The Batman Ring

Messes with my head when I’m up so much earlier than everyone. Kiddo got leapt upon by 3 lbs of black fur at around 3:30 – now kid, dad and aforementioned ball of fur are all nicely settled together in the big bed. Me? Im wider than a stick of gum and had to slip away.

My toenails look fabulous, I want to photograph them, but that’s the same part of me that just spent too long looking for a plastic batman ring I saw shoved on the cat’s ear last evening.

Lets see. What, what? Fourth of july weekend was all the stuff it is supposed to be, more “classic” than any we’ve had so far – kid games at the park, dunk tank with the mayor, swimming, grilling, sparklers, fireworks. Maybe adam’s best holiday to date; Lily really brings out the satyr in him. (Photos in a later post)

There’s a lot of fog.

My stories are getting more compact – working on this thing, thought it was about a whole night, got interrupted, back to it later and I realized it needed two more lines. What, maybe 400 words? But sometimes you WANT something to be sex but instead it’s about moths and alcoholism. It’s voice work, I think. Anais Nin crisis – I go back and forth between Henry & June and her erotica, and try to figure out what she was trying to figure out – the journal voice turning to the writer voice. Henry figured it out, or maybe he just said fuck it. Maybe this is about form. Don’t know. Just know that things that come from scribbles and journal scraps and bundled thoughts fallen from the sky (tied together with cigarette string and stored near the X-files trivia but not too close to the D’inofrio box) shine up into a lot more like my voice than my “this is the story” planned tales. It’s like I put on my fancy writing hat – I dont write anything fancy, but the voices are distinctly different… bridget’s voice is the only narrative voice I like, and its just (to paraphrase andrea speaking of something different) the out loud version of me. We’ll see how all that pans out.

these are good thoughts to have while it becomes daylight and the fog refuses to burn off.

If i had the batman ring, perhaps the answers would feel closer.

Too many books on the side table, but I guess it’s good –  I can say Fuck it to the voice earwhig and listen to other voices for the moment. Ahem, allow me to catalog : Knockemstiff, By the Time We Leave Here We’ll Be Friends, Clown Girl, Henry & June, Sexus, Erotica by Anais Nin. Thats an impressive table. If the PBS schedule and One Fish Two Fish weren’t amongst the pile it would be downrigh hip – and no doubt a calculated lie of a pile.

But this is not about the table. This is about the Warmed & Bound Release Party, isn’t it? No, maybe it’s about the Booked podcast that terrifies me to no end. I shall ramble in new and horrifying ways, and I am AFRAID. Big mouth, more nervous = more talking.

But the release party is exciting shit. Why? Shoes. Shoes and the 1920s and meeting all these people – I want to know what these typed voices sound like out loud, I want to match faces to stories, I want to hit on waitresses dressed as flappers.

I want a pink bandanna for my pirate costume, and to FIND THAT BATMAN RING!!!

 

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stephen king is voodoo

today is my 4 year wedding anniversary.

it’s been a crap week off and on.  the kind of crap week where things are sailing along, happy, even keel, then BOOM – belly and faceful of nasty whatever. i can take a gut punch if i have time to clench, but this hasn’t been that kind of week. but with the lack of sleep, these punches could’ve been coming a mile away and i might not have noticed.

anyway – 4 years married, moving into a better mood and a better weekend. forget this week, it’s disappearing (and taking indian summer with it). thursday and the kid is a ray of sunshine,  eric sent me a dozen roses, and i have enough coffee to sustain me through this sleep-deprived exhaustion that’s like extra gravity, like in Slapstick.

who could ask for more?

NO ONE. and still, i’m getting more. i’m halfway through the first draft of my 2nd short story in less than 2 weeks – and this after a dry spell of MONTHS. last night after some stupid bickering and the cat taking a dump in the bed and not having solid sleep in who knows how long, i sat down and wrote a thousand words. half braindead but the images just fell out.

last week i wrote Teetotaler, killed someone else in an alley but was still pretty satisfied with it – AND satisfied that i opened a blank document and closed it with a story. asked angela a couple nights ago if she could give me some ideas, something that i could turn into a story that didn’t have a dead body in it. ten minutes later we had an outline, and last night it merged with an image i’d been saving (maybe i can write a story without a body in it, but i can’t write one without at least SOME blood).

what does this have to do with stephen king? fuck if i know, but he’s involved. i’m always reading something – i abandoned reading minimalists for awhile a few months ago due to the paralysis it seemed to be causing when i tried to shape a sentence, and switched to anais nin – unstructured, honest, sexual, freeing.  my brain relaxed, but still those blank documents, fingers hovering over the keyboard or rapidly discarding the scraps i was coming out with.

my sister gives me Lisey’s Story, and i fall into it. stop halfway through and write Teetotaler. finish the book a few days ago, and now this untitled story is already working its way out on paper. if i don’t owe that somehow to whatever relaxingstorytelling no-pressure gorgeous-image diarrhea-mouthed stephen king voodoo, then who gets the credit?

SO. happy anniversary to me, happy anniversary to eric, happy weekend to everyone, and apologies to Caroline for her fingertips, but i just can’t keep my characters clean…..

anais nin

i finished Henry & June last night, i’ve never read anything quite like it. it was very real – most journal/diary books seem shaved at and shaped, so all the pieces match up and it seems to be GOING somewhere. this was just a lovely mess. one day she hates him, the next day she loves him, a week later it’s over for sure and she thinks he’s weak, the next day the doubt seems ridiculous. sporadic expressions of acute guilt, obligation, confusion, confliction – it’s almost as if this could be any intelligent, creative woman’s diary, if they were better able to translate spinning thoughts and webs into words and paragraphs. i loved it, it love her. i want all of her diaries. to read this and to have read Tropic of Cancer so many times, it’s such an amazing counterpoint. not consciously, just that i knew all the characters already, and to see them all from a different point of view is incredible. i love her writing voice. last night i finished the book and while emailing andrea (it got a little long, from the reading i think) looked at all the photographs i could find of anais nin – i’d only seen one or two before, it was strange that she looks exactly how i would expect her to look…. her face matches her voice and her penstrokes.