writer. screenwriter. learning person. loves being human.
There are short cuts to happiness, and dancing is one of them. — Vicki Baum
If you’re a woman in Seattle, do come to the Hot Flash dance on Saturday, September 6 at Heaven Nightclub. The dance runs from 5:30 – 9:30 PM, with retro and contemporary music from DJ Stacey. I believe I’m working that night, probably an early shift — but when I’m not working, I’ll be dance dance dancing on the floor. Come join me!
We had a table right next to the dance floor. People buzzed around us, Fantastic show, Love the album, Oh my god that song makes me so hot. Nice for the band: but right now was for us, so everyone was politely turned away while we drank and laughed and dissected the show.
I sat next to Con. Duncan was on his other side, still cranked on music: his eyes shone and his body wanted to touch. I watched the crowd watching us, and said to Con, “So, is this how you imagined it when you were a kid?”
Con made the huh face, and then grinned. “The first band fantasy I ever had was that Tico Torres would get run over by the tour bus and I would be Bon Jovi”s new drummer.”
So unexpected, and so perfect: Duncan and I nearly fell out of our chairs laughing. Con went on, “Seriously. I loved those guys, I still do. And I could totally see myself in the really tight faded jeans and the hair””
“Stop,” said Duncan, who was by now gasping for breath. A wonderful thing, to see him so abandoned to joy. He came out of his chair and straddled Con”s lap. “Please, mister rock star,” he said, “can I be your groupie tonight?”
“Get off,” Con laughed.
“Love to,” Duncan said, looking particularly wicked as he always did when he saw a chance to tweak Con, who was undoubtedly the straightest man on the planet.
“You”re a fucking pervert,” Con said with genuine love. “Get off me.” Duncan laughed and went back to his own chair.
“And what did you see yourself playing?” I said.
“Easy,” Con said, “”Bad Medicine.””
— from “Dangerous Space” by Kelley Eskridge
Now that’s what I’m talking about.
Thanks to our friend Craig for a lovely evening at Black Bottle last night. I’ve been wanting a night out in the city in a place like this, casual and utterly urban. It was noisy and crowded, so it was hard to talk but the energy of it was like fizz in the air. I liked that our table was near the window, the street so close and so full of other lives passing by while we lived our lives inside with small plates of yummy food, with brandy and orange juice, with grownup conversation. I always say thank you to people who refill my water glass or bring me food, and it was nice that last night it mattered to them that I did, nice to exchange those smiles and be more real to each other for a second or two. And then it was nice to say goodbye to the noise and the rush and the sometimes-overwhelming buzz of other humans close by, to get into our little car and drive home under a slate-blue sky full of clouds that had turned nearly navy blue in some mad trick of atmospherics. To sit by the fire with tea and toast with jam and only each other, in the quiet.
Here’s a little literary fun for a holiday weekend. This is from Poetry for Cats: Tthe Definitive Anthology of Distinguished Feline Verse, by Henry Beard. It’s a lovely, clever collection of poems, ostensibly written by famous poets’ cats, which is brilliant both as hommage and as a study of feline psychology.
Here’s a taste. Enjoy.
To A Vase
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Cat
How do I break thee? Let me count the ways.
I break thee if thou art at any height
My paw can reach, when, smarting from some slight,
I sulk, or have one of my crazy days.
I break thee with an accidental graze
Or twitch of tail, if I should take a fright.
I break thee out of pure and simple spite
The way I broke the jar of mayonnaise.
I break thee if a bug upon thee sits.
I break thee if I’m in a playful mood,
And then I wrestle with the shiny bits.
I break thee if I do not like my food.
And if someone thy shards together fits,
I’ll break thee once again when thou art glued.
— from Poetry for Cats by Henry Beard
Every Friday I transfer posts here from the Virtual Pint archives.
The usual servings today, and something special — another novel excerpt. Enjoy
Cheers.
I’ve known my friend Chuck Munro for more than 25 years. We met at the University of South Florida Theatre Department, where we were both taking acting degrees. We worked together in classes, and acted together in A Midsummer Night’s Dream as Helena and Demetrius, and I had the fun of being in the chorus of Jesus Christ Superstar when Chuck played Judas Iscariot. Chuck was handsome and talented (a great actor and singer). He had a beautiful smile. He attended to people in the oldest sense of the word — when Chuck turned his attention fully toward you, you felt as if you were his only priority for that moment. And he had a reserved charm, a sense of something held back behind that killer smile. We all fell in love with him.
He was one of my two close friends in college (I’ll be talking about the other one in a couple of weeks…) At that point in my life I had taken reserve to a new art form, but Chuck was someone I could always talk to. He was comfortable to be with. He made me feel smart and interesting and safe being myself, even when my self was really weird.
And he introduced me to the music of U2. For that alone he stands among the awesome people in my pantheon (grin).
When Chuck moved to Chicago, he lived for a time with me and my roommate until he found a place of his own. And with that place, a life of his own. I left Chicago in 1987 and we’ve never lived close to each other since. He came to my wedding, and I went to his, but really we are the kind of friends who speak maybe once a year — and it’s always as if we just talked yesterday. Our friendship doesn’t seem to operate on linear time. When I was in Chicago last year we met up — only briefly, because life is so damn busy — and I cried to leave him because he is still that special, still handsome and smart, a charming, questing soul with a killer smile and compassion in his heart for everyone.
Happy birthday, Chuck. I love you.
There is a new YouTube link for Karina’s Mad Rush vid for “Strings”. Karina has added a title at the beginning and credits at the end and re-uploaded the vid. I have fixed the link in the original post, but wanted to make sure people knew about the change.
I’m going to be spreading the word about the vid because I think it’s an absolutely awesome idea for generating online buzz for fiction, and a cool and intensely personal way for people to interact with stories they love. I’m totally jazzed about it.
Thanks again, Karina!
I have posts…hmm, what are these posts doing? Are they simmering like stew? Are they building themselves up in my brain like coral on a reef? Are they brewing like tea? There are so many metaphors for the black-box backbrain process of writing, of bringing ideas together to the point where words may give them shape.
But I’m not there yet. I would be, except that I hate hate hate hate Windows! have experienced three hours a few technical difficulties this morning. And I have places to go and things to do, and the posts that are… mulching, fermenting, gestating: whatever they’re doing, they’re not done. And I really need to be finishing up the Humans At Work website because I want it ready for beta testing before I go off next week to sit for eight hours on uncomfortable chairs with some mind-numbing talk show blasting from a corner TV waiting for my turn to be rejected for jury duty.
Sometimes life is all about the details. I can handle details, but it’s not always a fun experience. My parents are both great at managing details. Why did I not get these cheerful give-me-a-list-and-stand-back genes? Because the universe needs a good laugh every once in a while, and today it’s my turn to pop out of the little box wearing a funny nose and waving my arms back and forth. And probably not getting as much done as I would like. Ah well…I’ve said before that I don’t believe in fate or god, but I can’t resist this quote:
I was put on this earth to accomplish a number of things. Right now I am so far behind that I will never die. — Who knows who said this, but it’s true
However, do not feel sorry for me. I have become quite good at rewarding myself for entering the ninth circle of hell detail zone, and so one of the things on my list today is this.
Enjoy your day, whatever you’re doing!
When I first wrote about vidding, I said:
I wish there were a way to respond like this to a novel or short story. Imagine. Wow. If someone did something like this in response to my work, I would cry like a baby and count myself blessed. — from my post “Vid it“
And today comes this from Karina Melendez — her response to my story “Strings”.
The words are taken (a bit randomly) from…”Strings”. The music is by Philip Glass. The beautiful footage belongs to Patricia Rozema and Aaron Platt. — Karina Melendez, describing the origins of “Mad Rush“.
And so I’m crying and I’m blessed. I’m overwhelmed by this beautiful gift. It’s just astonishing.
Because apart from the incredible personal meaning this has for me, I stand in awe of what she’s done for fiction. It would never have occurred to me to use words in this way, and I think it’s fucking brilliant. This is not a “video of the story” — it’s a response that uses the story I wrote to show the story that she feels. This is not the story of “Strings,” it’s the heart of “Strings” — what music means, how it feels, what it does. And how what we keep inside us will always find a way out.
Watch it, please, please. And please go let Karina know what you think.
Saying thank you doesn’t seem like enough, somehow. And so I thought that along with my thanks, I would offer the story itself. Here is “Strings”. It’s one of my best. I hope you enjoy it.
Daryl Gregory was at Clarion in 1988. At the workshop, he wrote a story about drag-racing demons, and I knew then that he was one of the good ones, someone who would go out and blow a hole through SF. He’s been publishing great stories for years, and getting a lot of well-deserved attention.
And I’m totally thrilled that today he publishes his first novel, Pandemonium. The book is already getting great reviews (Publisher’s Weekly, Locus, The Agony Column). And hey, the first taste is free — you can read the first chapter here.
Congratulations, Daryl! I’m excited for you. Go celebrate, man. I’ll be here reading the book.
