B.P.
I went to drop off my Netflix movies at the post office this morning. While there, I saw an old sometimes friend of mine, a novelist. We -- for a time -- went out for dinner or drinks here and there, talked writing, culture, movies. I enjoyed it. He was sometimes awkward, stiff, and distant. Still, I always liked what he had to say, found him a fascinating person. Joe and Beth and I had even gone to a house-warming party for him and his partner. Her had dance sequences from old movies playing in the living room, he encouraged everyone to watch.
His first novel got published. It has to do with region and class, hustling, and voice. Dennis Cooper had promoted it. After living in New York he chose to be in Memphis, convinced that the city that had fed him when writing could be coaxed into showing more of its art and culture. He wrote for a local arts review publication, maintained a literary website, and wrote cultural articles for an architecture magazine. He remains fascinated with celebrity and schlock, not exactly for the glamor of it (well, some of that, too) but I think more to understand and process what celebrity and glamor means in the eyes of children and the lower classes.
This morning, I pulled up to him, and just yelled, "Hey! I'm stalking you!" He turned around and had on these huge Jackie O sunglasses, kind of squarish, though. He just continued to stare at me, no expression on the brow or lips. I took my cap and glasses off, and he smiled slightly, "Oh, you scared me." I told him about my trip to San Francisco and I've never seen anyone so simultaneously jealous and happy. He especially seemed to relate to the theme of wine, food, and art.
(I remembered the keenly drawn stories about his journalistic and family visits to Hollywood.)
I was prepared for the usual wooden-ness of our interactions. I told him I had to go, and he leaned in the car and gave me a hug, both our heads squishnig against the window frame.
I drove off, feeling very good, knowing that -- even if I don't keep up religiously -- I've met some wonderful people here -- especially those who care sincerely about art and its cultures -- and somehow I felt secure, knowing that B.P. was doing his very strange thing here in Memphis, in this Southern city, with me.
His first novel got published. It has to do with region and class, hustling, and voice. Dennis Cooper had promoted it. After living in New York he chose to be in Memphis, convinced that the city that had fed him when writing could be coaxed into showing more of its art and culture. He wrote for a local arts review publication, maintained a literary website, and wrote cultural articles for an architecture magazine. He remains fascinated with celebrity and schlock, not exactly for the glamor of it (well, some of that, too) but I think more to understand and process what celebrity and glamor means in the eyes of children and the lower classes.
This morning, I pulled up to him, and just yelled, "Hey! I'm stalking you!" He turned around and had on these huge Jackie O sunglasses, kind of squarish, though. He just continued to stare at me, no expression on the brow or lips. I took my cap and glasses off, and he smiled slightly, "Oh, you scared me." I told him about my trip to San Francisco and I've never seen anyone so simultaneously jealous and happy. He especially seemed to relate to the theme of wine, food, and art.
(I remembered the keenly drawn stories about his journalistic and family visits to Hollywood.)
I was prepared for the usual wooden-ness of our interactions. I told him I had to go, and he leaned in the car and gave me a hug, both our heads squishnig against the window frame.
I drove off, feeling very good, knowing that -- even if I don't keep up religiously -- I've met some wonderful people here -- especially those who care sincerely about art and its cultures -- and somehow I felt secure, knowing that B.P. was doing his very strange thing here in Memphis, in this Southern city, with me.