The funny thing? It was actually a script for a perfectly normal and standard rom-com that I slapped a random series of strange words on in hope that it would get him interested. So maybe the problem wasn’t that it was too weird, but rather too “normal”. 
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My mother just left after visiting for too many days, so
But seriously, just started this
in a moment of insomnia and self-loathing in yesterday’s wee hours. Thus far seems to be about ghosts or mental illness or both or maybe something else so, um, cool? Find out soon enough, I suppose.
@Curmudge0n now has me wanting to dig through storage to find my unread copy of From Hell but it may have to wait until after the holidays.
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I’d do commercials and recommendations for Stephen King and Alan Moore any day of the week, free of charge 
Reading at the moment:
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Just finished this:
Very much worth reading - fascinating and eye-opening, often in a rather terrifying way. I had some uneasiness about one of the chapters but I appreciate his bravery in treading fine lines through territory that often gets avoided out of concern for missteps.
Also -
Got an article to write about a book of Joyce criticism so I’ve dusted this baby off again. Haven’t read it since my MPhil, when I thought I was going to write my dissertation on Joyce so had a lot of fun slicing up my first copy, photocopying alternate pages, then gluing the un-copied side of text to the copy’s reverse, so that each a4 sheet was half Ulysses and half space for annotations.
Anyway, it’s nice to come back to it. Despite my complaints about the joyless burden of studying, it has resulted in a unique pleasure, namely that I’ve got something new and different out of re-reading the Irish books I first picked up when I was a novice. I’m able to understand so much more now than when I first got through the above tome many years ago now (having printed off the wikipedia articles for each episode and interleaved them). Which is generally the case of course, whether one studies specific subjects or not, but as a way of registering a change in your knowledge and your self, it’s quite moving.
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Nice. Barker is a goo one. Have you read the Books of Blood? And outside of horror Imajica?
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Yes, actually. Sometime in the early 90s, right after reading Cabal, I think. Let’s just say it’s been a while.
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Same. At least 10 years for me. But in The Hills, The Cities left a serious emotional mark, and Midnight Meat Train is set in a familiar locale so it’s never far from mind. If you’ve not read Imajica I’d recommend looking into it. Barker has a deft hand and sharp typewriter, and turned to fantasy I found the result very engaging. And for the little one’s entre to horror the Thief of Always is very accessible and not terribly graphic. Maybe around 13 to 15 years old depending on taste.
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Merry Christmas indeed!
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The author doesn’t reinvent the wheel here, but it’s quite entertaining.
Not sure how I feel about the set-up for this take on Holmes’ final encounter with Moriarty and subsequent reappearance. It was recommended by a Sherlock Holmes fan. It’s well-written and captures the style pretty accurately. Just not sure it’s the version of the story I want!
More of Junji Ito’s work. However, Gyo is nowhere near as good as Hellstar Remina, or even Uzimaki. However, Gyo does contain the short The Enigma of Amigara Fault, which is one of the better ones out there.
This could go in a couple off-topic areas but thought it might work best here. It’s a passage from Andre Aciman’s Find Me, his follow-up to Call Me by Your Name. A couple of the lines could use context from the novel, and I’m not sure I necessarily agree with it 100%, but I think it’s a generally interesting thought on its own.
Music doesn’t give answers to questions I don’t know how to ask. It doesn’t tell me what I want. It reminds me that I may still be in love, though I’m no longer sure I know what that means, being in love. I think about people all the time, yet I’ve hurt many more than I’ve cared for. I can’t even tell what I feel, though feel something I still do, even if it’s more like a sense of absence and loss, maybe even failure, numbness, or total unknowing. I was sure of myself once, I thought I knew things, knew myself, and people loved that I reached out to touch them when I blustered into their lives and didn’t even ask or doubt that I mightn’t be welcome. Music reminds me of what my life should have been. But it doesn’t change me.
Perhaps, says the genius, music doesn’t change us that much, nor does great art change us. Instead, it reminds us of who, despite all our claims or denials, we’ve always known we were and are destined to remain. It reminds us of the mileposts we’ve buried and hidden and then lost, of the people and things that mattered despite our lies, despite the years. Music is no more than the sound of our regrets put to a cadence that stirs the illusion of pleasure and hope. It’s the surest reminder that we’re here for a very short while and that we’ve neglected or cheated or, worse yet, failed to live our lives. Music is the unlived life. You’ve lived the wrong life, my friend, and almost defaced the one you were given to live.
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