Marginalia from a beach letter never sent.

Interesting sidenotes:

One of the first people I (nearly) ran into when I first got to the hotel was Andrew Firestone, formerly of (dubious) The Bachelor fame. I stepped out of the elevator and there he was, chatting about the laudable virtues of the Audi with two bachelorettes and a dude.

Interesting sidenote to the sidenote: I have actually walked into a celebrity before. Peter Paige (of Queer As Folk) walked up to a security guard the same time I did. We were both frisked and then went to walk into the building at the same time. Boom! We smacked into each other. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” I said embarrassedly. We both took a step back, paused, and then stepped forward again. Boom! He started laughing. I freaked out, turned red from head to tie, made a noise like a little squeak, and then ran up the stairs like Cinderella in reverse.

I finished (?) another short story, “Material Girl,” today. Next is “Papa Don’t Preach.” I have three more stories rolling around in my head. If this were a novel, I’d have about 60 pages done.

That is all.

Postcard from the Beach 2

Imagine each chair represents a person in the world who is thinking of you this very minute. What a bold testament this is to your likeability, how much potential for love exists in the world you inhabit. It comes at you from all directions. If you have been loved, your probability of being loved again increases exponentially. Love makes you anti-immune. You become more susceptible to it the more it infects you. This is true for all people, and so now we say the luckiest people are also, generally speaking, the sickest.

for Gina Franco

Postcard from the Beach

This is not an emergency. This is not a test. When I walk along the shore to hear the waves crash, it triggers some kind of alarm nevertheless. Yesterday I stood in the dishsoap aisle of the dirtiest Kmart in the United States. I was wrapped in the smell of that apartment and it rang the alarm. The quiet of the hotel room at night rings the alarm. The empty plate of room service food left outside the door triggers that alarm. To travel alone is to see the world as it if were in a heightened state of alert. A code orange. When I realized they weren’t rushing to save me, it occurred to me then, for the first time, that I actually was in very real danger. There is more to say——too much to squeeze into this mere note. Have you been able to read what I never said?

for MM


Blog posts have been spotty due to my current “vacationing” status. I’m vacationing at home, working on writing, catching up on errands, etc. It’s been lovely.

Thursday I’m going to Vegas for the Americans on the Arts conference. Anyone else gonna be there?

It finally happened.

I just gave up and started writing fiction.

I took a three-day vacation from work, which was wonderful and overdue. A line popped into my head—a first line—and I started writing a story. I’m about halfway into it. It’s going pretty well, I think.

Other vacation highlights: laying out by the pool and earning a very, very dark tan; cleaning my house; catching up on my TV shows; doing the Vancouver section of LOCUSPOINT.

Also, wasting several hours preparing for a presentation for class that I didn’t get to give because we ran out of time.

And: retail therapy. Gap, Express, Nordstrom. Bought several work shirts, two pairs of hot pants (not “hot pants” but pants that are hot), some socks, a tie. Got some grown-up man cologne. Had a nice lunch.