where did the spring go?
Apr. 30th, 2018 01:08 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
incandescensThe weather continues grey and cold, with promised miserable rain tomorrow. At least Monday is not attempting to conceal its hideous face in any way, but proudly displays its abhorrent nature to the world.
(I have never been a fan of Mondays.)
I'm now on a four-day week at work, with Wednesday off. While I am not exactly producing tons more writing, I am feeling a bit less fraught and stressed, so I'd say that objective was achieved.
Eurovision Song Contest the week after next, which will be excellent. Incidentally, I strongly recommend Catherynne Valente's Space Opera - distinctly Douglas Adams-ish, but, I think, even better in some ways.
---
Yes, life is the opposite of rare and precious. It’s everywhere; it’s wet and sticky; it has all the restraint of a toddler left too long at day care without a juice box. And life, in all its infinite and tender intergalactic variety, would have gravely disappointed poor gentle-eyed Enrico Fermi had he lived only a little longer, for it is deeply, profoundly, execrably stupid.
It wouldn’t be so bad if biology and sentience and evolution were merely endearing idiots, enthusiastic tinkerers with subpar tools and an aesthetic that could be called, at best, cluttered and, at worst, a hallucinogenic biohazard-filled circus-cannon to the face. But, like the slender, balding father of the atomic age, they’ve all gotten far too much positive feedback over the years. They really believe in themselves, no matter how much evidence against piles up rotting in the corners of the universe. Life is the ultimate narcissist, and it loves nothing more than showing off. Give it the jankiest glob of fungus on the tiniest flake of dried comet-vomit wheeling drunkenly around the most underachieving star in the middle of the most depressing urban blight the cosmos has to offer, and in a few billion years, give or take, you’ll have a teeming society of telekinetic mushroom people worshipping the Great Chanterelle and zipping around their local points of interest in the tastiest of lightly browned rocket ships. Dredge up a hostile, sulfurous silicate lava sink slaloming between two phlegmy suns well into their shuffleboard years, a miserable wad of hell-spit, free-range acid clouds, and the gravitational equivalent of untreated diabetes, a stellar expletive that should never be forced to cope with something as toxic and flammable as a civilization, and before you can say no, stop, don’t, why? the place will be crawling with postcapitalist glass balloons filled with sentient gases all called Ursula.
-- Space Opera, Catherynne Valente
(I have never been a fan of Mondays.)
I'm now on a four-day week at work, with Wednesday off. While I am not exactly producing tons more writing, I am feeling a bit less fraught and stressed, so I'd say that objective was achieved.
Eurovision Song Contest the week after next, which will be excellent. Incidentally, I strongly recommend Catherynne Valente's Space Opera - distinctly Douglas Adams-ish, but, I think, even better in some ways.
---
Yes, life is the opposite of rare and precious. It’s everywhere; it’s wet and sticky; it has all the restraint of a toddler left too long at day care without a juice box. And life, in all its infinite and tender intergalactic variety, would have gravely disappointed poor gentle-eyed Enrico Fermi had he lived only a little longer, for it is deeply, profoundly, execrably stupid.
It wouldn’t be so bad if biology and sentience and evolution were merely endearing idiots, enthusiastic tinkerers with subpar tools and an aesthetic that could be called, at best, cluttered and, at worst, a hallucinogenic biohazard-filled circus-cannon to the face. But, like the slender, balding father of the atomic age, they’ve all gotten far too much positive feedback over the years. They really believe in themselves, no matter how much evidence against piles up rotting in the corners of the universe. Life is the ultimate narcissist, and it loves nothing more than showing off. Give it the jankiest glob of fungus on the tiniest flake of dried comet-vomit wheeling drunkenly around the most underachieving star in the middle of the most depressing urban blight the cosmos has to offer, and in a few billion years, give or take, you’ll have a teeming society of telekinetic mushroom people worshipping the Great Chanterelle and zipping around their local points of interest in the tastiest of lightly browned rocket ships. Dredge up a hostile, sulfurous silicate lava sink slaloming between two phlegmy suns well into their shuffleboard years, a miserable wad of hell-spit, free-range acid clouds, and the gravitational equivalent of untreated diabetes, a stellar expletive that should never be forced to cope with something as toxic and flammable as a civilization, and before you can say no, stop, don’t, why? the place will be crawling with postcapitalist glass balloons filled with sentient gases all called Ursula.
-- Space Opera, Catherynne Valente
no subject
Date: 2018-04-30 02:02 am (UTC)Yay for less stressed! Hopefully after a little decompression, the words will effortlessly spin up a little, even! Or at least, you will stay LESS STRESSED. Which is good.
no subject
Date: 2018-05-01 12:14 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-05-01 12:56 am (UTC)