Small world.

I ran across an interview of Silvia Moreno-Garcia yesterday (publisher of Innsmouth Free Press, which I love), and was mildly amused to find that the blog running the interview belongs to one of the people that I ran into at a convention last year. I’d lost his card, so it’s nice to find it again.[1]

(Also, if I trip over Ian Rogers’ name one more time in the next week I am going to need to get Every House is Haunted next, just because the frequency illusion[2] effects are getting a bit surreal. (It’s on the list to get anyway, but I would ideally like to finish a couple more books first.))

Also, I finished a short story draft last night. It’s a horribly clunky draft-zero draft, but it’s a draft. I’m thinking I should set it aside for a week or so and then try to make it a little less horrible–I know usually people advise longer, but I think that perhaps the time gap from draft-zero to first-draft can be a little shorter. In a lot of ways it feels more like shovelling than chiselling detail.

[1] This was a theme for said convention. Annoyingly. I must organize better in future.
[2] Also called the Baader-Meinhof phenomenon, a term it took me a ridiculously long time to find, because for some reason I was stuck on “cognitive bias”.

Carrying on.

I occasionally wish there was someplace I could file a complaint for matters related to real life – not anything that is anyone’s fault, you understand, more little hiccups that just need to be rectified.

For example, the way stress makes you hungry without actually seeking to burn up anything in the way of fat our calories. Come on, seriously? It would just make so much more sense if the two were linked. And then I could go out after a week of trying to do three people’s jobs in the time allotted to one person, and not feel bad about the fact that I want a hamburger. I really want a hamburger.

In the meantime, however, there is a drink:

image

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Bless the weekend.

I thought I was somewhere different, but everything felt the same.

The work week so far has felt like I am scrambling to put one foot in front of the other so that I actually keep doing something that could charitably be called “hurrying forward” rather than “falling and rolling downhill”. Between the person I was replacing coming back and the person replacing someone else moving offices, it’s been a bit hectic.

I went out of town over the weekend, on a day trip, which was odd; I don’t travel much on my own, and I always enjoy it. Wandered a little, met a friend for tea and geekery (knitting, moving, books, Cthulhu, gaming, horror, gaming) in a lovely little tea shop, and headed home. It felt weirdly not like leaving town, and I am trying to figure out why. I’ve had a stronger “oh I am away” reaction when going down to visit one of the tiny yarn stores that you need a car to get to. Possibly a combination of going to a place I know (in passing) and being sure I could get home even if there was a problem with the planned return.[1]

[1] I checked. If I’d missed the bus, I could’ve gotten a train, and then a local bus and a walk to get home. Not pleasant, rather expensive, but still a definite option.

This just in…

…and by “this”, I mean “me”.  Just got in from the late showing of The Avengers.  We were going to the earlier one, but it was sold out, so we all went for dinner and hung out for a bit.  And now are home.

Some quick notes, not spoilery:
(1) Much love for Banner.  More the more I think about it, actually.  I… really bought him.  Been there, know that guy.
(2) Heee, the lines.
(3) Liked Loki and Thor much better than in the Thor movie.

But yes.  And aside from that, something happened on the way to the movie:

I ran into a friend.

This hasn’t happened in… years?

I mean, I see people, sure.  But I don’t meet them by chance–and no, I don’t count meeting a knitting friend that I know from knitting at the knitting store where we both go a fair bit as meeting by chance.  Meeting the knitting friend that I know from knitting because she is headed one way after dinner and I am headed the other for a movie and our paths happened to cross?  That is meeting by chance.

Nice feeling.  Makes this place seem a bit less lonely.

Right.  Sleep is in order, now.

What does silence give, again?

So on Friday, someone said something that I honestly thought was… uhm.  Deeply deeply problematic and insulting. Actually two people said it.

And I didn’t say anything. I mean, I wasn’t thrilled about this, and I ended up swearing to a friend over it, and they made a pretty reasonable suggestion about the whole thing.  Which I ended up taking, today.

But I didn’t think of it on my own, and more to the point, I didn’t say anything.  A couple of acquaintances are saying stuff that–Jesus, I can’t even believe it, I didn’t think I knew anyone who was stupid and shrilly desperate and passive-aggressive and did I mention stupid enough to say that.  And I know people who say some fairly stupid stuff.  I don’t spend time around most of them.

And I didn’t say anything.

I feel like a coward.  I suppose I am a coward, and I am currently going to work on not being nothing but a coward.  For what it’s worth, which doesn’t feel like enough.

Today I apologized to the person they were talking in front of for not saying anything.

…yeah.  Definitely not enough.

Lightning and lightning bugs.

Was thinking of movie commentary in the car this morning, and of Return of the Living Dead, and something that’s been in my head on and off came to mind:  Why isn’t there a word that defines what gender you’re attracted to, but doesn’t do so in relation to you?

I mean, the movie has a striptease scene in a graveyard, and part of the commentary (or possibly an interview I read once; regardless) is along the lines of “Yeah, we did this for the guys… If we’d known there would have been so many girls in the audience, we’d have put in eye candy for them too.”

Which is actually kind of nice to hear, but that’s a tangent–what I’m trying to address right now is that the group meeting the definition of “finds women attractive” is not the same as the group that meets the definition of “guys”.  (And yes, I get that the movie is nearly thirty years old, I am perfectly aware of colloquial assumptions, I know there is a long habit of going with the “everyone is straight until proven otherwise” assumption, and I think it’s at best a bit of a lazy and horribly erasing habit but that is neither here nor there.  So.)

So what is the word or term for people who are attracted to men or women?  As humans we tend to label and categorize and articulate; I can’t believe that there hasn’t been a term a little less unwieldy than “straight women and gay men and bisexuals of either any or all genders” created yet.  I doubt it’s a perfect term, because one of the other things we tend to do is simplify and generalize, but there has to be something.

And am I completely missing something?  Christ knows it’s possible–this knapsack is invisible, but it does one hell of a job as a pair of blinders.

Thoughts?

Edited to note:

The terms exist! They are androphile and gynophile.

It’s much blacker than they smear it… (My name!)

Got to see Oliver today at the NAC. 🙂 It’s a preview show, which means they let the audience in, but the director and people are sitting in front taking notes on what needs changing, and the real real show isn’t on until Friday. Dress rehearsal writ large.

Pros: Nancy. Also Fagin and Charley, but Nancy was amazing. She was less starry-eyed than I’ve seen her played before[1], and it made “As Long As He Needs Me” a lot more touching; I hadn’t noticed the line When someone needs you,/You love them so quite so clearly before, or started to unpack it. It was much more a portrayal of a codependant adult than an ingenue.

Also, they had a magician consultant listed in the program (I will check the exact title shortly); I had no idea why, until “You’ve Got To Pick a Pocket or Two”, when there were silk scarves appearing and disappearing all over the stage, plus Dodger flicking a silk scarf up and suddenly holding a cane in “I’d Do Anything”, as if the fabric had unfolded into one. Seriously impressive, especially sitting in the fourth row from the stage. (Charley was doing most of it, I think; I actually went looking at the program expecting to find that he`d been the magician consultant.)

Cons: Casting an adult as Oliver made it a bit harder to swallow some of the lines, particularly the ones that refer to how small he is, and it was weird to see Dodger as smaller and slighter than Oliver, although the actress handled it really well. And I found that the mob scene and Bill’s death were rather quick and flat.

(A note: the last performance of Oliver that I saw involved Bill Sykes running from the maddened mob, a light-and-shadow show, and him eventually falling from a rookery, getting tangled in some lines hanging therefrom, and strangling. Yes, onstage. It’s hard to top that.)

Flipside, the lingering on Charley and Bet picking up Nancy’s body to take it away was well-done. The program included a rather grim photo of group of children (identified only as “from the period”), and the tone of the picture–which I can, at the moment, only describe as being worn and possibly foredoomed–was notably not absent from the play. I mean, it didn’t overwhelm it–I can’t actually imagine a grim and foredoomed rendition of “You’ve Got to Pick a Pocket or Two”[2]–but it was there. Clearly not a setting where the greatest complaint children have is that the gruel is bland and a bit sparse, you know?

I was also rather surprised the Bill Sykes didn’t show up until the second act. Apparently that’s not unusual, so I suppose that’s more a reflection of how much the relationship between Bill and Nancy impressed me–has always impressed me about the story–than anything unusual about the staging.


[1] …and it’s beginning to occur to me that I’ve seen two performances of Oliver, but never the movie. May look into that, since the person I was with was observing that he thought the choreography was very like the movie.
[2] Okay, now I can. But I couldn’t before, and it’s still jarring.

Nerves.

It is ridiculous to get stage fright when you are going to see someone else. Still.

Off to Scottish crime authors night; details later, from keyboard rather then phone.

ETA at 1 a.m. on the 25th:

I had a lovely time.  😀  Stuart MacBride, who was the author whose name caught my attention in the first place, is very funny in pretty much exactly the way you’d expect a man who writes gritty (and/or morbidly cheerful) stories about serial killers to be.  He read the short story I just linked, too; said it was the first time he’d read it for an audience.  He signed my copies of halfhead and Flesh House, and seemed pleased to hear I’d liked halfhead.  Apparently he got a lot of grief for writing something that wasn’t in the series he’s best known for; I think that’s a serious shame, as it was a good book and a damn fun story.

Ian Rankin I had heard of and read before; Denise Mina I hadn’t.  I’m rather regretting the last, now; I would have picked up her book The End of Wasp Season if I weren’t on a strict self-imposed moratorium of Only One More Book This Year Dammit.  (There was an accident incident with a bookstore in Niagara Falls.  Oh lord, was there an incident.)

The road goes on and ever on.

Checked out and waiting in the lobby for the shuttle to the off-site parking. My nerves are killing me and I’m not sure why. I think part of out might be leaving the hotel, rather than a friend’s place. Feels a lot more final and a lot less amenable to having anything we forgot mailed to us.

Also, going to the States. I’m looking forward to seeing John’s friend and family, but I am not looking forward to the border crossing. Never had any trouble, but I know that sometimes they take (very boring) ages, and have heard the horror stories.

That, and, well… it’s the States. It’s NotHome. Which is an interesting disconnect, since as far as I can remember I did not have this anticipatory flinching when I went to London, and that is considerably less close to home and rather more anxiously edging towards draconian.[1]

Call it half lack of familiarity and half the horror stories John keeps finding.

[1] Than Canada.

Old-fashioned cheese and water power

Upper Canada Village today. Kingston. Dinner with Becky. The Long Sault and the Lost Islands. (Had never heard of them before.)

Cat here purrs like splitting celery. And is warm.

Probably not making 200 words today.

Back of thighs starting to ache really badly just above knees on the outside sides. Not used to this much walking.

Goodnight.