You called up in the sky.
You called up in the clouds.
Is there something you forgot to tell me? ~ Joan Osborne
Spooky and I are now in love with Orange is the New Black, the first season of which we are devouring as we wait for the fifth season of Breaking Bad.
And yesterday? Yesterday I took to hits of some very strong ganja and wrote the final 69 words of "Ballad of an Echo Whisperer." I wrote it, and then I looked away. I have read it since. It felt right at the time. I'll send it to the editor, and it'll work for her, or it won't. But at least I can say I've finished one short story this summer. I think it's a bit like a train wreck (and it is a train story, because trains are Möbius strips) between William Burroughs and Philip K. Dick. Ah, but I flatter myself.
Today, I need to send some stuff to Matthew Jaffe for the Centipede Press edition of The Drowning Girl: A Memoir. He's painting Albert Perrault paintings. Someone had to do it, though I hope Matthew's hung wolfsbane above his bed. Poor Matthew.
There are other editors I need to speak with, and there are overdue checks to chase (lookin' at you, Dark Horse), and...probably other things.
Please check out the current eBay auctions. The "Salammbö" shirt, remember, and a copy of Tales of Pain and Wonder (the Subterranean Press edition, the best edition), and motherfucking Compapolooza. We had two unexpected vet bills in July, hence so much eBay at the moment.
After all the work, we're heading to the sea. If only I had one friend in Providence, and one friend I could call upon to go with us.
She's Gone With the Man in the Long Black Coat,