Work-at-home Friday, and not a single meeting on my agenda for the day. Huzzah! I really hate meetings; I always have, primarily because so many of them fall into the “this could have been an email” category.
Yesterday was a very good day. Yes, I was alone in the clinic yesterday without a nurse, but we weren’t terribly busy and I was able to get a lot of my Admin duties–the ones that have to be done in the office–finished. I am almost completely caught up on everything, and I have been doing a very good job of keeping up with everything rather than the ever-popular meh, I can do it tomorrow thinking I so often fall into. But I’ve not been tired this week, which probably had to do with the time change and sleeping an hour later (technically) than I was. Once I am used to it, I’ll probably go back to being sleepy and tired all the time again. Something to look forward to?
And in other delightful news, a jury of his peers found Sean Dunn not guilty of a misdemeanor for throwing a Subway sandwich at an ICE agent, or “assault with a deadly sandwich.” This entire case–and that this went to fucking trial–is yet another indicator of the Keystone Cops-like approach to governance in this current “administration” and its authoritarian Fascistic policies. My personal favorite was the “victim” testifying about his PTSD from the sandwich exploding…despite the fact the sandwich can clearly be seen afterward, on the ground, still in its wrapper. I guess Mr. Alpha Male Ice Agent will be forever traumatized by the smell of onions and mustard. Grow a pair, you little bitch–balls or ovaries, I don’t care which. And seriously, everyone–yes, their grasp on power means their idiocy and fascism is scary, but this is yet another example of what whiny cry-babies the right are. Fuck them and forever, seriously. Their posturing has no basis or courage behind it.
As I said, when I got home from work last night, I wasn’t tired or fatigued; my hips didn’t even ache. I didn’t do a whole lot of anything around here, either; I caught up on watching the news and did some organizing of computer files, and I did write for a little while. It was, all in all, a very nice and relaxing evening at home. Before I start my work duties this morning, I am going to make a to-do list and put the dishes away and finish the laundry. I am thinking today is going to be my “don’t leave the house at all” day for the weekend–tomorrow I’ll make a short grocery run and get the mail–and hopefully this day, and the weekend, will be productive as well as relaxing. This morning, Sparky let me sleep in a bit before I finally got up, which was very appreciated. I feel good and rested this morning, and it looks to be a lovely day. This weekend we’re going to have extremely cold temperatures over night–potential freeze, too–so it’s a good “stay in my chair under a blanket” weather. I want to finish reading The Hunting Wives this weekend, and get started on my next book. I am going to go back to the pre-Halloween Horror Month methodology for reading something new to me, rereading something else, and reading a juvenile/young adult novel all at the same time. Maybe I can swap one of those out for nonfiction? I don’t know, we’ll have to see how The Hunting Wives goes this weekend. I’d also like to finish another newsletter essay, whether it’s the one about Boots or the one about going to my dad’s high school homecoming game when I was last in Alabama.
And of course, there’s always computer files to clean up and hard copy filing to do, too. And the chores; but I tried to keep up with them as much as I could this past week, so the downstairs isn’t too terrible.
I also can’t keep horror out of my mind, probably because I immersed myself so thoroughly in the genre for all of October. But watching those podcasts on Youtube about Appalachian/Southern lore and legend has been incredibly inspirational for my own horror writing. I’d also like to get some good foundational work done on Chlorine this weekend, too. I’m also still glowing from the election results from Tuesday; it’s nice to experience the audacity of hope again.
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Friday, Constant Reader, and I’ll be back on the morrow!
Thursday morning last day in the office blog, and it’s also the start of Southern Decadence here in New Orleans. Decadence was my favorite time of year for a very long time, but now I’m too old to stand and walk for hours (let alone dance all night) and I also can no longer handle the heat, so I can’t be out there for very long anyway. The last time I was at Decadence was to pass out condoms in 2017 or 2018, I’m not sure which, honestly, but I do remember it was so hot and humid and so many people were out on that Sunday, that I thought I was going to be sick. It had also rained that morning so…yeah, major league humidity that day. Shudder.
How on earth did I ever spend so much time over a weekend partying and dancing in this kind of heat? I guess the drugs helped. And of course, back when I used to participate in the revelry, I was used to the heat more because we generally went out every weekend, and thus was acclimated to it. Not being used to it anymore is my primary problem with the summers here.
I feel rested with just a touch of fatigue this morning. That’s fine, because I can sleep later tomorrow and so I just have to make it through today. On the way home last night I stopped and made groceries; it was odd because there wasn’t much traffic in the CBD. Since school started, getting to work in the morning is more of a pain because there’s heavier traffic both before and after work now–as well as the bane of my existence, school busses on I-10. After I got home I was a kitty bed for a while, and I did do some work and some chores (that still need to be finished). I did make a terrific and comprehensive to-do list yesterday afternoon as well, which was a good feeling. Tonight after work I’ll probably come home and just rest since I work at home tomorrow and it’s a three day weekend. I’m going to DoorDash lunch today at the office so I don’t have so much to carry in this morning, and thus won’t have as much to carry on the way home tonight, either. I also made an appointment for a flu shot (fuck you, RFK Jr and MAGA, now and forever) for Friday morning.
And of course, tomorrow is the Katrina anniversary. I see there’s a new documentary on Netflix about Katrina, I think called Come Hell and High Water, that I want to watch as part of my coping with it all again to try to get it all out of my psyche. I also need to finish my newsletter about the anniversary so I can get it sent out tomorrow. It’s been such a long time now that I suppose it’s “safe” to talk about things that happened decades ago, but I was tired of talking about them and worse, worried that the audience (here or on panels, etc.) was bored with hearing about it. I never want to bore anyone!
Also, yesterday the anthology Celluloid Crimes dropped, with my story “The Last To See Him Alive” in it! I also realized yesterday I have short stories in three anthologies all coming out over a period of a week or so. Wild, isn’t it? My story is an adaptation of the first chapter of Chlorine, so it serves as a preview of the book to come. (It’s different from the first chapter that will appear in Chlorine, but you can get a sense of the novel’s story from the short story that appears here.)
The weather has oddly remained mostly humidity free and cooler than usual, and we’ve not had any rain now for a couple of days. Interesting.
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Thursday, Constant Reader, and I’ll be back tomorrow morning.
Thursday! Interestingly enough, after being so pleased yesterday morning and bragging about not having had insomnia in a long time was a mistake. I woke up around three this morning and never went back to sleep–if I did, it wasn’t very deep and I was waking up every ten minutes or so. This means I will hit a wall today, and probably earlier than I have been lately. I wanted to run errands on the way home from work tonight, but it’s not looking good. If I am worn out, I won’t want to drive uptown and should probably just come straight home. I need a few things from the grocery, but I might just have them delivered instead.
Unspeakable Sins continues to enthrall. Our primary villain was murdered in last night’s episode, and everyone in the main cast is a suspect (the episode was very “Who Shot JR?” in its staging and writing and very well done) and we’re on to the last three episodes of the season, which we should finish off tonight.
Well, I didn’t finish or post this yesterday. I am not sure why that happened, but I started doing some other things before getting ready for work and when I got home last night, I was surprised to see I’d never finished or posted this. I was right about yesterday–I was very tired when I got off work, but decided to do some of the errands on the way home. I picked up the mail, picked up three books I’d ordered (the new Donna Andrews, the new Scott Carson, and The Hunting Wives), but forgot to pick up prescriptions, which means I have to go back uptown today–which I’d hoped to avoid. I was extremely tired when I got home, and started watching a new National Geographic documentary about Katrina. I decided to bite the bullet and see how watching it went; if it was a trigger, I would stop watching. I didn’t finish the first episode, because Paul came home and we watched the new South Park1 and laughed our asses off before watching the final three episodes of Unspeakable Sins, which was excellent–and wrapped up everything, but also left us with a final shot that could be the set up for a second season should it be renewed.
Watching the documentary wasn’t triggering at all–at least not what I’d seen by the time Paul got home–and so I am going to finish watching it this weekend. I think twenty years was enough time for the PTSD to finally end (I am also taking anti-anxiety medication, which could help with this). We were able to watch Five Days at Memorial, which was a reenactment of what happened at that hospital with an emotional remove; maybe because it wasn’t actual documentary footage but a reenactment with Hollywood stars, I don’t know. Paul and I did watch it for a bit before I put on South Park, and we were remembering our own evacuation all those years ago without any sadness or emotion; it was nostalgia–I can smile about it now, I suppose, but we were so terrified on I-10 East and worried we wouldn’t get out in time. I also remember it started raining as we were on the twin spans to Slidell over the lake. Sigh. I was thinking I might post my essay “I Haven’t Stopped Dancing Yet” to my newsletter, but it is over twenty thousand words long.
Or I could write another one., from my current perspective. We’ll see.
I’m not making big plans to get a lot done this weekend, as that never seems to work out for me and that always starts a guilt spiral. Who needs that in their life? Certainly not me! I have a meeting at ten and some day job duties to get done today. I have Monday off as well; it’s my final infusion and I couldn’t get my usual nine a.m. appointment so I could go to work after; this time they only had eleven a.m., which is smack dab in the middle of the day so I decided to use some sick time and just come home after I am done. I can also pick up lunch while I’m out in Metairie. I’m going to try to be a homebody this weekend, because I know the infusion is going to fatigue me. I may just read the rest of that day and rest.
And on that note, I am going to head into the spice mines. Have a lovely Friday, Constant Reader, and I may be back later!
The Avenue of the Sphinxes connecting the temples at Luxor and Karnak, Egypt
I have thoughts and concerns about this season, which is brilliant. ↩︎
There are three “disturbances” out in the Atlantic with the potential to develop into tropical systems. None are a threat to the Gulf Coast (at least, not yet), but we are heading into the time where hurricane season is super-busy. This year is also the twenty-year anniversary of Katrina, so I’ll be avoiding all the coverage of that for the most part. Even after twenty years, it’s still hard for me to watch any of that stuff–but maybe this year I should break the power of the PTSD and watch it all. It was such a horrible time, truly…but we did watch that show about Memorial Hospital (Baptist). But twenty years on, maybe it is time to watch some of the coverage that I pointedly ignore every year. I dunno, we’ll see.
Yesterday I felt a little under the weather–stomach again–which had me concerned that I was having a reoccurrence of the colitis, but this morning I feel fine, even well rested for a change. I managed to get a lot done at work yesterday, which was great, and I made groceries on my way home. I was tired when I got home, but I wrote for a very little while before Sparky’s need for attention wore me down and I went to my chair. We watched some more Unspeakable Sins, which is such an amazing rollercoaster ride. More has happened in the seven or eight episodes we’ve watched than happened in an entire season of Melrose Place. Nobody does soapy thrillers quite like the Spanish language production companies. So far, we’ve had a failed blackmail seduction, two kidnappings, one faked death, and several criminal syndicates–and of course, lots of videos of wealthy and prominent people at sex parties. We also have a teenager whose stepfather got him addicted to drugs and abused him.
That is seriously one fucked up family.
We’re finally out of the heat advisories, and the maximum temperature for today is 89…which is low for August but I’ll gladly take it. Rain (gasp) is also in the forecast. The rain is predicted for late this afternoon, around when I’ll be coming home, actually, so no errands tonight for sure. I didn’t want to get up this morning, but…that’s really nothing new on a work day, is it? This is a slow week in the clinic (next week is busy busy busy), which is nice, since we’re having a site visit tomorrow. I think I have everything done that I need to have done for the visit, which was the entire goal for yesterday.
I am feeling good about most everything and am not being critical of myself for not pushing myself harder, you know? I’m also kind of still adjusting to life again, which seems to take longer to do the older I get, and seems more necessary as well more often. This has not been a great decade for me, and I can definitely state that my sixties haven’t been the best so far (I’ve pretty much forgotten the fifties, in all honesty). But the inexorable passing of time continues, as the sand in my hourglass continues to run, and my instincts are telling me to make the most of my time, so…sure, I get the I don’t want to’s still, and of course, the temptation of recharging with Sparky in my lap is always there, but I know I can get the work done when I put my nose to the grindstone.
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a great Tuesday, Constant Reader, and I’ll be back tomorrow.
Monday morning and we survived yet another heat advisory weekend. Something tropical is bringing us more rain later this week, but the heat will continue its efforts to bake us all alive every day in the meantime. It was a lovely weekend, and one I was sorry to see end. Perhaps not as productive or effective as I would have preferred, but it was nice to chill and relax and get some things done. But it could have been worse. I can always be lazier. Sparky let me sleep late again yesterday, but I did manage to get most of my chores done. I spent some time with Megan Abbott’s latest (it’s superb), which has me thinking about my own writing (as the best authors always provide inspiration, and a desire to do better work myself) this morning as I peer through the condensation on my windows this morning.
And facing down yet another week of work. Woo-hoo!
We finally watched Wicked Part One yesterday, and it was very well done, but…I also didn’t connect with the material, either. I am probably the only queer person who doesn’t worship at the altar of The Wizard of Oz, so Wicked has never appealed to me as anything other than “oh, what a clever idea!” It moved very quickly and was at the end before I knew it–“is this ‘Defying Gravity’? Doesn’t the first movie end with that song?” (It’s also the only song I know from the show.) Visually it was stunning, the acting was top-tier, and everyone was terrific–and the story never drags or becomes boring or dull. I also adore Jonathan Bailey, so his supporting turn was deeply appreciated. I appreciated the accomplishment that is the film, but it was…okay, I guess. A better way to put it is I didn’t get caught up in the magic at any point while watching. It was very good, though.
This appears to be very good news on the HIV/AIDS epidemic; an injectable twice yearly that is 100% at blocking infection? That will surely have an impact on my job–clients certainly won’t have to come in every three months anymore, if they only need the medication twice yearly–but who knows? I do think it’s important to get every gay man and trans people on this schedule to eradicate the disease at long last in this country. This news also made me miss my friend Victoria deeply again. Every time I see a funny political meme I think I need to send this to Victoria–oh. Sigh. How many conversations have we had about the HIV/AIDS plague and all the people we’ve regrettably already lost? Queers who lived through those horrific early decades of the plague all carry a bit of PTSD with us and a bit of survivor’s guilt: why did I survive? What was so special about me?
And you just have to accept that it’s random and doesn’t mean anything more than that. Just like Katrina, just like almost everything bad that has ever happened to me and those around me throughout my life. There’s no rhyme or reason to this world, no matter how much Christians want to whine and harangue the rest of us about “God’s plan.” The probable truth that there is no God, or divine entity, or sense to our lives, is too much for most people to wrap their minds around–just as the question “where did God come from? Who created the Creator?” unsettles many of them.
Heavy sigh.
And I really do need to start doing some promo for these anthologies I have contributed stories to the table of contents…
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Monday, and I may be back later, perhaps; if not, it will be tomorrow morning.
Yesterday I made a to-do list, and this odd sense of calm came down over all of my neuroses. Sure there’s a lot to be done and not much time to do it, but at least yesterday I felt like I could get it all done…now that I had made a list. I have a lot of writing to do, a lot of promotion to plan, and endless endless emails to send and reply to–and of course it’s football season and the heat is beginning to break a bit. I do like the fall, even though I don’t like it getting dark earlier.
I had to proof the galleys of an anthology I am in (just my story, fortunately) and it was quite an odd experience. I barely remembered anything about the story itself; I know how it came to be and how much money they offered me (seriously, y’all, I am very easy. Make me an offer) and I had a vague sense of what it was about, but I’d forgotten most of it, and I don’t really remember much of writing it, either. I know the anthology took a long time to come out, but the cover is lovely and they’ve done a really nice job of art on the interior of the book as well. It was interesting rereading the story, and weird–it’s very weird to not remember something you’ve written, but I guess I have finally reached that point in my life where I can’t remember everything I’ve written or said or done, for that matter–but it’s not bad. It was supposed to be a pulpy sort of story with a horror bent to it, and “A Whisper from the Graveyard” is what I came up with. They also had instructed us to “write something only a gay man can,” so I went back to 1994 or 1995 and had my big gay private eye hired to find a dead man the same day he finds out he is HIV positive. I’ve never written anything like that before; I’ve never written about HIV/AIDS, which is probably another one of those “I should write an essay about this so I can sort out all of my unresolved and long-buried traumas and fears and potential PTSD from those years” things–especially since I’ve worked as a sexual health counselor for the last fourteen years (my first four years I worked on research projects for NO/AIDS before becoming a counselor). I am also trying to address this in my novella “Never Kiss a Stranger,” which I hope to finish in the next year sometime.
I wasn’t terribly tired when I got home last night, and so I did the dishes and cooked dinner (so I would have something for lunch the rest of this week) before Paul and I settled in to watch Dahmer on Netflix (Paul came home all excited because “the new Star Wars show dropped!” and became even more excited when I replied, “And Dahmer dropped on Netflix”–Paul has long been fascinated by serial killers), which was really good and horribly disturbing; Evan Peters is fantastic as Dahmer, and Niecy Nash is golden in anything she does, but yeah–bleak and disturbing, and of course addicting. (When I get home tonight it’s this week’s Real Housewives of Beverly Hills before Paul gets home.) I slept well again last night, and since I had a productive day yesterday (finished pulling on some loose ends, even started working on the book again–Chapter Three is a mess, and I need to fix it before I can move on to Chapter Four and the rest of the story) and made some progress on my to-do list as well. Tonight I can come straight home from the office, and tomorrow of course is “I don’t have to get up at six Friday”, which is marvelous; one good thing about these “get-up-at-six” mornings is that it makes getting up at seven or eight seem almost vacation-like.
Yesterday’s post about erotica writing and my “sordid” past as a gay porn writer also set me to thinking about a lot of things about my past and my career and the direction it has gone. There’s probably a lot more to be said about it, definitely more to unpack, but I also really need to think some more about it and also, reread some of my earlier erotica writing. Revisiting my past works, as I have done a bit over the past few months, has been much more reassuring than worrisome; I had been concerned that the writing wouldn’t hold up or I would be appalled by its amateurishness or something, I don’t know (I don’t need a logical reason to be concerned about my work, really, especially when it’s old, published long ago work) but was pleasantly surprised to see it’s nowhere near as bad as I had convinced myself it was (it’s really a twisted and strange place here inside my head) and there’s always the possibility that I may have written something that could be seen as problematic by today’s standards…and, for the record, I do not think that is a bad thing; it simply means that culture and society continue to evolve to a place where past prejudices and bigotries are being overcome, albeit slowly, and hopefully we’ll gradually get to a place where no one is ever made to feel less than or that they are not welcomed or embraced in society. If that means periodic corrections, and acknowledging mistakes made in the not-so-distant past so be it. We are all learning more and more every day, and I certainly hope that neither my heart nor my compassion will ever become ossified and stop learning, growing and trying to be better.
So, on this glorious and unusual Thursday morning (because I am not walking around in a coma this morning waiting for the coffee to kick in, and I can also tell it’s humid outside this morning, yay), I am looking at the positives and looking forward to getting things stricken from that to-do list I made yesterday afternoon. I am looking forward to getting some writing done this evening, and some reading this weekend–I need to reread My Cousin Rachel so I don’t sound like a fricking moron on that podcast recording on Sunday morning–and maybe, just maybe, I can get my email inbox down to something that doesn’t make my heart sink and my soul diminish just by looking at it.
Have a lovely Thursday, Constant Reader, and I’ll check in with you again probably tomorrow morning.
Saturday in the Lost Apartment and all is well–at least so far.
I ran errands last night on my way home from work so I don’t have to go anywhere or do anything today involving leaving the house, and I think I’ll go ahead and make groceries on-line today to pick up tomorrow; we don’t really need a lot of stuff but it must be done. There’s a part of me that feels incredibly lazy doing this for some reason–perhaps the more I do it, the less guilt I’ll feel about having someone else make my groceries for me. I guess that’s really what it is; getting used to a new service. I mean, even the Fresh Market will do this, too–but one of the things I like about the Fresh Market is, well, everything seems fresher than at the other groceries, and picking out fruit and vegetables isn’t something I am willing to trust to another person just yet. I like to see the fresh stuff I am buying and pick it (although I am still regretting not stopping at that roadside stand when I was on the North Shore last weekend and picking up some Creole tomatoes fresh from the field, especially since I’ve not seen any in stores since then).
It rained again most of the day, and of course we’re still under a flood warning through sometime tonight. There are two systems out there I’ve yet to check but probably will momentarily. It’s that time of year when we seem to be getting hit with a higher degree of frequency since Katrina–just before Labor Day–and I know there have been at least three more storms around this time that I can think of right off the top of my head (2008, 2012, and last year for sure). Well, I took a look and yes, there is still a system in the Caribbean near the Yucatan, and there’s another one developing in the eastern Atlantic (meaning there are now two out there) but at least we’re okay for now. Labor Day weekend, on the other hand, could be something else entirely. Last year’s Ida was more of a Labor Day thing, if I am remembering correctly, or at least its impact and aftermath lasted through Labor Day. (2021 is still kind of blurry for me.)
The sun is shining right now, and I rested really well last night. A good night’s sleep is always a pleasure on the weekends, of course, and I even allowed myself the indulgence of sleeping in a little later. I have some laundry to finish and a sink to clear in the kitchen, and some other casual cleaning up and household maintenance to take care of this morning before I dive back into the wonderful world of work. I did get Chapter One rewritten Thursday–still leaves something to be desired, but isn’t completely the shitty mess it was before–and I did get started revising Chapter Two, which is going to be trickier–and then I have to springboard into Chapter Three, which I still have to figure out. I also want to do some work on some other things I am working on (as always) and I want to dedicate some time to reading Gabino’s marvelous novel The Devil Takes You Home today and tomorrow. I’ve actually been better these last couple of weeks at not being completely exhausted when I get home, which has also enabled me to try, at some level, to keep up with the housework so I don’t have to spend the entire day today cleaning and organizing and filing–there will be some of that, of course, and I also have to spend some time revisiting older Scotty books; maybe one of the things I could do today is start working on the Scotty Bible? That would help me remember everything that’s going on in the family and refresh my brain about some other things (did I ever give Rain’s doctor husband a name, for one really strong example of bad memory) and of course it would never hurt to have all of that assembled in one place that is easily accessible. Heavy sigh.
We also are watching Bad Sisters on Apple TV, and am really enjoying it. It’s rather dark; it’s about five extremely close Irish sisters who lost their parents young and were all raised by the oldest sister, who now lives in the family home, is single and apparently unable to have children. One of the sisters is married to an emotionally abusive asshole named John Paul who apparently takes delight in torturing and being cruel not only to his wife but to her sisters. One decides he needs to die, and recruits the oldest to help her kill him…and then each episode details how another sister got involved in the plan. The show opens with his funeral, so we know they succeed at some point, but the story alternates between the past (the sisters slowly coming together to decide to kill The Prick, which is what they all call him) and the team of brothers who work for the insurance company who have to pay out the death claim. The brothers (half-brothers, actually; one is played by the same hot actor who played the escort Emma Thompson hires for sex in her most recent film, which we enjoyed and I can’t recall the name of now) don’t really get along either. The oldest is convinced John Paul was murdered, but the younger brother is really attracted to the youngest sister and they are starting to develop a romantic relationship. It’s quite cleverly written and plotted–and even before I was completely sold on the show, I realized I wanted to keep watching because I hated John Paul so much I wanted to see how they decided to kill him and how. But well into the second episode I had to confess to being hooked. I loved the dueling timelines (I have always been a sucker for stories that are told this way, both the past and the present, flashing back and forth; I’ve always wanted to do one that way, but it seems really hard. A good example of a crime novel using this technique is Alison Gaylin’s What Remains of Me), the writing is sharp, and the acting top notch. It also takes place in Ireland, with gorgeous cinematography. I’ll keep you posted as we continue to watch.
We also watched the latest episode of Five Days at Memorial, which was truly painful to watch. The first episodes didn’t really get to me, but episode five–the fifth day, when the decision was made that everyone had to be out of the hospital and whoever couldn’t get out would be left behind regardless of the consequences, was absolutely wrenching in a way the previous episodes had not been. My Katrina scars are as nothing compared to what a lot of other people experienced: I survived, I was able to get out before the storm arrived, and my scars, while still from loss, are from bearing witness by watching television and witnessing what I saw when I finally came home in October, as well as living in a nearly-empty, 90% destroyed city after my return. (Last year, when we trapped here as Ida came in, was bad enough; I cannot imagine how horrible it would have been to have been stuck here praying for someone to come rescue us. At least we were able, and had the means, to finally get out when we ran out of food and water.)
I’ve also found myself thinking a lot about my Katrina writing these last couple of days–my essay “I Haven’t Stopped Dancing Yet”; my short stories “Disaster Relief” and “Annunciation Shotgun” and “Survivor’s Guilt”; and of course, Murder in the Rue Chartres. I was thinking about this book last night–partly because of watching Five Days at Memorial, because it reminded me that Rue Chartres wasn’t supposed to be the third Chanse book at all. The third Chanse book was supposed to be something else altogether, but obviously in the wake of Hurricane Katrina my plans for both the Chanse and Scotty series had to dramatically shift and change. Seventeen years ago was a Saturday, the Saturday we nervously watched the storm, having now crossed south Florida and entered the Gulf, intensifying and growing and taking aim directly at New Orleans. We decided to not leave just yet; every other time a hurricane had threatened the city after we moved here we watched and waited patiently, and were rewarded with the storm turning east before coming ashore and the city avoiding a direct hit. We never lost phone, cable or power during those other instances–we were nervous, still reassuring ourselves of the turn to the east before landfall but the reality that we would have to leave was becoming more and more real. It’s odd that this year the dates all on the same day they fell back in 2005, so it’s a reflective anniversary that mirrors the actual weekend it happened. I’m debating whether I want to watch the new documentary on HBO MAX, Katrina Babies–that might be definitely too much for me to handle. (I’m still surprised that we’re able to–and were willing to–watch Five Days at Memorial, to be honest.)
At least I know Paul won’t be shaking me awake tomorrow morning at eight saying, Honey, we need to go.
OH! I didn’t tell you. Yesterday my other glasses I ordered from Zenni arrived–the red frames and the purple frames, and I absolutely love them. I don’t think I need to order any more pairs, to be honest, but it’s so cool to have them! And to have options now. I never ever thought of glasses as anything other than utilitarian, to be honest; I needed them to work and that was all I cared about, and I also thought they were too expensive to treat as part of a “look” or to be more style conscious…but Zenni is so inexpensive; the three pairs I got are all cheaper than the pair I got with my eye exam, and using my insurance. Had I saved my insurance for use on Zenni, they would have been even cheaper.
Life. CHANGED.
And on that note, I am going to make some more coffee and dive back into the spice mines. Have a lovely Saturday, Constant Reader.
Of course, the emergence of a potentially major storm heading for the Gulf and our coastline–and how quickly it has happened–has certainly sucked a lot of the energy out of the room. The fact it will come ashore on the 16th anniversary of Katrina (Sunday) hasn’t triggered a lot of PTSD for me, strangely; although I was remembering it all last night as I sat in my easy chair watching Margaret Orr on local television (and checking her Twitter feed). The weather outside my condensation-covered windows this morning doesn’t look that great, to be honest–we’ve had rain all day yesterday off and on–but I don’t know if we are going to need to leave yet or not. It’s not looking good for us right now; at the very least we’re going to probably be without power for a few days (yay). But at least if we do end up leaving (probably tomorrow morning, if we go) at least I have a relatively new car, and I believe I already have a tank of gas. I have some errands to run today–I am getting my teeth cleaned later this morning, and I need to get the mail. I had planned on doing some grocery shopping today but am not sure if it’s wise to get anything perishable, so am probably just going to let that sit until afterwards.
I’m also having dinner with a friend tonight–scheduled to come in for Bouchercon, she decided to keep her trip since her daughter goes to school here anyway–which should be a good time; social contact outside of my office has remained low, so it will be sort of nice to get out of the house and spend the evening with someone whose company I enjoy…especially with a hurricane looming. If it stays on center track, it’ll pass us to the west–putting New Orleans on the bad side of the storm. I’m kind of surprised I am not having flashbacks triggered by any or all of this, to be honest. I only remember the anniversary now when I am reminded–I’d not even given it a thought until the other day when this system developed below Cuba–although I am also now remembering there have been issues with I storms in the past–Ike and Isaac, for example; one of them sat on the city for like three days and we were without power for nearly a week. The other was our last evacuation and it, too, was around this same time. Late August, after my birthday and before Labor Day–never a good combination for an I-named storm in the Gulf, apparently.
I rewatched an old Doris Day/Rock Hudson movie last night while I was waiting for Paul to come home (working late because of grant deadlines and potential hurricane; potential loss of power means everyone has to get things done earlier than they’d thought). I had wanted to rewatch Pillow Talk, which was the best of the their three films together, but couldn’t find it streaming anywhere, so settled for the follow-up, Lover Come Back, which, while not as good as the first, was still quite entertaining–if problematic. The message of the Day/Hudson movies–at least the first three; they played a married couple in their third pairing–was always that Day was an uptight and repressed career woman with no interest in men or marriage–who really just needed a good fuck. The irony that the good fuck she needed was being delivered on-screen by a gay man escaped audiences of the time, who made the films huge hits and made Doris Day the biggest money-making star in the country. It’s great, though, that she was shown as a highly successful, talented, and driven career woman; unfortunate that the screenwriters seemed to think that went along with an empty life without love or a man. Given how beautiful and sexy Day was, it’s kind of hard to believe that she wouldn’t have men hanging off her–but she’s kind of portrayed as an ice princess, who needs a man to thaw her out. The games Hudson plays with Day–mimicked in both films–where he pretends to be a shy, inexperienced (read: almost gay) man whose sweetness she falls for doesn’t really play today for a sex comedy; such a movie would never be made today.
I did manage to get some things done yesterday. I worked on the manuscript, and have maybe a third of it left to go. I’ve already edited out almost ten thousand words, making it leaner and cleaner, but it’s still such a horrible mess I cannot believe I turned it in to my long-suffering editor. But it’s getting better, and the primary issue is that there were so many different versions over the years of working on it that I missed things when merging all the versions together to get a final one–the great irony being the problem with the manuscript not ever being what I thought it was, so all those different drafts were relatively pointless; it’s terrible when you are writing a book and you aren’t really completely sure what it’s about consciously. I’ve always said this book was about rape culture, but it’s actually not–although that’s a part of it; what it’s actually about is toxic masculinity from the point of view of someone trapped inside of it who desperately wants out and doesn’t know how to get out. I didn’t completely understand that–and something else–until this final editing run; glad I figured this out before it went to press, right?
So I am going to try to get some things done around here this morning before leaving for the dentist, then I am coming home to work on the manuscript. I’d like to get this pass finished today–not an easy task, since its taking me hours to get through small sections, longer than I’d thought it would, honestly–so it can sit for a day or two; if we lose power and I have to stop working on it, I am hoping I’ll be able to at least get it sent off somehow–if I need t make my phone a hotspot and send it from my laptop or something, I should be able to get it done and in on time. I was going to try to make it to the gym today, but think I’ll just push that off until tomorrow and focus on getting the manuscript finished today. Once I finish and post this, I am going to clean out my inbox (or try to) before having to get ready for the teeth cleaning expedition (not looking forward to this either, I might add). I had wanted to spend some time getting organized–but the need to get this manuscript out of the way in case of power loss, at least getting this pass finished, at any rate, has overcome any desire to work on the other things that need to be worked on around here; I can go to the gym tomorrow and clean/organize then (if we aren’t in the car, that is).
And on that note, tis time to head back into the spice mines. Have a lovely Friday, Constant Reader.
It has been seventeen years, more or less, give and take, since it happened and my life–and my worldview–went through a significant change.
It’s weird how it sneaks up on you when you aren’t expecting it, isn’t it? In the weeks leading up to Memorial Day I am vaguely aware of a sense of unease and discomfort, a feeling like some sort of impending doom is waiting for me just over the horizon. I’ve noticed in recent years that times and date have little meaning to me; at my day job every form I fill out requires a date–month, day, year–over and over again, and this constant use of dates makes them seem to lose their meaning as I write them down, recording them by rote; sometimes glancing up at the display on the telephone mounted on the wall above my working table to remember when my brain seizes up–as it is wont to do from time to time–and the date slips out from my short-term memory and cannot be retrieved by the processor. These meaningless days continue passing, recorded on form after form after form, until one day a date I am recording catches me off guard and I am startled by the rapid passage of time and think something like my God, next week is Paul’s birthday or next week is our anniversary and so forth.
And yet every May, without fail, as I go through the motions of my day to day life and run my errands and put gas in the car and make meals and clean up and work with my clients and try to make it to the gym, I forget about Memorial Day looming in the future, just around the corner, up ahead, waiting to land like a sucker punch in the solar plexus when I am least expecting it to happen. Is it a protective thing, I wonder, my subconscious pushing the memories deep into the darkest corners of my brain, to keep me from reliving some of the darkest hours and days of my life? I’m not sure–and the weird thing is that somehow I am vaguely aware. The memories don’t get pushed back into the cobwebby recesses completely, because I always, inevitably, feel unsettled every May, vaguely off-center, knowing there’s something back there I don’t want to remember, and it makes me tense, stressed, anxious.
And then, between episodes of a show we were streaming (The Drowning, on Acorn or Britbox, I cannot remember which) I got up to make garlic bread as a snack. As I sliced the loaf of French bread to spread the garlic butter paste on to broil in the oven, Paul was telling me about how crowded the Quarter had been on Friday afternoon when he’d gone down there to get his haircut. “It was more crowded than it would usually be before the shutdown,” he said with a shudder, “and all I could think was how awful it seemed.” I agreed with him, expressing that I had little to no desire to ever go out in the Quarter again–while thinking ah yes, you have become the tired old man you always feared you would–when Paul laughed and said, “Well, it’s not like Memorial Day is my favorite time to go out and do anything” and I laughed and kept spreading the paste on the bread as the memories and realizations all came flooding back to me; why I have been so tense and anxious lately; why I was so desperate to get my Xanax prescription refilled (telling myself it was because I needed them to sleep) and WHY I had been unable to sleep in the first place; why there was so much tension and so many knots in my neck, shoulder and back; why I have been unable to focus and why it has felt like I’ve been living under a dark cloud of looming depression for so long.
Memorial Day weekend, 2004, and that horrible phone call that Sunday morning, that Paul was at the emergency room at Charity Hospital and all that ensued from there.
I’ve only written about what happened that weekend once; in the wake of the Pulse massacre, that horrible morning in 2016 when I woke up to the horrible news and sat, glued to my computer screen, refreshing social media and new sites and worrying about my friends and acquaintances in Orlando to check in, so that I would know they were alive. Pulse was horrifying in and of itself, without it being a triggering event for me personally; watching those friends and family outside the bar in the morning hours in Orlando, terrified and wondering if someone they loved, someone they knew had been inside Pulse that night and hadn’t yet heard from, was alive or dead. I’ve never felt that the story of Memorial Day weekend 2004 was mine to tell; as I said to a friend recently, as we talked about the HBO show It’s a Sin and how deeply it affected me, “I’ve never written about my own experiences during that time because I was a survivor and a witness, and to me, writing about it and making money from it seemed wrong to me somehow.” Part of this mentality–which is probably wrong, but I can make a rational case for it from either point of view–comes from being raised to keep personal pain private; I’ve always called it ‘bleeding in public.’ I’ve never wanted to be seen as a victim; I’ve never wanted to publicly dissect my pain for others to see, comment on–especially to belittle or demean.
We survived it, and isn’t that the most important thing?
I’m not sure that I’ve ever really processed it all; dealt with it properly and adequately. I saw a therapist for a few years, and obviously we discussed all of my traumas, all the PTSD from everything I had experienced, but I’m not sure that I’ve ever faced it, dealt with it, handled it. I wrote a short story about it once–“A Streetcar Named Death”–and of course I wrote that blog entry after the Pulse massacre.
But now as I approach sixty–only a few more months–I find myself wondering, about all of the pain and trauma of the past, and whether I have dealt with it in a healthy manner, and if writing about it, which is how I inevitably deal with almost everything, is the way to go with it?
I don’t know. But…I can’t help but feel that I need to; that somehow, despite whatever blowback and snark might come from doing so, that it will finally help me to deal with it and maybe–just maybe–Memorial Day weekend can go back to being what it used to be for me, and I can finally be free from it all.
Well, we have apparently survived yet another Monday, so here it is Tuesday morning again.
My manic Monday wasn’t too bad, other than the utter insanity of an issue with my car insurance that is going to end up wasting more of my own time than it’s worth, to be completely honest. I did start getting tired in the afternoon–it’s not easy being a Gregalicious–but I got some emails answered (I will never get all of my emails answered, and that’s just a sad fact I need to accept; because there will always be more) when I got home and then repaired to my easy chair where I finished watching Sons of Liberty. (Paul didn’t get home until just before it was time for me to go to bed.) And here I am this morning with the space heater on–it’s chilly in the Lost Apartment this morning, but I am sure it’s going to warm up during the day time–and apparently our new HVAC unit will be installed today; they’ve been doing all the other work the last few days; it was quite astonishing to come around the last corner to the apartment last night and see a big blank space where the big unit used to be. Better late than never, I suppose, and I hope this means a stronger unit that will help offset the loss of the trees when the sun will shine directly through these windows in the summer time, creating a glass house effect in my kitchen. (I’ve been trying not to think about that too hard.)
I bit the bullet and asked for more time for the book–deadline extension–and they gave me longer than I asked for, which was an enormous relief and pressure release on me. They were actually very lovely about it, and apparently I am much more fragile emotionally than I thought because the kindness of the response almost made me choke up…which wasn’t the response I was expecting to have. I feel like I’m doing a fairly decent job of soldiering on through everything that’s going on in the world and around me these days–so much PTSD, from so many past traumas, I suppose–not to mention that it seems like almost everyone I know is going through a rough time. Two friends lost their fathers over the course of the past week, for example, and there have been so many other issues for everyone I know and care about that it’s almost like one body blow after another. And yet I keep moving forward because there’s no other option, really, and just keep sending out positive energy to my friends while keeping them deep inside my heart and mind and soul. I’ve said it before and I will say it again here–there’s nothing worse than seeing people you care about suffering when there’s nothing you can do about it.
Hell, I don’t even know if people in Texas have recovered from the horror of last week. So many people I owe emails to…heavy heaving sigh. The emails are endless, aren’t they?
The other good news is Paul has finally been scheduled for the vaccine, round one, on Thursday. That’s one less stressor off my plate, and it just now occurred to me that there’s another, buried stressor inside my head–now that I am older, I fear I am going to see a repeat of the past where I keep living while so many people I love and care about do not. After all, it’s happened before, and I think that’s part of the issue of my facing my age and so forth lately–the fear that I will outlive everyone I care about again. Obviously, I am not hoping that I die soon or anything like that–but recognizing a fear that’s been imprinted on my brain, no matter how unrealistic or nonsensical it may be, will certainly help me figure out how to cope with it or conquer it entirely, I think.
Watching Sons of Liberty (and did they ever take liberties with history!) was a pleasing enough diversion; I always enjoy the Revolutionary period–it’s been a favorite of mine since childhood–so when I was finished with the final episode–the signing of the Declaration of Independence–I got down my copy of The Wars of America by Robert Leckie and started reading the bridge section between The Colonial Wars and the Revolutionary War; Leckie’s book is really a history of the country as told through the perspective of the wars and the lead-up to them in the periods between them. Leckie is a very good writer–The Wars of America is one of my favorite histories–but he definitely is a subscriber to the mythology of American exceptionalism, even as he talks right up front about the evils of slavery and the slaughter of the indigenous. (The copy of the book I have now is not the one I had when I was a child; this is an updated version including the Korean and Vietnam wars, and he is very much a drum-thumping anti-Communist right-winger when it comes to those two conflicts, to the point that I’ve never read those chapters because the native jingoism is too much for me to stomach) As I mentioned yesterday, I am now thinking a series of mysteries set in revolutionary Boston, with John Adams as defense attorney and investigator, would be highly interesting. I doubt that I will ever have the time to research or write such a series, but I do wish someone would. I believe–and could be wrong; it just flitted into my brain as a memory–there was at one time an Abigail Adams mystery series; I never read it, but now am curious enough about it to go looking to see if it’s a false memory or not. I mean, why not? Both Eleanor Roosevelt and Margaret Truman have been the main character in crime series, so why not Abigail? (A very quick search has, indeed, offered up an Abigail Adams mystery series written by Barbara Hamilton; it’s nice to know it wasn’t a figment of my imagination….alas, yet another series of books to go not ye olde wish list.)
And tonight, of course, once I am off work I must go to the gym. I am sure I will have to force myself to go–the temperatures will undoubtedly start falling again after I get off work, so there will be that…but it will feel good, as will the protein shake and shower afterwards. I also have another load of laundry to get started tonight when I get home.
Queer and Loathing in America 