What Moments Divine, What Rapture Supreme

On my way to Sharon's class today, taking the R train something like eighteen stops from where I start in midtown, but not unhappy about the prospect of a long, air conditioned ride. I'm in the last car, and even though it's the middle of the day, it's a relatively empty train. I sit at the far end, pulling my latest Wharton novel (Twilight Sleep) out of my bag, happy enough to be reading and riding for a stop or two, until this guy gets on, and sits across from me, and starts preaching about his God.

Now, I love the numinous and the transcendent and the unnameable as much as anybody. I may not be religious, or speeerichual, but I certainly am reverent when it comes to the universe, filled with awe, wonder, and a sense of something greater-than that lives both within and without me. Even to an atheist like myself, certain things are holy. And one of those things is that you should shut the fuck up about your God on the subway.

Because, like the Gods of all people who find it necessary and expedient to drone and bellow about Him on the subway, this guy's God is a fucking asshole. This guy's God wants you to know that he's watching you, and he's judging you, and he thinks you're doing it all fucking wrong, and you better snap to and listen to God, as personified by his messenger, currently sitting in judgement of all humanity across from me on the R train. This guy's God sees that you're wicked! And immoral! And -- (shocker!) -- this guy's God does not particularly like the homosexuals!

So the guy starts up, with the God told me everyone sucks but me spiel, and the ten other people in the car all pretend not to hear him. The Chinese couple, the yuppies, the young woman reading Toni Morrison; they're all just sitting there, ignoring him as best as possible, even as he's busy noisily predicting doom for their dumb-as-shit souls.

And...it's been a tough week for me. I mean, it's no Darfur over here, everything is all right, and I thank not-God for that, but I've been under my fair share of stress, as I know most people have lately -- world's a tough place, paradox of love and death, etc. So this guy starts, and I just feel like, no. Like, I can't let this go on. And I know, I could ignore him, or move to another car, but I don't. Instead, I start to sing.

I start softly, with "You Do Something to Me," just to myself, so I won't have to hear him. I'm still in pretty good shape from the beach, where I will often sing for two or three hours a day; I just ran through my entire repertoire last month. I realize that I've started too high for this song, so I bring it down half an octave, finish strong. That nobody else could do...that nobody else could doooooo.

He doesn't look at me -- he won't for the entire ride -- but he does get louder. So I get a little louder. Now he's on to the End Times, and I'm on to "Nice Work if You Can Get It." Except the part where the song rhymes "enjoyment" with "girl and boy-ment," I change it to "boy and boy-ment," just to be subversive. If God doesn't love the homosexuals, why did He give them so much songwriting talent?

The Chinese couple and Toni Morrison Girl are trying to ignore both of us. The white couple is looking over. I look back -- loving one who loves you, and then taking that vow -- and get a thumbs up from white guy. Encouraged, I get a little louder, and move on to "When They Begin the Beguine."

People get on and off the train. Nobody says anything; most of them don't even look our way, past a first glance, except two teenagers who poke each other and laugh. A woman boards and sits one seat away from me -- she realizes her mistake too late, when the train starts moving again, and the guy strikes up his band again, and I strike up mine, now to the tune of "Let's Do It (Let's Fall in Love)."

"And the Lord predicted..."

"Cold Cape Cod clams, 'gainst their wish, do it..."

"His word will not be ignored..."

"Ee-lec-tric eels, I might add, do it..."

"Those who fail in God's eyes..."

"Let's do it -- let's FALL IN LOVE!"

But she's obviously a native, stoic; she doesn't move, she just studies her book, and gets off again in three or four stops.

I am just polishing off "It's All Right With Me," with that little Ella Fitzgerald run at the end, it's a-a-a-a-all right, with me-ee, when we reach Pacific Street, and the guy gets up out of his seat, and gets off the train. One last admonition reaches me as he hits the platform --

"He will not be mocked!"

No, but he may be serenaded.

The haps

Moving tomorrow, again, and not for the last time, because some real estate people are sheisty.

Had to stop and look up sheisty, which is based on shyster, to make sure it wasn't a slur against my peeps the Jews. Turns out it's based on the German Scheisser, which means "one who shits." So, probably.

So, moving, sheisty, sitting in a torn-up apartment that's only half packed, etc.

Life is still good.

Just heard that Girlbomb is going into its sixth printing, which explains all the delightful young women I've never met who are befriending me on Facebook lately.

I'm also looking forward to September's UK re-release of The Runaway. If only there were enough sedatives in the world to make it possible for me to fly to England.

Been writing a bunch, too. Feels great. The secret to my success: I keep starting new things every day and never going back to work on any of them. HAHAHAHA. Take that, superego.

Also, I want to say thanks to the people who keep saying nice things in the comments. I feel dopey going into a bunch of threads to say "gosh, thanks," but I definitely appreciate the very kind praise I've received from readers on this blog.

Um, that's it for now. Moving tomorrow; will be offline for day or two. Or a month. JUST KIDDING. Maybe.

Disease of the week!

Just read Darin Strauss's new novel, More Than It Hurts You, the story of a suburban couple under suspicion of Munchausen by Proxy, a novel that had me literally trembling at times with horror, squeamishness, and emotional recognition, a novel that had me calling Bill at his office in the middle of the afternoon to say, "I'm freakin' out, man; this book is freakin' me out." Of course, I've been eagerly awaiting this book since I heard what it was about -- why? -- OH, NO REASON -- and it was terrifically satisfying: really well-written, full of acute observations and a keen understanding of the potential motives behind MBP. Highly recommended for fans of Have You Found Her (also known as Have You A Foundling, Sir).

Then I went back to the Edith Wharton kick I've been on for the past few weeks, and read Ethan Frome. Dudes! Not to ruin the plot of Ethan Frome for you, but his wife Zeena totally has the Munch! Listen to this:

"He...wondered if she were turning queer. Women did, he knew. Zeena, who had at her fingers' end the pathological chart of the whole region, had cited many cases of the kind when she nursed his mother; and he himself knew of certain lonely farm-houses in the neighborhood where stricken creatures pined, and of others where sudden tragedy had come of their presence. At times, looking at Zeena's shut face, he felt the chill of such forebodings."

And not just Munch by Proxy -- sickly, crazy old Zeena's got a case of Munchausen Original Recipe, too:

"Within a year of their marriage she developed the 'sickliness' which had since made her notable even in a community rich in pathological instances. When she came to take care of his mother she had seemed to Ethan like the very genius of health, but he soon saw that her skill as a nurse had been acquired by the absorbed observation of her own symptoms."

!!!

Note the scare quotes around "sickliness" -- old Edie Wharton's calling that bitch Zeena out!

Again, I'd been prepared for the Strauss book, but nothing prepared me for a novella published in 1911 with a Munchausen plot. Now I'm going to have to go back and reread Wuthering Heights with a more critical eye -- tell me Catherine wasn't faking half that shit!

Ultimate Vanity Project

Have You Found Her from Milk Products on Vimeo.

Here it is -- the trailer for Have You Fucking Found Her Yet or What. It's my very own Mike Myers, Anna Deveare Smith, Eddie Murphy in Meet The Klumps ultimate vanity project -- I hope you'll enjoy it as much as I liked making it. Big huge thanks to Jon Stuyvesant of Milk Products Media and his crew, makeup and hair artist Michelle Kearns, behind-the-scenes maven Jami Attenberg, and my dearest shmoopy, Bill, who wound up on the cutting room floor -- but not the cutting room floor of my heart!

And a fun little extra -- the behind-the-scenes making-of video:

Making of Have You Found Her from Milk Products on Vimeo.

From the notebook

8am, the deck

Went to bed at 11:30, woke up at 3:30, furious about the apartment thing, my stomach in an uproar. Finished Thackeray, finally got back to sleep. Dishes in the sink. I just want to stay out here and never go back to the city. I’ll start the tamagotchi story today, maybe for Nerve? No, not for Nerve, not for Modern Love, not for anything or anybody but me. I wonder when Sharon’s class starts. All the 19th century novels I’ve been reading, sagas about the intersection of love and survival, and how bad decisions have lifelong consequences. Fuck bestsellers and comedic essays. What is good? What is of lasting value? I read another Carlin interview the other day, his despair for the species. I agree. Also, I need a haircut. Planned to go to Talisman today, save some hermit crabs, maybe I will this afternoon. For now, start the thing and see where it goes.

Noon, Jumping Jack’s

Wrote for a while, walked to the Pines, now waiting to see if I can get something to eat here, or if girlie is too busy with the zero other tables she has. Lame. This is the summer of my discontent, my sunglasses sliding down my fat, wet face. I don’t want to teach anymore. I was trying to figure out how I could love myself, why I should love myself. I’m so unmotivated. At least when I’m driven by bad feelings I’m driven. Why doesn’t this chick check on her tables? Dumdum. That’s my new favorite insult. Listening to the Bob Marley they’re playing, Greatest Hits, of course, like he never wrote any other songs. Makes me think of 1988, of W., who was way down on my line, of how I fell in love with G. because he said he loved me. I was tragic and beautiful back then. Too much thinking today. Enough.

4pm, the deck

A shower, a moment with myself in the mirror. Now what. The short stories of Edith Wharton, selected by Roxana Robinson. I should shmooze more. Ugh, no I shouldn’t. It’s always our mothers’ decisions not to have abortions that put us here. I don’t know what that means. I should take another walk soon. A story called I Was a Thumbsucking Pothead. A story called Spit in My Mouth, about the poetry scene, and debasement, and the Rape Fantasies piece, Anne telling me, I don’t think you should read it, Penny trying to kiss me. It’s nice out here. I’m anxious. I’m anxious all the live long day. Anyway, Wharton. Makes me think of K. and the party last June. These poignant moments that can be met with integrity and grace. Confessing regrets, dramatic turns of events. I tried to feed the birds the leftover hot dog rolls this morning but they were having none of it. And to what end, that they would be a little bit more mine? Death death death death death. Agh! I can’t fucking take it. Just calm the fuck down.

OOT

Out of town, that is, through July 1. Well, not yet; right now I'm about halfway packed. There, I just packed some more, and cleaned out my totally shmawesome fanny pack. Now I am eating a soy ice cream sandwich with my left hand. Which brings us to the present: I'm not here! In the present when you're reading this, that is. Then again, I never am here when you're reading this, but that's not what I mean. What I mean is, I'm here typing this, but by the time you read this, the future will have already happened, and I will be gone. Oot! Oot, with no internet, even. It's like I'm going to outer space. I'll report back when I'm home; until then, sending (((cosmic vibes))).

Additionally

I know I say this every few posts, but sometimes I think I, uh, overshare on this blog. Not to mention the two books. (Heh.) But, you know, maybe I shouldn't blog about my burning rage all the time in public. It's not really the image I want to project. I was going for more of a "happy, successful, at peace, and in love with life" thing. Because only that will bring about the slow bitter death of my enemies!

I'm sorry, what?

I also don't seem to mind

...laugh-talking about my books for a half hour on the radio (the John McMullen show, K-NEWS in Palm Springs, California -- I'll update the link tomorrow when the podcast goes up). Many congratulations to John, who recently announced on his show that he and his partner of thirteen years are getting married in October -- yay marriage equity! Enough of this, and Bill and I get to have another wedding!

Delighted, I'm sure

Both Girlbomb and Have You Furnished Her are mentioned in Entertainment Weekly this week, in an article called So, You Want to Write a Memoir?

It's not world peace, or a solution to the existential condition, but I must say, I certainly don't mind being mentioned in magazines.

Side effect of rage

= raging sinus infection.

Which is continuing to suck, and has caused me to miss several days of work, a trip to Coney, and a school visit I'd been looking forward to for weeks, but at least it's taught me a little lesson about running around too much, especially with toxic people who want to infect me with their bullshit. I swear to god, with the amount of time and energy I spent brooding over this latest bit of jackassery, I could have written another book, solved the problem of global resource disparity, and figured out what the hell happened on the season finale of Lost. Instead, I made myself sick.

So now I'm munching on some delicious antibiotics, and swearing that I've learned my lesson this time. No more hanging out with underminers. No more responding to emails designed to piss me off; just delete, delete, delete. And no more lunches, damn it -- I've got a full-time job, even if the hours are flexible. I've got another book to write, and global resources to redistribute, and I think I need to watch the scene where Sawyer comes out of the ocean shirtless a few hundred more times if I'm going to crack this Lost thing. I'll let you know how it goes.