Sunday, August 26, 2007

get down with the geeeeeeeniiiiiiiiiiiieeee

Look at all those people. Each of them discovered that Mr Vandermeer only ever links me when I'm a feral, mangy, moon-mad monkey, and an easily amused one at that. I spent the shift checking my stats. "Aw, lookit! Another one! MAD FOOLS!"

I'd also accuse him of only linking when there's a really bad photo of me on the front page, except the likelihood of there not being a really bad photo present is pretty slim.

Anyway, look at this!

It's an oarfish. When I first saw that photo, my hackles went up. I didn't see an oar, I saw a huge, freaking huge, long razorblade fish just hanging in the water, and I could imagine swimming around happily, unable to see said razorblade fish straight on, and swimming into it, and chopping myself in half. A collision with a swimming samurai sword.

Which isn't how they work, thankfully.

But that would be cool.

I get the impression that they're not particularly bright fishes, having read this account of When Oarfish Attack!

Suddenly and with great vigor, the creature ceased it’s circling and swam rapidly toward us. It was quite a startling movement. One of us had picked up a smooth rock and the rock was used to crush the its head as it approached. It died instantly without any further movement.

They weren't even knee deep in the water then. And oarfish, these super stylin' samurai sword fish, they don't really have angry attack mouths, yanno?


Moving right along.

Tourist Attraction Shark Dies, which is sad. It's always sad when a 2 metre shark dies. And yet, and yet.

Biologists captured the 90kg fish on Monday in knee-high water at a beach called Miracle in northeast Tarragona province, grabbing it with their bare hands and dragging it ashore.

Dude. They wrestled a 2 metre shark and won. I lol'd so hard I was in tears. Can you just imagine the poor shark? "HOLY FUCK SOMEONE SAVE ME FROM THESE MONKEYS! THEY'VE GOT MY TAIL! MY TAAAAAAAAIIIIIL!"

No more fishies from here on, I swear.

Irony is decrying how not-a-writer I am, and then having the two stories of mine due for publication both end up in my inbox, requiring editing/proofing/writerly attention immediately. I've broken my cardinal rules of never proofing after midnight and never attempting to be intelligent on nightshift.

The larger story I don't think I've even sniffed at for over a year. It was a relief to find that it didn't suck, but I'm worried by the fact that I like it. I think liking your own work is like putting your newborn baby in the microwave for safe-keeping. No one ever agrees with you.

I had a mighty revelation on the drive to work last night. Oh verily, was it mighty. When Carroll was writing about the white rabbit, he was actually writing about the white lines on the road, and the whole trippy journey through Wonderland, that is actually a metaphour for driving at night when you're delirious. Follow the white rabbit/follow the white line. He knew. The man knew what he was writing about. Something about night driving, all the street lights and car lights and shop lights, and all those lights reflecting and moving, and all the dark spaces, he knew.

Do not point out the logic flaws in that paragraph. Srsly.

Now, in case you were wondering where all these long raving mental dribbles have come from, I shall tell you. One word: procrastination.

I fly out Wednesday afternoon. Therefore, I must pack.

I dun like packing. It makes me want to do procrastinatory things, like give the dogs pedicures. I don't think my relationship with the dogs would survive this activity. I guess I'll just pack.

No comments:

Post a Comment