Wells Fargo’s new ATMs take check deposits, scan them and give you the option of a receipt with the image of the check. Sweet!

Work has upgraded Webmail from Horde to Zimbra. Took me a few days and many inventive curses before I could feel comfortable. Now I adore the integrated calendaring and think of the system as Ira Weatheral’s Minerva: my Little Nag.

Best of all, though! Doris Lessing won the Nobel Prize! And to think that only two weeks ago I fretted over whether science fiction’s shame-spear would deflower my delicate rosebud of literary respectability.

Assuredly it is the future!

Kiss

Originally uploaded by Goop on the lens

…these would be my bioweapons.

At five I gave up on getting any real work done today, called Rose and said I would meet her for drinks at six. At 5:05 Skud started IMing me about our AU work-in-progress and the conversation rapidly grew so interesting that I was hard pressed to tear myself away at 5:59.

I had for some reason assumed drinks would be with Rose and random strangers, but it turned out to be with Rose and some of my favouritest people, so one drink turned into two, with much more extremely interesting conversation, and I was hard pressed to tear myself away at 7:36.

My taxi driver was from Eritrea so we bonded over Fred Hollows, who he remembers as the eye doctor.

When I finally got home Jeremy and Claire and Julia and I were all so glad to see each other that we held hands in a circle and did the happy dance, which is a series of jumps. Then we did the power dance, which is also a series of jumps.

And so to bed.

Damn, I love you, readers. I want to make out with all of you right now. My favourite comment so far is from Shannon Lee (hope you don’t mind me quoting email, dude, but this LOLed me, a lot.)

I hate the fucking rapture. It’s so 20th century, let’s work on a new myth. Maybe a realist description of what would happen if everyone took Jesus at his word, hated his father and mother, took to the road and became a goddamned hippie — roads clogged with sandal-wearing peaceniks. I’m not saying it’s a more attractive picture than the Rapture, but we on the Christian left deserve our moment in the “reality not so good in reality as in our dreams” spotlight.

More ideas:

• Menopausal women really do become invisible. (Jeremy winces and calls this one “I see old people.”)
• In a similar vein: conversations with the unborn.
• Our favourite so far: In a post-industrial wasteland, civil war rages between Ren Faire and the SCA. Our heroes set off to find the source of what high tech remains: the maybe-mythical Black Rock City…

I can’t even find the words to say what Viable Paradise was like. I feel anointed as a member of the next generation of science fiction writers. I’m pretty sure everyone who was there felt the same. I have post-Burning Man afterglow without the playa dust. The difference between literary fiction and science fiction workshops, incidentally, maps almost exactly onto the difference between rock festivals and Burning Man. The first is almost about reinforcing the hierarchical distance between pro and am; the second blows it up with a giant flamethrower mounted to a mechanical dragon. Guess which I like.

It’s dead humbling, of course. I believe I mentioned how much smarter everyone else was than I am, including, I want to point out, the volunteers who came along to cook; but I may have glossed over the fact that they’re all much better writers than I am, too. Turns out I am not the most talented writer on earth, and though of rapidly advancing years, I haven’t done much yet. But I don’t care. I’m going to write anyway. I’m going to write every day. I’m going to write like I have started to run; just for the sheer living joy of it.

On!

Some of the ideas I’ve had for fiction this week. Tell me which is crappest! Feel free to steal!

• a white Australian brings her inclusive Aboriginal gods to San Francisco – BEWARE CULTURAL APPROPRIATION
• the book Fred Clarke keeps talking about in his Left Behind posts (ie a realist description of what the pre-Millennial dispensationalist rapture would be like)
• Patrick’s science fiction industry analysis as applied to magic
  • invention of mass market as opposed to custom spells
  • archvillains consolidate spell distribution
• the Fey at Auschwitz – this makes me VERY uncomfortable. Is there any way this could be anything other than tasteless?

I have been hoarding ideas as if they were a non-renewable resource; whereas in fact ideaspace is transfinite…

My phone chirped while we were on a day trip to Gay Head. Jeremy had sent me a photo of what arrived in the mail:

my British. Frickin. Passport.

Eep.

“Have you noticed that everyone here is ridiculously likable?”

“Yes!”

“And I say that as a known curmudgeon. I’ve never had so much fun being the least smart person in the room.”

The schedule is crammed and we have crazy amounts of homework, but there’s enough downtime that I’m not going mad. Martha’s Vineyard is an East Coast counterpart to Monterey or Pacific Grove, with lots of shingled buildings weathering to grey, but fewer trees. Birds galore: crows and albatross flying around complaining wittily about things. The warm sun releases good smells from the earth.

Last night we all walked to a bridge across a channel to see glow-in-the-dark jellyfish going out on the tide.

The likability thing: I have had no difficulty striking up conversations with anyone.

THIS NEVER HAPPENS.

Cozy domestic scene with Leonard; laptop face-off, while I explain just *why* x86 virtualization is so fun and cool and such a great hedge for fin insts overexposed to ABCP based on tranches of subprime. And how AMD V and Intel VT effectively restored Popek Goldberg compliance.

“Am I getting too geeky for you?”

“Not at all!”

After a week in which I bled words into my latest major report, I kissed the girls and Jeremy goodbye with not inconsiderable regret and flew to Boston A-FRICKIN-GAIN. This is the sixth time I’ve come to the East Coast in a year and much as I love the East Coast, that is, my friends, way too much traveling. My soul is worn thin. And as Jeremy says I can’t even expense this one because it was volitional, not vocational: writing workshop on Martha’s Vineyard. Oh sure, it *sounds* cushy and idyllic and the people will probably be extremely smart and fun, but… I have no “but” here.

It’s good to be blogging again. Yatima just passed its fifth birthday and I somewhat massively overidentified with Danny’s big Oblomovka reassessment because this blog, too, has come up with some provisional answers to the questions it was originally set up to explore. My big questions aren’t anything like as zeitgeisty and geo-implicational as Danny’s, partly because he’s way smarter than me and partly because I am reluctant to think about anything much beyond myself, my endlessly fascinating self. (These factors may be related.)

End 2001-beginning 2002 were like a massive, slow-motion car crash for me – for quite a lot of people, am I right? Who here thought that sucked? – so I woke up in the summer of 2002 thinking “Who am I? What the fuck just happened?” And the Kill Bill-y plot twist was that I was pregnant into the bargain. Hence Yatima, and:

• the more-or-less daily discipline of counting my blessings that has helped enormously with the sanity thing, and
• my ongoing hip-deep immersion in the history of Western imperialism in the Middle East.

Things are supposed to go around in seven year increments, aren’t they? But ’04 was a leap year so September 11 fell on a Tuesday again this year, and I spent about a month and a half having serious conversations with some of my most problematic ghosts. I’m still listening to American Edit a lot when I run, so my theme song for the last fortnight has been “Wake me up when September ends.”

I did toy with the idea of giving up Yatima but how could I stop writing about my scintillating self? How would you, my half dozen insanely loyal Dear Readers, ever forgive me? So here’s a new question that I won’t be able to knock over in anything like five years. Various things are catastrophically broken! What are we going to do about it?

“Oh, you’re from Sydney? You know Nowra? I flew into Nowra when I was in the Navy. I piloted a P3, a submarine tracker. I followed Chinese and Russian nuclear submarines. We had Sonobuoys. You know what a Sonobuoy is?”

“Yes! My Dad helped build one!”

“Really? Cool! So there are 48 attached to the outside, all pre-set, and 36 inside that you can set. They’re all set for 90, 400 or 1000 feet. Different sonar channels at different temperature channels in the water. You drop them ahead of where you think the sub is, and you track the sub that way. Three, four hour missions, that’s all the range you have. Big lumbering beast of a plane.”

“Did you like it?”

“I loved it when I was in college in Annapolis, then a junior officer, all the way up to lieutenant. I went to Australia with my own plane and eight crew and we were basically on our own. Flew into Nowra, had four days off – went to Sydney, had a great time – flew one mission, the Battle of the Coral Sea Memorial. It was sweet!

“But when you get to the next level up, lieutenant commander, that’s when it gets crazy political. It’s all about who’s sucking up to the next guy.

“The P3 is a four-prop plane, and you can fly it on two props. We’d fly over the subs and do everything but open the bomb bay doors. When it was one of our own subs, we’d open the bomb bay doors and do everything but drop the torpedoes on it. The idea is that if anything happens, you’re trained and know exactly what you need to do.

“I was stationed at Adak Island for six months. It’s in the Aleutian Islands, three islands away from Russia. It was summer, but yeah, it was pretty cold. I fished a lot. I don’t even eat fish! I just liked catching them. They were huge!

“I was there when the Gulf War started and they were going to send us to Iraq. They were teaching us combat maneuvers! In this lumbering beast! It was like a bullseye in the sky. But we had an amazing radar. We could spot a ship seventy miles out, and I could read the letters on the side. I could tell you what ship it was. So the idea was that we’d hang back and tell the bombers what to target. But we never went.

“This war? I just don’t know. I mean, you know I’m conservative or I wouldn’t have gone into the military, but… At the end of my time I had a hundred and seven people working for me, and I just can’t imagine… You feel a sense of ownership. It’s one thing sending people for missions where you know what it’s for, but when it’s like this… you know, the military is not a police force.

“When I was at Annapolis, I was on the battalion staff. There are six companies to a battalion and the staff are drawn from each company. And here we were at college and my roommate’s girlfriend was sneaking in and staying overnight, and no one knew because we were on staff…

“After I left I ran ROTC at UCLA, which was strange. I think it was harder on those guys than it ever was on us at Annapolis. People would come to see us doing drill in our uniforms, but the ROTC guys were in their uniform one day a week and just ordinary students the rest of the time… people gave them a hard time. One of my jobs there was as a CACO, a casualty assistance something something… it meant telling people their sons were dead. I did it three times in two years. It was hard.

“These days, that’s a full time job.

“That friend of mine from Annapolis? He and I were flying out of Moffatt Field. And when you change shifts, the two planes have to change altitudes and trade places, and at the same time you’re handing off the Sonobuoys. So there’s two handoffs going at once, and it’s hard. You hold onto the Sonobuoy, it’s the only thing you know for sure; when the needles flicks over, you’re directly over a buoy. You say ‘I’m here and going 090,’ and the other pilot says ‘I’m doing 180’, and then you should be able to change altitudes. Well, something went wrong and the planes collided, and the top one was full of gas…

“And it was me, again, who told her. It was the same girlfriend, his wife now, and the CACOs had done a bad job, letting her think they were just missing. I got there and she said ‘Have you heard anything?’ So I had to tell her. Two fully loaded planes. All they ever found was a helmet.

“Still, when you go into the Navy you know, you know what the risks are. That’s all part of what you buy into. This war? I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t think this is what the military is for.”

“Any regrets?”

“No. None. It is weird, though. Another friend of mine, that I went to high school as well as well as Annapolis with, he’s commander of a nuclear submarine now. He’s like the third most powerful entity on earth. There’s the USA, Russia and then him.”

“Hmm. Good guy?”

“Very good guy.”

The toddler bonhomie onslaught began at 5am; there’s nothing quite liked being jerked out of REM sleep in the pre-dawn chill by an excess of baby cheer. Still, it gave me time to think of three more Julesisms.

Her favourite sister: “LUR!”

Her favourite reptile: “NAKE!”

And she likes to count. “HREE! For. Fie. SIC!”

I keep forgetting to specify exactly how insanely cute Julia is. She makes fish faces when she kisses you. She’s talking a lot, and when she gets her point across she says “Yay!” She still has her ecstatic “Eeeee!” for random good times. But if you ask her to do something for you, she no longer blindly complies; she’ll actually think about it, and if she’s not that into it, she’ll say no. Only it comes out sounding like “Nw.”

Her hair is still the palest, softest silk you can imagine, in a cloud around her head. Huge eyes and a red rosebud mouth. As her mother am I allowed to notice that she is beautiful? As with Claire, people stop me in the street to remark on it. But her gorgeous face is just a pale shadow of who she is, funny, affectionate, indomitable, steely Jules.

She climbs anything and slides down the slide hooting “Whee!” She sings at various times: “La la la, boo-ey, booey.” When she wants to leave the house she cries “Go! Go!” When she concedes a point she says “OH-kay.” She has taken to saying “I loff you mama,” which stops my heart, every time. When she hugs you she spreadeagles across your whole body and nestles her face in your collarbone. It’s warm and solid and unshakeable, like her love. When she hugs you, you stay hugged.

And the energy, dear God the continual bouncing, from the second she opens her eyes at frickin daybreak, hugs and playfulness and all-around joie de frickin vivre. Let’s give the last word to Jules’ matinee idol Claire, who was being followed about and forcibly played with and adored, until she climbed into Jeremy’s lap and said:

“I don’t like Julia right now. She is too mighty.”

I transferred two of the tomato plants today, but they were so spindly and top-heavy that I accidentally snapped one off almost at the base. I transferred the root ball anyway – why not? – and trimmed the best bits of the rest of it to try and propagate the cuttings. There’s clearly no upside to me and my brown thumbs getting attached to individual plants, so I’ve decided to treat it as a numbers game. Grow, little clones, you are my cannon fodder! I shall call you all, Django Fett.

Clearly on a roll, I cycled a whole bunch of toys into the attic and a whole bunch of ancient stuff out of it. Whoever picked up my fugly old lamps off the street – thanks! While I was doing that I found a ton of Claire’s clothes that should work for Jules, so I pulled out all Jules’ outgrown stuff for consignment. Now wasn’t that a charming Sunday afternoon? When everything was done I made a caprese salad and strawberries with creme fraiche for Jeremy’s and my lunch. I’d love to say the tomatoes and basil were from the garden; technically the basil was, but alas, I didn’t grow it from seed; it falls squarely into the category of plants I haven’t managed to kill (yet.)

Yesterday I delicioused a very cool question on Mefi – without even realizing that Sumana had written it. ETA: Sumana writes to say that it wasn’t actually her, and I note that I need to work on my reading comprehension. Still probably the best question ever posted to Ask Metafilter.

Today I wore my new fall coat; black Italian wool, double-breasted, from Sisley, the funky subsidiary of Benetton. I got it at Out of the Closet for the princely sum of $11.25, down from $15 – they were having a Labor Day sale. It fits so beautifully that one of the guys there said to me as I was trying it on: “Great coat!” I accessorized with the amazing Jack Georges handbag that I bought at a sidewalk sale for $5. I looked kickass and felt happily smug.

Have been trying to eke things out more generally; walk instead of drive (much easier since I have been running and no longer get exhausted after half a mile), recycle (hugely satisfying, because San Francisco’s program is stellar), all-around buy less stuff. The little kitchen farm is doing well and the first two tomatoes are ripe. We’ll get half a cherry tomato each when we get around to harvesting. Don’t eat it all at once! I have sweet and Thai basil and rosemary growing as well.

The next challenge is to get some of it growing out on the terrace, which is presently home to Bebe’s cat box, Mr and Mrs Slug (each slug being both Mr and Mrs Slug) and all the baby slugs, plus a thicket of plants I have killed so far. Bit of a cultural wasteland, in short. I should call it Chatswood. I replaced my big fugly Ikea work area with a gorgeous little corner desk ($60 on Craigslist, woo!) That frees up a whole bunch of space near the French windows, making terrace access a lot easier; but I’m still concerned about the depredations of the Switch Family Slug.

I think I’ll transfer a couple of tomato plants and basil into the hanging baskets that used to hold the now-dead fuschia plants (RIP, and sorry about the not-watering.) That way I can find out whether our hermaphroditic invertebrate friends are willing to tightrope-walk along the trellis in their efforts to foil my cunning agri-schemes. I bet they aren’t. I bet I can grow two more tomatos! Yes, and then the sky will be my oyster!

I wonder if I could keep a chicken out there? How about a pig?

When she was three another sewing needle jabbed out from under her left rib. It took another 20 years before the family learnt how many needles remained in her body.

“My mother cried and cried after she found out,” said Luo Jiaxing, 20, Ms Luo’s younger brother. “She kept saying ‘no wonder my daughter cried all the time as a baby. She must have been hurting from all the needles, but she did not know how to speak.”‘

They figure it was her grandfather, who wanted a grandson; and that he did it when she was a newborn, since he would have had to go through the fontanel to get one into her brain.

She lived. She got pregnant and had a son! She carried the cowardly old man’s weapons inside her until doctors could look inside her and see what he had done. What a woman! Her name is Luo Cuifen.

Dear Sony, if as you seem to imply your new Reader device is aimed at people who might otherwise be carrying around a bunch of hardbacks, don’t advertise it with an excerpt from the fucking Da Vinci Code. Constant readers do not agree on much, but one thing we do agree on is that that book blew mighty, gelatinous chunks. Even if the fucking Da Vinci Code (its correct name) didn’t have the worst dialogue, characterization and pacing of anything I have ever had the misfortune to gag at, I’d hate it because it ripped off – without attribution! – the merrily paranoid Holy Blood, Holy Grail. Go read that instead, because it DOESN’T SUCK.

To add irony to insult AND injury, I finally visited Rennes-le-Chateau – site of the putative conspiracy – the day my Auntie Ruth died, six years ago, only hours after my mother arrived at her bedside from Australia. Rennes has its own air of the uncanny, complete with Satanic sculptures, but it was compounded by my aching grief and by the sight of all the late-summer sunflowers (Ruth’s favourite) bowing their thirsty heads under a blazing blue sky. What gives the Grail story its power, I realized, is that every family’s blood is holy and royal, and every death is a crucifixion.

Right, and apparently I can’t write a single blog post this month without lighting seven-hundred-foot funeral pyres. Why would that be, d’you think? Jeremy flew from London today but is safe, safe opposite me as I write this. With all my heart I wish peace to everyone whose beloved isn’t safe and near. Peace to my friends and peace to my enemies. Peace to everyone. Peace on earth. Peace.

This is Burning Man really is the most amazing book about Burning Man; I was enjoying it hugely even before I got to the 1998-2003 section. But what that particular section describes is more than just interesting history to me. It was the focus of my life during those years. I know half the people and saw all the art that Doherty describes. Here’s my first year at the Burn, described down to the last detail by Charlie Smith (who went on to make the Hearth, maybe my favourite piece of all time):

“I see a big temple, all beautiful melted plastic, and then I see a giant Tesla coil… What the fuck is that about? You’re going across the desert and hear this crazy ripping sound and see lightning striking right near the ground – let’s go! … I take a tour down to Center Camp and see this huge copper tree shooting water; then I go by at night, and it’s all on fire and I’m thinking Woo, nice…” This was in 1998, the year the Man exploded. “I couldn’t believe the brightness of that fire…”

For all this evocative delight, Doherty to his great credit doesn’t shy from the Man’s power to fuck lives right up, suck money down a giant drainhole, destroy relationships and melt human flesh:

“I turned toward the Dice fire just in time to lock eyes with a burning man walking out of the fire and toward me. I will never forget the look in those eyes – eyes that were looking directly at me, eyes that said ‘What did I just do?’… This man before us, this melted man, he was not surviving the night.

“Someone cut Sinatra; people sprang to action. A man from the Death Guild eased the burned man down to the ground (no one knew where to set his melted skin down – a dusty piece of carpet, the bare playa, where? Was this really happening?) and talked to him gently, trying to calm him. ‘What you have, it’s like a really bad sunburn. Hell, I get horrible sunburns out here. You’ve probably got a third-degree sunburn, that’s all. Happens to all of us. I got sunburned real bad out here, earlier in the week…’ The burned man looked on with huge eyes… You could see deep into his body, where the fire had burned away the skin.” He was taken away from the playa, and he died. He had walked into the fire deliberately, for reasons no one will ever know.

[13:02] mizchalmers: we had an idea
[13:02] mizchalmers: at drinks on saturday night
[13:02] mizchalmers: no one wants mutts from the shelter, right? so we’re starting a new shelter
[13:02] mizchalmers: where people can adopt Hero Dogs
[13:02] otherwisermw: HERO DOGS
[13:03] otherwisermw: aww
[13:03] mizchalmers: every mutt will have dragged a baby out of a fire, or swum to the rescue
[13:03] mizchalmers: see?
[13:03] mizchalmers: genius
[13:03] otherwisermw: i want one and i am a cat person
[13:03] mizchalmers: we’ll have to imperil some babies to qualify our hero dogs, but you can’t make an omelette, etc

I accidentally wore my linen suit yesterday, having got the day of a meeting wrong; so I was a bit relieved today to wake up and find the city overcast, because it meant I wouldn’t feel quite so silly in black wool crepe.

But it isn’t overcast. As I drove over Bernal Hill I saw the sun floating huge and orange through the haze. It’s not cloud cover at all, but smoke from a huge wildfire 200 miles away, north of Truckee.

And Pavarotti is dead.

San Francisco isn’t supposed to be shrouded in smoke; Sydney is the city with the bushfires. As if it weren’t bad enough that Jeremy is away on his third long trip this year. The time is out of joint. Come home, beardie man.