It's early. I decided to start work today at 12:01 AM.
I'm working on a story called "Snake Tails," which I wrote yesterday. There's no category to which it could be ascribed. I'm not sure what one could call it. A story like "Big Bob and Little Bob"--which I must return to in the next day or two--is a tidal wave of narrative and emotion. So many points of plot. No less bold or inventive, it's nonetheless easier to characterize and recognize as a given thing, even if it stands apart from other things that can be recognized as that given thing.
The same cannot be said for "Snake Tails." It seems to be a story--a fictional creation--about how a snake can lose its tail and carry on, but it's a work about people. I speak about pulling back the curtain and showing what's behind the veil. That is what great fiction does--it positions a person such that they have the best vantage point for that witnessing upon the revealing. The best angle. What's behind the veil? The answers of the mysteries of life and the human condition.
You can't communicate what that is by announcement. People have to be situated so that they can be shown. You're putting their chair right on the stage. "Snake Tails" does that, but if a room of students were each to read it to themselves, they'd all look up and then look around at each other after. There is an element of "What has just happened here?" and "What is this?" and "You can do this?" Give it time. Talk to the group. Once inside of a person, it will continue to reveal itself. To show more of what is behind the curtain. Experienced, it only grows within and does not go away.
Over the weekend, I wrote another story called "The Lord of the Edge," which I also need to go back to.
Found and downloaded various unreleased Nick Drake recordings that don't circulate even on bootleg. Would want them anyway but this also pertains to a bigger project of mine.
Ran 5000 stairs on both Monday and Tuesday. No stairs yesterday, but did walk three miles. My shorts were still soaked with sweat, so I had to put on sweatpants. It was roasting out. Got to the Monument, and there was a long line of people, and it'd have been too aggravating. The waiting, then you're stuck behind people once inside the Monument. They're not there for a fitness convention. Would have been more likely to wait if I'd been dressed properly, but was also annoyed with myself for not having something more practical ready to go. As it was, I was dripping just from having walked there and I thought, "Okay, this is dumb, just do a better job tomorrow."
Listening again to Nigel Kennedy's 1989 recording of Vivaldi's The Four Seasons, which I've played a lot lately. I detest summer. (The best thing about summer is fall is closer.) I'd rather have it be twenty degrees in January. Vivaldi may have felt the same way, judging by the summer portion of his concerti. Intense weather, the dark sky, the raging storm. Ironically, when a part of the work turns up on those classical compilations of Halloween music, it's the summer portion. The concerto for autumn is one of rejoicing and dancing, which also makes sense to me so far as seasonal affinities go.
Was at the cafe reading on Tuesday when a storm warning went into effect just as my nine-year-old nephew called me. My sister and her three kids are coming to Boston next month so I will see the children. My seven-year-old niece--to whom I sent "What the Mouse Knew" for her birthday (she's still the only one to have seen it--or a version of it--but that is likely going to change as I'm about to send it to a few people here in these early hours)--told my mom the other day that I was going to be really glad to see her, which was pretty funny. She wasn't bragging--I just think she thinks that I really like her, which is good, because I do. I like them all.