Lilith Saintcrow

The DHM often tells me I should go to a desert isle for this time of year. (Preferably one with a five-star hotel.) It’s not that I dislike Christmas. I dislike the money-grubbing, commercialistic, stress-inducing surround sound of fake cheer and cash bells ringing. I especially hate seeing parents being sharp or abusive with their kids in packed malls as a result of this artificial holiday stress. Last but not least, I hate the fake goodwill. You don’t get to squeeze out of being a jerk by being nice on Christmas Eve. No, you be a decent person–or try to be–365 days a year. That is the meaning of Christmas.

I’m not Scrooge. I just hate the manufactured shopping frenzy and the hypocrisy. That’s all.

In any case, I’m back from Seattle and back in the saddle again. I stopped at Archie McPhee’s on the way back and bought a ridiculous amount of plastic gewgaws, including a huge plastic penguin for the bookstore. (Because penguin love…is the sweetest luuurve, you know.) And rubber-chicken keychains. I do not know how on earth I have survived without rubber-chicken keychains, yo. Incidentally, if you are looking to own some pink lawn flamingos, order now. The company that makes ‘em (the vintage kitsch ones) has gone out of bizness and McPhee’s bought the whole stock. When they’re gone, they’re gone.

Last but not least today, here’s the five songs to set a car chase to, courtesy of a conversation I had with my friend Sixten yesterday:

1. Hard to Handle, the Black Crowes
2. Welcome to the Jungle, Guns & Roses (the Kiwi’s suggestion, and a good one.)
3. Stickshifts and Safetybelts, Cake (incidentally, the song that the original chase in The Society was set to)
4. Chateau, Rob Dougan (Yes, it was the Matrix. Shut up.)
5. Guardian Angel, Juno Reactor

Now doesn’t that list just make you want to cheer?

Today is chili-making day, again. Soemthing about this clear cold weather just calls for a soup as hot as I can stand it. Unfortunately it won’t be hot at all, for we must think of the little people in the house who haven’t abused their taste buds so dreadfully. But I can just throw the chili in the crock pot and simmer the starch out of it while I write, and the house will be full of a divine tomato-ey sound before long. Bwhahahahaha. My evil plan will work, I swear it.

The windstorm last night howled at the window (especially around the air-conditioning unit) but there was no power outage in this slice of the city. I occupied myself with watching the idiot box for a while, but the Chinese soap opera we’ve been watching wasn’t on. So it was finishing Stephen King’s newest (Lisey’s Story, not his ultra-best but certainly not his worst either, and very enjoyable) and Mark Steel’s Vive la Revolution, which is snort-out-loud hilarious. Guy is a stand-up comic who’s written one of the best books about the French Revolution EVER.

If it’s wrong to think that’s sexy, I don’t ever want to be right.

Quick note to Reader Meara: yes, I know about Red Dwarf and LOVE the show. Coincidentally, as I was with my sisters having Indian food Wednesday night I saw a vindaloo on the menu and thought of Lister, Cat, Rimmer, Holly, and the gang. I ended up getting chicken tikki masala, but such is life.

Today if the traffic isn’t that bad, it’s the Asian Art Museum since SAM is closed for renovation. The Sullen Teen is very excited to be (drumroll please) Visiting An Actual Museum With Lili. He announced in all seriousness at the dinner table Wednesday that he was looking forward to it, since it will (wait for it…) Feed His Muse.

I’m rubbing off on the boy. I may yet drag him to the symphony, too, with the Princess. I think the Princess will enjoy dressing up and the Sullen One may enjoy the music. I’ll culture the twain if it’s the last thing I do. Yep. Just like yogurt I will.

For right now, it’s getting the morning business out of the way–little things like breakfast, shower, coffee, and organizing the day. Och. Vacation is such hard work.

*ducks thrown object*

Have a wonderful Friday, Readers. And a beautiful, perfectly marvy weekend.

Hallo everyone. I’m back in the hotel room and glad to be drying off. Let me explain–

No, there is too much. Let me sum up.

My youngest sister’s flight for Costa Rica left last night at 10:45PM. We were with her at the airport until about 10:15, watching until she disappeared on the other side of security, waving every few moments while she could still see us. This was followed by (finally) tears from my middle sister and my own sweet self, no longer having to keep them in for Sister Three’s sake. Our baby, all grown up and traveling the world. God, I hope her flight was safe and that right now she’s enjoying a spot of something sweet on the beach.

Sister Two hung around with us until about midnight or so, and I worried for the hour and half it took her to get home from Seattle. When she called to say she was home, safe, and studying for a chemistry final or some such (ah, the energy of youth) I was so keyed-up i couldn’t sleep. I’m glad I was there to help get Three on the plane, but it’s exhausting.

So that is how I came to be waking up at 1PM today, stumbling off in search of coffee and the Pike Place Market. The hotel shuttle ran us down there and we walked and looked (pictures will be forthcoming when I get home.) On the bottom level of Pike Place there’s a ghost, or quite a few ghosts, that is. (Just ask my friend Jefferson.) Rather too much fun for me, so I retreated in a hurry to the second floor, where I picked up a loverly shawl-scarf thing in green alpaca and silk that is warm and soft as I type this.

We exited the Market to find a monsoon-like rain coming down horizontally because of the wind. We walked six blocks, crooning and whistling “Singing in the Rain” like true Seattle champs, and finally arrived at the Pacific Place mall wet almost clear through our trenchcoats. I stayed in Barnes and Noble (where I DID buy books, thankyouverymuch, Kiwi) and dried a bit as the Sullen Teen lost himself in a video-game store until it was time for the hotel shuttle to come pick us up. Traffic was awful because of the flooding.

We arrived back at the hotel, happy to be warmer and drier, and found a notice taped to the door–a letter to all guests about an impending windstorm (sixty mile an hour winds and more heavy rain, oh my) and the things to do if there’s a power outage. (Little things like not lighting candles are high on the list.) But still, it’s warm and dry. My boots are soaked, my feet looked like prunes, my trench is still dripping along with my hair, and the Sullen Teen is blowing his nose after a very hot shower and dry clothes. I have rarely been so happy to crawl into dry clothes in my life, though all our purchases were safely wrapped in a hemp bag that got wet but didn’t let more than a small bit of humidity through. The heater is running, and I’m about to go down and get a glass of wine before coming back up and watching the idiot box for a few hours. I’m warm, safe, dry, and spent the whole day wandering around feeding the Muse.

Doesn’t get any better than this. I’m ready to go home, yes…but not quite yet. I think I’ll sit up and watch the windstorm move in tonight. Tomorrow, when everything calms down, the museum sounds like a good bet. My Muse is happily slurping up all sorts of images and textures, and I am certain to have an explosion of productivity when I get back.

But not just yet. I have a storm to watch and a museum to visit. And not so incidentally, prunelike toes to dry out and elevate.

The wind is up here in Seattle, and I am typing this in perfectly nice hotel room on the sixth floor. I love this city and I love this hotel. Saint City is loosely modeled on a Seattle that existed about a decade ago in my dreams and shotgun-adrenaline experiences, with little bits of Cheyenne, London, and Portland thrown in. Funny how the omnivorous creative serves up bits of these dishes over and over again.

An urban landscape that is loosely based in face is an odd thing, because the characters are perfectly sure of where and who they are, but the writer is always trying to figure out what the hell is going on. Which is nothing new to any writer worth his or her salt.

The wind is absolutely whipping against the windows. We have a corner room, so there is a song of air moving by. It’s one of the more perfect and comforting sounds in the world, right next to a crackling fire and the silent hiss of snowfall. (I realize these things may only be comfortable when one is warm and snug inside, with a cuppa hot tea and a good book. Moderation is the key to all, as Aurelius pointed out in a perfectly lovely bon mot that has rung through the world since.)

This morning it was coffee and a bagel in the University Bookstore (Duane wasn’t upstairs, I don’t think. In any case, I am under strict orders to leave bookstores alone for a while) and some shopping. It’s nice to amble along, feeding the Muse with little snippets of things, and feel no particular pressure. I needed this.

Tonight I put my sister on a plane for Costa Rica. She’s already nervous as a wet cat about going, which isn’t helped by her hangover–a relic of last night’s going-away party. We’re going to hit some Indian food this afternoon, which will no doubt give her uneasy dreams on her red-eye flight. But she’s the seasoned world traveler, so her nerves are normal, at least.

I have not written a lick since this weekend. Fear not–I’m still clipping along at a good pace, mostly inside my head as I put together little bits of plot. Last night I was staring off into the distance when a perfectly good plot point made itself clear to me, one I’m going to have to fiddle about with the third Valentine book during copyediting to pull off right. (I’m just glad we didn’t get to page proofs before it occurred to me. Damn Muse.)

Anyway, I hope your week is as restful as mine, dear Reader. I just may stay here until Saturday after all. One doesn’t often have an opportunity for such peace.

You know I’m having a crisis when I start listening to the Wonder Boys soundtrack over and over again.

Standing on the gallows with my head in a noose
Any minute now I’m expecting all hell to break loose
People are crazy and times are strange
I’m locked in tight, I’m out of range
I used to care, but things have changed…

Dylan is a master. (Dude was born on my birthday, after all.) This song is Dante’s in the fifth book, right next to Tom Petty’s Won’t Back Down, which is Danny’s anthem if she ever had one. (Note to everyone who has been emailing and commenting: yes, Japh’s okay. Danny got there in time. Right now they’re hugging each other. Awww. Isn’t that sweet. Japh’s bleeding, too. Aren’t I so mean?)

So I’ve been watching chunks and loads of Monty Python, which is taking my mind off worries. What worries, you ask? Well, the DHM’s car broke down in Centralia this last weekend. My parents brought everyone home, since the Little Princess was up with my mum to see the Nutcracker. (I swear it makes sense.) So there’s been transportation stuff to think about, and it’s been a headache–I didn’t sleep at all Saturday night. Which leads me to an interesting quality of insomnia: the elasticity of time while you’re trying to fall asleep. It stretches, and stretches, and streeeeetttttcccchhhheeeessssss…

Picture break:

Isn’t that nice? I love this shot, it’s one of the best from last Wednesday’s batch. Also, there’s something fabulous: a whole group of people on Flickr who share my obsession with gas meters. Isn’t it nice to find out something you were shamefully compelled to do but felt nobody else on earth understood is actually something a whole bunch of other people like doing?

At least, it felt nice to me.

I’m off to Seattle for a few days, to put my sister Elliott on a plane for Costa Rica and take a day or two to clear my head out. So the blogging may be sparse. Hang loose and be chilly, everyone.