Clippings

May 23

Heavy entries yesterday, huh? So here's a more random entry to catch you up on the bits of everydayness I normally provide for your pleasure…

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I got my hair cut yesterday. Meg did the chopping-- perhaps it wasn't wise to let my recently-ex-girlfriend near my head with a sharp instrument, but she's always seemed trustworthy, so I took the risk. It's not short-short (sorry, Karen), but it's significantly shorter than it was-- when it's wet and non-curly, it just touches my shoulders. It was horribly poofy yesterday-- I had a real Larry-of-the-Three-Stooges look going on-- but today it's curly and bouncy and, dare I say, cute. I'm pleased with it. Pictures may follow.

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Thanks to all of you who've written me about yesterday's entries-- the support and good thoughts are much appreciated. I believe I've got nearabout the best readers in the world.

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Meg and I had a horrorshow double-feature a couple of nights ago. We watched the original House on Haunted Hill with Vincent Price, and then watched the re-make with Geoffrey Rush and Chris Kattan and some hot actresses whose names I can't recall. Both films were good, but flawed. Neither of the Houses were terribly creepy (nothing like the Hill House in The Haunting, a rather horrible film that nevertheless had some pretty kickin' scenery and special effects). The House in the original was little more than a concrete bunker, while the House in the new one was neat-looking but not very menacing-- at least externally. The basement was suitably creepy.

Geoffrey Rush was made up to look just like Vincent Price (and indeed his character's last name was Price). Chris Kattan totally stole the movie, though, as the alcoholic Wilson Pritchard-- he got all the best lines, and delivered them wonderfully.

The movies scared Meg so badly that she made me camp out with her in the living room (at her parents' house we're not allowed to sleep in the same bedroom-- a marked contrast to my Mom's house, where, you know, reality is acknowledged). She didn't sleep well at all. I slept fine, despite having most of my legs hanging off the couch. I can sleep almost anywhere. It's this gift I have.

Sigh. Will I ever find a woman who appreciates a good horror movie? Who doesn't get all scared and psychologically damaged? I hate to draw silly gender steretoypes, and I'm sure there are lots of women who like the Hellraiser flicks as much as I do, but I haven't found them yet. I mean, a good horror movie, one that is really suspenseful and really creates a sense of dread or terror, that's art. Not art to everyone's taste, and I'm not talking about the gross-out or even the disturbing imagery of Johnny Got His Gun or a Nine Inch Nails video, but horror, dread… that's powerful stuff. Ah, well. Scott will always watch Hellraiser flicks with me, at least.

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Meg and I are going to make a breakfast casserole tonight (you have to make it the night before and let it sit in the fridge all night. For some reason. I only know what I'm told). I'm tempted to get all dramatic and say it's the last time we'll ever cook together… but that's probably not true. It's not like I'll never see her again. So I'll resist the impulse.

We went to the park today (I am, in fact, writing this in the park), and talked a lot, about bitterness and anger and resentment. Not screaming or anything, just talking about our feelings. We needed to do it. Eventually we ended up holding each other on the blanket, telling one another the things we'd miss the most about our relationship. It was incredibly sad, painful… but also purgative. Cathartic. It felt… this'll sound weird, but it's accurate… it felt like we were at a wake. A memorial service. Talking about all the things we'd miss about a loved one who'd been recently lost. A wake for our relationship. You get the idea. Sad, but important.

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We got yummy lunch at the Bear Rock Café in Winston-Salem. They have gooooood sandwiches. I got The Moose, which is essentially this enormous club sandwich composed of all manner of yummy things. It was almost too big for me to physically eat. This is a good thing. I ate it all up.

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I'm reading Full Spectrum 5, from 1995. It's good. I've read the first twelve stories, and there was only one of them that I couldn't get into at all. This really is a good anthology series. I'd read one volume of it in the past, and I should track down the others. It makes me want to write good short fiction. But first I have a novel to write, and revisions to do… a writer's work is never done. If he's lucky.

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Heather gave me a packet of poems and letters before I left California, an envelope for each day we'd be apart. Those letters have been my sustenance as I've missed her-- they've been a little bit of her each morning or evening, a taste, a blown kiss, a melody she hums.

I only have two of those envelopes left to open. The day I read the last one-- mere hours after I read the last one-- I get to see her again.

Words break and splinter when I try to use them to say how excited I am about seeing her again, seeing the woman behind the words, the woman I haven't seen now for two weeks and counting.

Soon.