From Hawks to Handsaws

Random notes:

One of my most vexing and pleasurable attributes is my memory. I've got a memory like an open pit latrine-- shit stays in there forever. I remember things people said years ago, I remember events, I remember phone numbers and passwords as a matter of course. Lines from movies, from poetry, strange bits of miscellany, historical facts. When people try to tell me I'm smart (suggesting that I’m somehow more than a collection of especially sophisticated tropisms), I generally argue that I'm not, especially. I just have a good memory. My skill for analysis is sadly lacking. I don't understand lots of things. On the bright side, I don't trust anything, either-- when one reads as much and as widely as I do, and remembers most of it fairly accurately, one realizes that contradictions are a fixed and inherent part of human thought. So if I lack analytical skills, I at least also lack foolish credulity.

I have to be interested in the things I remember, too (or at least make a conscious decision to remember-- passwords and phone numbers don't inherently interest me). I'm not eidetic. I don't remember historical dates very well (or anniversaries, for that matter), though I'm quite good at chronology and causality, because I'm not interested in specific dates, but in where individuals and events stand in context.

I don’t usually make much of my memory. Sometimes it's useful to be able to say, convincingly, "I totally forgot that!"

Especially since I do forget things, sometimes. Like that I need to put the dishes away, or buy laundry detergent. Those things bore me.

Whereas I can tell you what kind of wine we had at the final meeting of my old writer's group, or what Amily was wearing the first night I kissed her, or the name of the muse of comedy, or where I heard my first Soul Asylum song (as well as who I was with, and why I was there), or… all kinds of things like that. The order of the short stories I wrote in the summer of 1997. What kind of lollipop Katherine had the third time we went to a rave together. The name of the scary woman who hit on me New Year's a couple of years ago, or the even scarier one who hit on everybody at the Halloween before that. What I had for breakfast at Ihop the next day. One memory brings the rest with it; I just have to open up one of the easily accessible ones, and the rest of the details pour in.

And I'm not even very good at paying attention.

I love the Old 97's. Such an incredibly rocking good band. My favorite album is Fight Songs, which is mostly love songs. "All I ever wanted to do/was lie around in bed with you"; "I've thought so much about suicide/parts of me have already died";"You'll find a boyfriend, and he won't like my cat/and you'll pretend that you don't want me back." Intelligent, thoughtful, loving, biting, witty songwriting is not dead. Nor are songs that tell stories. "She lived in Berkeley 'til the earthquake shook her loose/she lives in Texas now, where nothing ever moves."

Hmm. I hope quoting those bits falls under fair use… Call this an album review, okay?

My angst over Evil is much improved. I got some good email about that entry (I usually don't get any email; are you guys trying to tell me you like it when I write about a subject? Even as inarticulately as that? Oh, and the responses are coming, including a long response to the very long email one of you sent (you know who you are)). See, I thought that novel was going to be about revolutionary thought, and I was afraid that my Evil character would throw all that off, that it would become a book about Evil and the practical necessities of dealing with such a person… and then, on the way driving back from Berkeley, I realized that that's what the book should be about. That, and love.

Hmm. Sounds trite, and simple. It's not. It's going to be lovely. It's going to make me cry and sweat blood, though. I look forward to it, truth be told.

I like going to bed when it's cold. I don't like getting up, but I really love cocooning into some blankets, slowly warming the space around me with my body's own heat…

I'm reading The Sparrow; I would be done with it, but last night I read Pratchett's Carpe Jugulum instead. I like Pratchett altogether, but I love the Witches books the best. I buy Discworld books, usually used, read them once, and give them to my friend Amily (expect this one in the mail next week, hon). She's collecting all of them, which is easier now that they're being re-released… but she prefers the old paperbacks with the garish covers, so I find them for her when I can. I may have to buy the Witches books for myself, though, and I've still never read Witches Abroad. Granny Weatherwax is such a great character; she owns a place in my heart. She's complicated and well-shaded and grand… and a total badass. I must confess an affection for the total badass. From Stephen King's Roland to Sterling's Artificial Kid, these flawed heroes really do it for me. I don't write such characters often myself, for some reason… Though I guess Marla's a badass, and Desdemona from the story I'm working on now, and Walker from my first novel… okay, I stand corrected. I do write such characters. I just don't write them as well.

Sparrow's excellent-- I've got about a hundred pages to go. But you all read it when the buzz was buzzing, so you know it's good. I bought the sequel, Children of God yesterday. Is it any good?

Have I said enough? This is a long entry; it was supposed to be a short bit of loose-end miscellany, but the random subjects keep coming to mind. I'll save them for later.