Poppy Z. Brite's Blog, page 49

Same Old Lang Syne

I just saw Chris for the first time in two months. It was weird, especially since I wasn't expecting him. He came by the house to give me some money toward cat care and a peace offering of weed. We sat down and talked a bit even though I couldn't stop shaking and could barely look at him, mostly because I still love him even if I'm no longer in love with him (not sure about this), and it killed me to see his familiar, beloved face in the context of a near-stranger's. Our conversation was friendly, but he did confirm that he moved out largely because, after 22 years of living with me and knowing I find it almost impossible to have people in my space, he decided he needed to be able to have his friends over. There's more to it than that, but ... I'd almost rather he had fallen in love with someone else. Just coming right out and admitting that he chose a bunch of shiny new friends he's known for a year or two over me and our cats and all our history ... that was hard to hear.

But there are so many sides to this story. It's true that I never felt very comfortable with most of the Green Goddess crew and assorted hangers-on, and that must have hurt Chris, because to him it's this wonderful supportive group of freaks he created. And it's true that I started seeing Grey well before Chris moved out, though I wouldn't have done so if Chris had paid me any romantic attention over the past two years. And then there's the whole transition thing, which I don't even want to get into right now. So much guilt, sorrow, and confusion. So many loose ends that may never be tied up. But I saw him, and I didn't fling myself at his feet and sob, and I didn't kill him, and I didn't die. So I guess that's progress.

Ever since he left in January, I've been thinking off and on of Robyn Hitchcock's sad and lovely song "Linctus House." I expect it will be in my head for the rest of the day.


You know I used to call my baby up
and we'd get real close
just like the telephone was a sofa
and our thoughts would mingle
and we'd leave our minds wide open
like a big window in the evening air
and we'd say,
'hey baby, come on in and help yourself to my soul'
'hey baby, come on in and help yourself to my soul'
but these days, even saying, 'hello? how are you?'
'I'm fine, how are you?' takes a lot of sweat
ain't that a shame
ain't that a shame
but in Linctus House
in my flesh hotel
I don't care anymore
you know my baby and me
as kimberly would say
we'd curl up like two dogs
in front of a fire
and our eyes would reflect each other
in the warm long heat of love
yeah, the warm long heat of love
and I would hear the rain falling
on the leaves outside
I couldn't stand to close the window
'cos I'd shiver if I left her side
but now I'd shake if we should meet
and I spend most of my time in the bushes
ain't that a shame
know what you're doing
ain't that a shame
know what you've done
but in Linctus House
in my flesh hotel
I don't care anymore
'I understand how everything sometimes
turns out to be nothing,' you say
but I wonder if you do
and if we understood each other
there'd be no need to talk
but even that, even talking is out of reach
should I say it with flowers or
should I say it with nails?
I'm not the kind to push you around
but I don't want to make myself vulnerable
and if I was on my knees
you'd have a pretty good view of my skull
and I happen to know you're carrying a chisel
but in Linctus House
in my flesh hotel
I don't care anymore
no
in Linctus House
in my flesh hotel
I don't care
ain't that a shame
know what you're doing
ain't that a shame
know what you've done

WTF, Chateau Bourbon?

Ignatius Reilly statue missing from Canal Street

This is an atrocity, and the responsible parties should be mercilessly flogged about the head and shoulders. Thanks to r100s for pointing it out.

Just So My Top Post Won't Be Such A Damn Bummer

KING BONG

Concept by Grey Cross Studios

Photography by Billy J. Martin

Lenten Letdown

It was a great Mardi Gras, but it's been a hell of a couple of days since. Having to come home after a long happy weekend with Grey, feeling bad for not getting ashes on Ash Wednesday, running out of the things that keep me from hurting, thinking useless thoughts about how much I must suck to make the person who was my best friend and lover for 22 years now hate me so much. I can hardly believe Chris hates me, but we don't talk anymore and he doesn't answer my texts unless it's something important. I feel like half my life has been amputated. This shouldn't be taken as any reflection on Grey, who is wonderful. I'm not even sure how I would be surviving without him.

New eBay auctions are up. There's one very nice item that I didn't write: a 1912 Houghton-Mifflin reprint of Lafcadio Hearn's 1884 book Stray Leaves from Strange Literature: Stories Reconstructed from the Anvari-Soheïli, Baitál Pachísí, Mahabharata, Pantchatantra, Gulistan, Talmud, Kalewala, Etc. I'm no Hearn expert, but from my inquiries among bookseller friends, this seems to be a fairly rare and valuable book. The rest are all by me, most notably a first edition hardcover of Lost Souls with a portrait of Nothing I drew; also hardcover firsts of Drawing Blood, The Value of X, and Antediluvian Tales; and the chapbooks Pansu, The Seed of Lost Souls, Con Party at Hotel California, and The H.O.G. Syndrome. As always, all items are signed and can be personalized. Please look and bid if you can.

Happy Mardi Gras!

Happy Mardi Gras! eBay auctions ending in a little while (because some genius thought he had a whole 'nother week left before Fat Tuesday -- I probably won't get the invoices out until tomorrow).

I'll Take The Monkey

So I'm reading this rather purple-prosed biography of Dean Martin, Dino: Living High in the Business of Dirty Dreams by Nick Tosches, and everyone I mention it to says, "Oh, I love Dean Martin!" His popularity spans all generations, orientations, and tastes. I love his music, but I'm finding that this book only gets really interesting when Jerry Lewis shows up. It's making me want to revisit the biography of him I read years ago, whose title I don't remember. I guess I like maniacs better than cool guys.

(The King of Comedy is a pretty good movie, too.)

...And Still More eBay

New eBay auctions are up: a traycased limited edition of The Devil You Know; a Drawing Blood hardcover; a Guilty But Insane hardcover, and the chapbooks The Feast of St. Rosalie, The Seed of Lost Souls, Stay Awake, Would You?, and Con Party at Hotel California.

I never have liked Valentine's Day, though I admit I love conversation hearts.

eBay, eBay, eBay, Dammit

eBay auctions ending this evening. Some bargains there yet. I hate this business of only updating when I have something to sell, but some of the stuff that's going on lately, I can't even bring myself to write about. It's not all bad, but it's a hard time. So since I have nothing to say, here are some pictures I took of an interesting mural on Claiborne Avenue. I pass it whenever I'm coming home from Grey's, and it kept catching my eye because Mark Essex was the 1973 Howard Johnson's sniper. I remember my father taking me on I-10 to see the smoke and water from the firehoses during the siege. I would have been 5.

eBay & Other Woes

New eBay auctions are up: hardcovers of Plastic Jesus, Drawing Blood, and Crown of Thorns; chapbooks The Seed of Lost Souls, The H.O.G. Syndrome, Stay Awake, Con Party at Hotel California; and a CD of me reading from Lost Souls. I'm going to have to start selling more items each week, because I looked at my savings today (I had to make myself peek through my fingers) and estimated that, without Chris living here, I could easily lose my house within six to eight months. Part of it is my own lifelong lack of ability to budget or plan financially, but there's still a shot of bitterness: I was a relatively successful author, and this is where I am now. I can't help thinking that a society where even most of the successful authors end up broke is kind of a fucked-up society.

Update

It's been a very rough week, though things ultimately turned out all right (in the latest crisis, anyway). I'm behind on eBay shipping again, but will get everything out by early next week, and will put up new auctions then too.

Neil Himself passed fleetingly through town last night, looking freshly barbered and ten years younger than the last time I saw him, and I got to introduce Grey to him. He said to Grey, "I love your accent" (as do I -- it's mostly New England with a touch of Midwest) -- and I reflected that, while I've heard dozens of people say that to Neil, I'd never heard him say it to anybody. This amused me, as tiny incongruent things often do. We had sushi and talked about Stephen King and Joe Hill and Peter Straub and secret maps and dreams.

EDIT: Forgot I had these on my phone. Just a couple of guys standing around outside a sushi restaurant.