence, okay? Except I couldn't finish that last one), but I have a FULL TIME JOB and can only WRITE AT NIGHT AND WEEKENDS, and I don't FEEL like WASTING A WHOLE MONTH AND INK on something I'll just SCRAP so please tell me a SUCCESS STORY of glorious novel written quickly! Please! Yours Just A Bit Irascibly, C.S.E. Cooney

There's something about seeing a waning moon way west of the morning sky. Reminds me we really are this rock spinning through forever. With another pale rock for our companion.

I wanted to say something about S.J. Tucker's SIRENS...

It's a beautiful album for autumn. There are so many cold-tinted songs, from Cold Sunshine, to Carousel (kills me), and Valkyrie's Daughter -- which always, if I'm not careful and start listening too closely at work, takes my throat in a stranglehold of grief and longing. Anyway. I'm going to bring it back to the aerie soon, so I can memorize it properly. It's fun to have at the bookstore, but it deserves a better listen than background music.

I spent my morning commute dreaming on future scenes of my novel. What a pleasant morning.

Wish I was at home writing.
It's my 9.5 hour work day.
Will get maybe two hours of writing in tonight, if I start right at ten and work until midnight.