Archetypally Fortean

June 15

9:07 a.m.

Good morning! I'm at work. I'm the only one in the office (well, except for the Company Cat). I have vague instructions and loose deadlines. We'll see how productive I manage to be today. At least no one will look at me strangely if I talk to myself and curse the computer...

Cool thing: My poem, "Incident," (in the July ish of Asimov's) got reviewed in Tangent Online. This is especially cool because Tangent doesn't normally review poetry. You have to be a subscriber to read the current issue of Tangent, so I can't link directly to the review, but here's the relevant bit, by reviewer Jay Lake:

Tangent Online does not review poetry, but I wanted to mention "Incident" by Tim Pratt. Pratt has written a meditation on that most archetypical of Fortean events, the fish fall, that opens the heart and the mind. Even if you are not a fan of verse, pause at the sign of the fish on page 61. You might learn a few secrets.

Hear that, y'all? I'm archetypally Fortean. I'm all opening hearts and minds and shit.

Such a cool review.

So yesterday morning Heather and I rose, and got scrambagels (egg and cheese and butter and green onions on a toasted bagel (a tomato-basil bagel in both our cases, as we are discerning people of good taste)). Then we went to Pergolesi and had lattés in the cool shade on the deck. Mmm. Yum-loveliness. I love having days off in the middle of the week.

Heather headed off for work (boo, hiss) and I went to Hayward. We were headed in the same direction for most of the drive, so we passed one another and waved at each other and both independently thought how dreadful it would be to accidentally rear-end the other. Which fortunately didn't happen.

I got to Timprov and Marissa's, and we went for mix-in ice cream (cherry pie filling and hot fudge, mmm). Tremendously long line. Little ankle biters everywhere. More cute than annoying. I borrowed many books, which I'll talk about when I get around to reading them.

Roundabout dinner time I went to Heather's in Oakland. We made a nice meal of tortellini and tomato sauce and bread and gyoza and soy sauce (I know, not exactly a traditional combo, but we're nothing if not wild and experimental).

Yesterday evening, at some point during dinner, my fretfulness returned-- just uneasiness, awkwardness. I couldn't figure out what it was about-- not Heather (everything's meta-uber-great with her), not work (who cares about work?), not money... so what? As the night went on and we cuddled and talked, my fretfulness mellowed and deepened into something more, something more profound. It took me a while to realize what it was.

Sadness.

That bewildered me for a little while. I tried to figure out what I had to be sad about. Not worried, not scared, not nervous, not anxious-- sad.

Then I figured it out. You've probably already figured it out. Heather certainly wasn't surprised when I realized what was bothering me and told her about it.

I was sad about Meg. About things ending with Meg.

I hadn't really dealt with it. I've had twinges, but I've been keeping myself so busy, trying to outrun the curve of grief, that I hadn't really addressed these feelings. My most recent story, "Little Gods of Grief," is more or less about breaking up with Meg (it's about other stuff, too, but that's the emotional genesis), but even that's grieving through a mask, at a remove. As soon as I considered the possibility that my sadness might be about Meg, something cracked inside me, and all these dark and pent-up waters came out. I wept on Heather's bed, and shivered, and told her stories, talked to her about my relationship with Meg, how it started, how good it was, how I never stopped loving her. Heather was great-- she held me, and listened, and let me get it all out.

Meg and I did the right thing by ending our relationship. The things we want are too different. We did what we had to do.

But oh, it's a sad, sad thing.

I left Heather's last night feeling much better-- not so jammed-up inside. I got home around 12:30 a.m. and tumbled right into bed, where I hugged a pillow, and slept, and had no dreams that I can recall.