Pink skin, ears, perhaps an eye here and there, the stench, the squeal, layer upon layer of skin and meat, an endlessly cloned pig surface, folding back on itself. It’s not like encountering a single pig, it’s pure pigness. An alternate world or mindscape that’s made of pig. I had another SF vision today, of what you might call Oinkness. Something first person and transreal, like Mathematicians in Love. It might be nice to write a really easy novel. On the other hand, why not another novel. “Yaar!”Īm I writing crazier than usual? Or is just that this week I give less of a squat? The numerical fact that Hylozoic was my thirtieth book, sets me to thinking about trying something new for #31. Gnome cracklins drift up and people munch ‘em down. You can rent time on an ion-beam destruction ray and fry the Texas gnomes that you’ve lured out with the Texas-shaped bread crumbs. Tiny cowhand gnomes down there in half-pint hats, shooting cap pistols. A fence around the edge, and you can buy little baskets of bread and throw in the Texas-shaped crumbs for the Texas gnomes. Especially Texas could be gone.Ī frikkin’ Texas-shaped hole in the surface of the globe, a thousand-mile deep shaft with a giant orange blup-blup lava lake at the bottom. And then follow my character back to the US and, whoah, NYC and/or DC are gone. Go with my fantasies and fears about nuclear fallout as a boy in 1959 at a German boarding school, for instance. If I weren’t going to write a nonfiction memoir, what might I write instead? I could scootch just a bit away from that, and write a novel that’s close to my actual life. But of course, to her, the pants aren’t terrible, they’re cool fashion. Pale blue sweat pants with “ H O L L I S T E R,” in an arc, the name of a small town south of here. It’s so terrible when people have words appliquéd onto the butts of their sweat pants. I’m in the Los Gatos Coffee Roaster again. Working title: “To See Infinity Bare.” It wasn’t too hard. Today I actually got a thousand words done on a new story I plan to write with Paul Di Filippo. Some people spell it as “wiseacreing,” by the way, but “wiseacring” seems to be more common. He used the word wiseacring a lot, meaning something like free intellectual play. Gurdjieff in Meetings With Remarkable Men. “Wiseacring for the swing of thought” is a phrase used by G. There’s such a powerful “why bother” haze surrounding any plan for a memoir. It might really be more reasonable to write another novel. My fingers work, my brain, my word-circuits. All that matters is that I’m writing up notes for- something. It’s mattering less to me if I actually do write a memoir. (They posted an Italian language version as well.) This just in: Bertram Niessen’s interview with me in the Italian ezine Digimag.
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