you think im crazy.
i have found that one of the better things about family vacations is the amount of reading which i am able to accomplish.
i did not touch a computer for over a week (my fingers are still not quite mindlessly typing as a result of that), and i did not see one of my friends in person for the same amount of time.
i did, however, get a tan for just about the first time in my life-i mean a real, actual tan-and i also finished "grimms fairy tales," which i had been trying to bring myself to do since october.
in addition to that, the cape weather was beautiful and i finally feel like i know my way around the cape pretty well.
it has become that kind of second home that people always hope it will, for me.
i like that.
i didnt, however, like enduring eight days of "nobody has said 'thank you' once this trip; i saved up all year for this house ..." et cetera.
not that my mom was not also wonderful.
she is.
stephanie and i are thinking menopause? because we cant see any other reason for her sudden crazy mood swings that directly damage our social lives.
i do love her.
its just so damn hard to be my own person.
you know the drill.
but anyway, we hit provincetown, chatham (where i saw FARRELL!), orleans (about a million times), brewster, and everywhere else that we always go.
we also went to the one starbucks that we know of down there, and got two drinks each.
erika would be proud.
i do wish that i could have come back saturday.
that spurred a bit of an argument, though.
i thought it best to avoid the subject of early departure after that.
the beach was lovely.
and oh yes, i read "the stand."
what is "the stand"?
well, it is stephen kings 1,143 page novel about a flu epidemic that kills most of the world.
its really good.
and i read it within six days, i would say.
nicely done, alex.
his books are really just damn good, is what i say.
and they stick with you to a creepy degree.
and his writings outstanding.
and i ended up underlining a bunch of it.
and im going to post it.
so you dont have to read them, if you dont want.
but i sure will.
over and over.
(from the prologue) "when asked, 'how do you write?' i invariably answer, 'one word at a time,' and the answer is invariably dismissed. but that is all it is. it sounds too simple to be true, but consider the great wall of china, if you will: one stone at a time, man. one stone at a time. but ive read you can see that motherfucker from space without a telescope."
"he had discovered a deep fondness in himself for making lists; he thought one of his forebearers must have been an accountant. when your mind was troubled, he had discovred that making a list often set it at ease again."
"'well, this one night it was about quarter past two, and i was sitting behind haps desk with my feet up, reading some western-louis lamour, elmore leonard, someone like that, and in pulls this big old pontiact with all the windows rolled down and the tape-player going like mad, playing hank williams. i even remember the song-it was 'movin on.' this guy, not young and not old, is all by himself. he was a goodlooing man, but in a way that was a little scary-i mean, he looked like he might do scary things without thinkin very hard about em. he had bushy, curly dark hair. there was a bottle of wine snugged down between his legs and a pair of styrofoam dice hanging from the rearview mirror. he says, 'high test,' and i said okay, but for a minute i just stood there and looked at him. because he looked familiar. i was playin place the face. so i said, 'dont i know you? aint you from up around corbett or maxin?' but it didnt really seem like i knew him from those two towns. and he says, 'no, but i passed through corbett once with my family, when i was just a kid. it seems like i passed through just about everyplace in america when i was a kid. my dad was in the air force.' so i went back and filled up his car, and all the time im thinkin about him, playing place the face, and all at once it came to me. all at once i knew. and i damned near pissed myself, because the man behind the wheel of that pontiac was supposed to be dead.' 'who was he, stuart? who was he?' 'no, you let me tell it my way, frannie. not that it isnt a crazy story no matter what way you tell it. i went back to the window and i says, 'thatll be six dollars and thirty cents.' he gave me two five-dollar bills and told me i could keep the chance. and i says, 'i think i might have you placed now.' and he says, 'well, maybe you do.' and he gives me this weird, chilly smile, and all the time hank williams is singin about going to town. i says, 'if you are who i think you are, youre supposed to be dead.' he says, 'you dont want to believe everything you read, man.' i says, 'you like hank williams all right?' it was all i could think of to say. because i saw, frannie, if i didnt say something, he was just going to roll up that power window and go tooling on down the road ... and i wanted him to go, but i also didnt want him to go. not yet. not until i was sure. i didnt know then that a person is never sure about a lot of things, no matter how much he wants to be. he says, 'hank williams is one of the best. i like roadhouse music.' and then he says, 'im going to new orleans, going to drive all night, sleep all day tomorrow, then barrel-house all night long. is it the same? new orleans?' and i say, 'as what?' and he says, 'well, you know.' and i say, 'well, its all the south, you know, although there are considerable more trees down that way.' and that makes him laugh. he says, 'maybe ill see you again.' but i didnt want to see him again, frannie. because he had the eyes of a man who has been trying to look into the dark for a long time and has maybe begun to see what is there. stu shook his head as they pushed their bikes across the road and parked them. 'ive been thinking of that. i thought about getting some of his records after that, but i didnt want them. his voice ... its a good voice, but it gives me the creeps.' 'stuart, who are you talking about?' 'you remember a rock and roll group called the doors? the man that stopped that night for gas in arnette was jim morrison. im sure of it. he mouth dropped open. 'but he died! he died in france! he-' and then she stopped. becasue there had been something funny about morrisons death, hadnt there? something secret. 'did he?' stu asked. 'i wonder. maybe he did, and the fellow i saw was just a guy who looked like him, but-' 'do you really think it was?' she asked. they were sitting on the steps of their building now, shoulders touching, like small children waiting for their mother to call them in to supper. 'yeah,' he said. 'yeah, i do. and until this summer, i thought that would always be the strangest thing that ever happened to me. boy, was i wrong. 'and you never told anyone,' she marveled. 'you saw jim morrison years after he supposedly died and you never told anyone. stuart redman, God should have given you a comination lock instead of a mouth when He sent you into the world.'"
"time past was time past. you just couldnt get hold of the things you had done and turn them right again. such power might be given to the gods, but it was not given to men and women, and that was probably a good t hing. had it been otherwise, people would probably die of old age still trying to rewrite their teens."
"he was sitting cross-legged on the floor of his cell. he had found a piece of charcoal under his bunk, and had just finished writing this legend on the wall amid the intaglio of male and female genitals, names, phone numbers, and obscene little poems: i am not the pottor, not the potters wheel, but the potters clay; is not the value of the shape attained as dependent upon the intrinsic work of the clay as upon the wheel and the masters skill?"
"'stu-' stu looked into that troubled, miserable face, still a boys face in spite of the beard, and slowly shook his head. 'dead, tom,' he said gently. 'nicks dead. alsmost a month ago. it was a ... a political thing. assassination, i spose youd say. im sorry.' tom lowered his head, and in the freshly built-up fire, stu saw his tears fall into his lap. they fell in a gentle silver rain. but he was silent. at last he looked up, his blue eyes brighter than ever. he wiped at them with the heel of his hand. 'i knew he was,' he said huskily. 'i didnt want to think i knew, but i did. laws, yes. he kept turning his back and going away. he was my main man, stu-did you know that?' stu reached out and took toms big hand. 'i knew, tom.' 'yes, he was, M-O-O-N, that spells my main man. i miss him awful. but im going to see him in heaven. tom cullen will see him there. and hell be able to talk and ill be able to think. isnt that right?' 'it wouldnt surprise me at all, tom.'"
"tom said hesitantly: 'can i sing a song before we go?' 'sure, if you want.' stu rather expected 'jingle bells' or 'frosty the snowman' sung in the off-key and rather toneless voice of a child. but what came out was a fragment of 'the first noel,' sung in a surprisingly pleasant tenor voice. 'the first noel,' toms voice drifted across the white wastes, echoing back with faint sweetness, 'the angels did say ... was certain poor shepherds in fields as they lay ... in fields ... as they ... lay keeping their sheep ... on cold winters night that was so deep ...' stu joined in on the chorus, his voice not as good as toms but mixing well neough to suit the two of them, and the old sweet himn drifted ack and forth in the deep cathedral silence of chirstmas morning: 'noel, noel, noel, noel ... christ is born in israel ...' 'thats the only part of it i can remember,' tom said a little guiltily as their voices drifted away. 'it was fine,' stu said. the tears were close again. it would not take much to set him off, and that would upset tom. he swallowed them back. 'we ought to get going. daylights wasting.' 'sure.' he looked at stu, who was taking down his shelt half. 'its the best christmas i ever had, stu.' 'im glad, tommy.'"
i did not touch a computer for over a week (my fingers are still not quite mindlessly typing as a result of that), and i did not see one of my friends in person for the same amount of time.
i did, however, get a tan for just about the first time in my life-i mean a real, actual tan-and i also finished "grimms fairy tales," which i had been trying to bring myself to do since october.
in addition to that, the cape weather was beautiful and i finally feel like i know my way around the cape pretty well.
it has become that kind of second home that people always hope it will, for me.
i like that.
i didnt, however, like enduring eight days of "nobody has said 'thank you' once this trip; i saved up all year for this house ..." et cetera.
not that my mom was not also wonderful.
she is.
stephanie and i are thinking menopause? because we cant see any other reason for her sudden crazy mood swings that directly damage our social lives.
i do love her.
its just so damn hard to be my own person.
you know the drill.
but anyway, we hit provincetown, chatham (where i saw FARRELL!), orleans (about a million times), brewster, and everywhere else that we always go.
we also went to the one starbucks that we know of down there, and got two drinks each.
erika would be proud.
i do wish that i could have come back saturday.
that spurred a bit of an argument, though.
i thought it best to avoid the subject of early departure after that.
the beach was lovely.
and oh yes, i read "the stand."
what is "the stand"?
well, it is stephen kings 1,143 page novel about a flu epidemic that kills most of the world.
its really good.
and i read it within six days, i would say.
nicely done, alex.
his books are really just damn good, is what i say.
and they stick with you to a creepy degree.
and his writings outstanding.
and i ended up underlining a bunch of it.
and im going to post it.
so you dont have to read them, if you dont want.
but i sure will.
over and over.
(from the prologue) "when asked, 'how do you write?' i invariably answer, 'one word at a time,' and the answer is invariably dismissed. but that is all it is. it sounds too simple to be true, but consider the great wall of china, if you will: one stone at a time, man. one stone at a time. but ive read you can see that motherfucker from space without a telescope."
"he had discovered a deep fondness in himself for making lists; he thought one of his forebearers must have been an accountant. when your mind was troubled, he had discovred that making a list often set it at ease again."
"'well, this one night it was about quarter past two, and i was sitting behind haps desk with my feet up, reading some western-louis lamour, elmore leonard, someone like that, and in pulls this big old pontiact with all the windows rolled down and the tape-player going like mad, playing hank williams. i even remember the song-it was 'movin on.' this guy, not young and not old, is all by himself. he was a goodlooing man, but in a way that was a little scary-i mean, he looked like he might do scary things without thinkin very hard about em. he had bushy, curly dark hair. there was a bottle of wine snugged down between his legs and a pair of styrofoam dice hanging from the rearview mirror. he says, 'high test,' and i said okay, but for a minute i just stood there and looked at him. because he looked familiar. i was playin place the face. so i said, 'dont i know you? aint you from up around corbett or maxin?' but it didnt really seem like i knew him from those two towns. and he says, 'no, but i passed through corbett once with my family, when i was just a kid. it seems like i passed through just about everyplace in america when i was a kid. my dad was in the air force.' so i went back and filled up his car, and all the time im thinkin about him, playing place the face, and all at once it came to me. all at once i knew. and i damned near pissed myself, because the man behind the wheel of that pontiac was supposed to be dead.' 'who was he, stuart? who was he?' 'no, you let me tell it my way, frannie. not that it isnt a crazy story no matter what way you tell it. i went back to the window and i says, 'thatll be six dollars and thirty cents.' he gave me two five-dollar bills and told me i could keep the chance. and i says, 'i think i might have you placed now.' and he says, 'well, maybe you do.' and he gives me this weird, chilly smile, and all the time hank williams is singin about going to town. i says, 'if you are who i think you are, youre supposed to be dead.' he says, 'you dont want to believe everything you read, man.' i says, 'you like hank williams all right?' it was all i could think of to say. because i saw, frannie, if i didnt say something, he was just going to roll up that power window and go tooling on down the road ... and i wanted him to go, but i also didnt want him to go. not yet. not until i was sure. i didnt know then that a person is never sure about a lot of things, no matter how much he wants to be. he says, 'hank williams is one of the best. i like roadhouse music.' and then he says, 'im going to new orleans, going to drive all night, sleep all day tomorrow, then barrel-house all night long. is it the same? new orleans?' and i say, 'as what?' and he says, 'well, you know.' and i say, 'well, its all the south, you know, although there are considerable more trees down that way.' and that makes him laugh. he says, 'maybe ill see you again.' but i didnt want to see him again, frannie. because he had the eyes of a man who has been trying to look into the dark for a long time and has maybe begun to see what is there. stu shook his head as they pushed their bikes across the road and parked them. 'ive been thinking of that. i thought about getting some of his records after that, but i didnt want them. his voice ... its a good voice, but it gives me the creeps.' 'stuart, who are you talking about?' 'you remember a rock and roll group called the doors? the man that stopped that night for gas in arnette was jim morrison. im sure of it. he mouth dropped open. 'but he died! he died in france! he-' and then she stopped. becasue there had been something funny about morrisons death, hadnt there? something secret. 'did he?' stu asked. 'i wonder. maybe he did, and the fellow i saw was just a guy who looked like him, but-' 'do you really think it was?' she asked. they were sitting on the steps of their building now, shoulders touching, like small children waiting for their mother to call them in to supper. 'yeah,' he said. 'yeah, i do. and until this summer, i thought that would always be the strangest thing that ever happened to me. boy, was i wrong. 'and you never told anyone,' she marveled. 'you saw jim morrison years after he supposedly died and you never told anyone. stuart redman, God should have given you a comination lock instead of a mouth when He sent you into the world.'"
"time past was time past. you just couldnt get hold of the things you had done and turn them right again. such power might be given to the gods, but it was not given to men and women, and that was probably a good t hing. had it been otherwise, people would probably die of old age still trying to rewrite their teens."
"he was sitting cross-legged on the floor of his cell. he had found a piece of charcoal under his bunk, and had just finished writing this legend on the wall amid the intaglio of male and female genitals, names, phone numbers, and obscene little poems: i am not the pottor, not the potters wheel, but the potters clay; is not the value of the shape attained as dependent upon the intrinsic work of the clay as upon the wheel and the masters skill?"
"'stu-' stu looked into that troubled, miserable face, still a boys face in spite of the beard, and slowly shook his head. 'dead, tom,' he said gently. 'nicks dead. alsmost a month ago. it was a ... a political thing. assassination, i spose youd say. im sorry.' tom lowered his head, and in the freshly built-up fire, stu saw his tears fall into his lap. they fell in a gentle silver rain. but he was silent. at last he looked up, his blue eyes brighter than ever. he wiped at them with the heel of his hand. 'i knew he was,' he said huskily. 'i didnt want to think i knew, but i did. laws, yes. he kept turning his back and going away. he was my main man, stu-did you know that?' stu reached out and took toms big hand. 'i knew, tom.' 'yes, he was, M-O-O-N, that spells my main man. i miss him awful. but im going to see him in heaven. tom cullen will see him there. and hell be able to talk and ill be able to think. isnt that right?' 'it wouldnt surprise me at all, tom.'"
"tom said hesitantly: 'can i sing a song before we go?' 'sure, if you want.' stu rather expected 'jingle bells' or 'frosty the snowman' sung in the off-key and rather toneless voice of a child. but what came out was a fragment of 'the first noel,' sung in a surprisingly pleasant tenor voice. 'the first noel,' toms voice drifted across the white wastes, echoing back with faint sweetness, 'the angels did say ... was certain poor shepherds in fields as they lay ... in fields ... as they ... lay keeping their sheep ... on cold winters night that was so deep ...' stu joined in on the chorus, his voice not as good as toms but mixing well neough to suit the two of them, and the old sweet himn drifted ack and forth in the deep cathedral silence of chirstmas morning: 'noel, noel, noel, noel ... christ is born in israel ...' 'thats the only part of it i can remember,' tom said a little guiltily as their voices drifted away. 'it was fine,' stu said. the tears were close again. it would not take much to set him off, and that would upset tom. he swallowed them back. 'we ought to get going. daylights wasting.' 'sure.' he looked at stu, who was taking down his shelt half. 'its the best christmas i ever had, stu.' 'im glad, tommy.'"