The Streets Where I'm From Are Paved With Hearts Instead of Gold

October 15

Merry Monday. Go on over to Strange Horizons and read my poem "Orpheus Among the Cabbages." I got the idea for this poem one day while staring up at Heather's poster of Nymphs Finding the Head of Orpheus. I offered the idea to Heather, but the more I thought of it, the more I liked it, so I snatched the idea back and wrote it myself. I think it's one of my better pieces. I don't think it's perfect, but I wasn't sure it was supposed to be perfect... I think there are small discordances in the poem that add texture... well. I'm not sure how to articulate what I mean. I hope you enjoy the poem. And it's okay if you think it's perfect.

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I had a terrifically nice weekend. Very eventful. Saturday we went into Berkeley to see Marissa and Timprov and Mark and Avi and Mary Anne and so on. Heather and I didn't stay too long; I had things I needed to work on. We wound up sitting at another café, where I quite failed to work on the book review I'd planned to write. Instead, I wrote a long and pivotal scene in my new Marla story (which is coming along beautifully-- it may be one of my best, knock wood).

Saturday night we joined Teddy (whom we met at a party at Susan's a bit ago) to see the Old 97's at the Fillmore. I must concur with Karen's estimation; the Fillmore is a beautiful venue. Chandeliers and free apples... what more can one ask of a concert hall? I've discovered that I like being in the city in a car when I don't have to drive. Teddy drove us around in his gorgeous car, an Eclipse; the nicest car I've been in for a long time. Teddy tells funny stories-- of Mondale the spy-hunter super-van, of kiddie pools catching fire, of increasing the self-esteem of small dog owners via the judicious redistribution of yard-kill. He's a nice guy. The show was fun, and the 1 a.m. meal at the Smokehouse was likewise fun, and the sleep Heather and I had afterward felt well-earned.

Sunday we had (lamentably brief) tea with Mary Anne. The conversation was just starting to gear up nicely when she had to go. Ah, well; she's busy. Such is the nature of Mary Anne. Heather and I went across the street afterward to see the new Lynch movie, Mulholland Drive. It's my favorite Lynch movie, I think. One of the surreal ones (like Eraserhead, Blue Velvet, and Lost Highway, as opposed to the linearly comprehensible ones, like Wild At Heart, The Elephant Man, Dune, The Straight Story), it was nightmarish and stylish and funny and sexy and bewildering. My ultimate criteria for whether I think a film is any good is boredom-- if I get bored, it's not a good movie. Mulholland Drive did not bore me. It fascinated me. I loved it, and not just for the lesbian love scenes, though they hardly detracted from my enjoyment. I wish it had been made into a television series. I remember reading the script for the pilot a couple of years ago, when I was living with my friend Brian, Lynch-fan-extraordinaire, and being saddened that the show didn't get made. Still, it was nice to see this much.

Later that night we watched State and Main on video, a film I've rhapsodized about elsewhere in this journal. Heather was enchanted by the film, just as I'd hoped she would be.

Stir in healthy dollops of good food, some nice sex, lots of reading (Whoo Onion Girl!), assorted silliness, giving Susan a ride from the airport, and writing, and that's my weekend, in all its splendiforousness.

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I got a galley today that I'm quite excited about-- Knuckles and Tales, Nancy Collins's collection of Southern horror stories. I'm looking very forward to reviewing it. The introduction is excellent, and when Nancy Collins is at her best, I like her fiction a lot.

Work is lovely. Home is also lovely. I've been feeling strange and out-of-it tonight, though, I'm not sure why-- I've had trouble focusing on things, getting anything done. I wrote on my lunch break, so the day isn't going to be a total loss, but I wish I could get my head a little more firmly together. Writing this journal entry is a conscious effort to lift me out of my listless funk. I can't tell yet whether it'll be successful. If I were still in Santa Cruz, I would wander around the corner to Pergolesi and get a pint glass of bitter dark roast coffee, sit in that dim room in back and read some horror fiction. It's too much trouble to go out for coffee here, though, and none of the options really appeal; the too-much-brightness of Gaylord's, the overly-polished tea bar, the local embodiment of tedium that is Starbucks. I doubt coffee'd help anyway. I'd just be jittery and distractable.

Until next time.