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mallorys_cameraHe wrote me a note and sent me some photographs. I made a funny little drawing and wrote him a longer note. "You have made me something I will treasure all my life," I said and that, of course, is the One True Thing. If it’s meant to be, it’ll be; if not, it won’t. You can’t push the river. There’s no obvious intersection between our two lives and my life has many obvious encumbrances. I’m just amazed that at 51, I can still feel this. Sensually infused, and I don’t mean that in a sexual way necessarily, it’s as though the colors are brighter and every cloud in the sky tells a story. It’s that beat just before the last one in the movie.
In other news, I’m in the prodermal story-writing phase. Gentleman’s Call. I know how it begins – the little vignette of Eleanor with her father in that Memphis hotel. And I know how it ends – with the contraction of a life into one single perception as memory breaks down. I know there’s a Raffanti-like party where Yuppies who never bothered to have kids discuss their aging parents as though they were toddlers. And I know there’s a funeral. Beyond that I don’t know, and the words haven’t yet started pouring out of me. It’s not a John O’Hara short story, it’s more a Peter Taylor short story – disconnected events that gradually circle the central epiphany.
Also reading Benita Eisler’s Byron biography. Seeped in Regency – Georgette Heyer's dark, suppurating underbelly. Makes the era feel so incredibly modern – everyone carrying huge amounts of consumer debt; caught up in political intrigues and sexual mesalliances. Byron's voluminous, self-exculpatory correspondence is ever so much more fascinating than his poetry
In other news, I’m in the prodermal story-writing phase. Gentleman’s Call. I know how it begins – the little vignette of Eleanor with her father in that Memphis hotel. And I know how it ends – with the contraction of a life into one single perception as memory breaks down. I know there’s a Raffanti-like party where Yuppies who never bothered to have kids discuss their aging parents as though they were toddlers. And I know there’s a funeral. Beyond that I don’t know, and the words haven’t yet started pouring out of me. It’s not a John O’Hara short story, it’s more a Peter Taylor short story – disconnected events that gradually circle the central epiphany.
Also reading Benita Eisler’s Byron biography. Seeped in Regency – Georgette Heyer's dark, suppurating underbelly. Makes the era feel so incredibly modern – everyone carrying huge amounts of consumer debt; caught up in political intrigues and sexual mesalliances. Byron's voluminous, self-exculpatory correspondence is ever so much more fascinating than his poetry
