I received Liz Hand's very flattering introduction to the Centipede Press edition of The Drowning Girl: A Memoir.
We were spared the 3"-6" of snow and got only a dusting, that and gale-force winds. Currently, here in Providence, it's 31˚F, but feels like 11˚F. Tonight's low is forecast at 14˚F, with a windchill of -9˚F. On March 26th. Yeah, this is spring. This is the scene to which I awoke:
Last night I took Silk down off the shelf, and I flipped through it, and I read a few pages, the first time I've read any of the novel since the revision of it I did in 2007. Though, last night I was reading the original, not the revised, text. I was surprised to discovered that I can look more kindly upon the book than I could seven years ago. Yeah, it reads like a first novel, but it reads like a first novel with a voice and with something to say. Most importantly, it's a snapshot of the person I was during its writing, between October 1993 and January 1996, a person I haven't been in a very long time now. I'd also forgotten that you can date the events in the book based on music and mention of current concerts, but the easiest way to determine when Silk is set is the inclusion of the March 1993 winter storm that dumped more than a foot of snow on Birmingham. Also, it occurred to me that if the book manages to stay in print just four more years, it will have remained in print, continuously, for twenty years (1998-2018), no small accomplishment.
No Quetiapine last night, because I'm discovering that all the Cannabis I'm smoking these days is helping with my sleep. However, last night I discovered it isn't helping as much as I'd hoped. I slept fitfully. I dreamt of a world in apocalyptic deluge, a land swamped by rising seas, and we struggled to find enough boats. I swam in the dark waters of a flooded aquarium and cypress swamps, waters filled with strange invertebrates and enormous frill sharks and sleeper sharks and Permian-era Orthacanthus. Grotesque, serpentine things. A Chlamydoselachus anguineus swept by above me, and I reached out a hand and ran my fingers across its belly. There was, all around me, a great exodus of human beings, as a drowned city was abandoned, and I hunted in vain for people I'd lost, even as the masses headed for higher, drier land. There was an older woman, a prophet of some sort, who finally convinced me to give up my search. I awoke from the dream around 8 ayem, then laid down and sunk straight back into it. I feel as though it was a foretaste of all the floods to come, echoing all the floods that ever have been.
I wish I had more details. However, it is heartening to know that when I deny myself that "short-acting atypical antipsychotic" my dreams come back, bright and violent.
Last night, there was Spooky's meat loaf, and there were Table Talk apple pies.
I finished Ted Morgan's weighty biography of Burroughs last night. Truly, a trade paperback, the book weighs 2.1 lbs. My next biography is Leonard Warren's of Joseph Leidy. I've spent the winter with the lives of Diane Arbus and William Burroughs, and all their attendant strife and squalor, and I need now to be free of the minds of other artists for awhile.