Myth Happens

The thing that was hideously wrong with my e-mail is no longer hideously wrong. It's still a little confused about where everything is filed, but it appears not to have lost any data and this makes me orders of magnitude happier than the situation as I left it this afternoon. Backups and rebuilds were involved. I am feeling a little superstitious around it, but sending out messages all the same.

In any case, I had a lovely afternoon with rushthatspeaks. We made pandan-green onde onde with palm sugar and the dough behaved with perfect courtesy the entire time, which was confusing but infinitely preferable to the oobleck experience of last time; we guessed it was because we weren't making them during a thunderstorm. gaudior came home with the car in the evening and we got takeout from the next-to-last day of the pop-up version of DooWee & Rice and watched two more episodes of Hannibal, which continues to be just a beautiful show. We might even finish the first season before the second is done airing. I am having to avoid all sorts of things on people's Tumblrs.

I am re-reading Heart-Beast (1992), which is not among Tanith Lee's best. It may actually be among her worst—I must have liked it better than Vivia (1995), because I didn't find that one when I unpacked, but I'm guessing it was a close race or a lingering sense of completism. (I loved the cover for Vivia, but then I found out it was Charles August Mengin's Sappho (1877) and I could get it for free on the internet or the better kind of Romantic calendar, and somehow I didn't feel the need to keep the book around for it anymore.) It starts out terribly Orientalist, passes through an extendedly gory riff on the landing of the Demeter which Rush tells me Lee did better in the story about the vampire ship anyway, and then settles into a mode that in a better novel would have been Fuck You Thomas Hardy, except that would have required Lee to write a semi-convincing English countryside. Which this really isn't, even if there's lambing season and stoats in the fields. She's written better werewolves and the women obsessed with them. But this novel was packed up with too much of my other fiction in the winter of 2006, and I haven't read it since, so I'm reading it now. And then I will re-read some Tanith Lee I actually love. I wish I could find more of my Moorcock than An Alien Heat (1972), and I am beginning to worry that Naomi Mitchison's To the Chapel Perilous (1955) ended up in some box of non-books, because it hasn't surfaced yet, but on the other hand I've found anthologies I didn't remember buying and a significant run of Phyllis Ann Karr, so I'm still pretty happy. I just need to figure out where the nonfiction is going to go.