25. Readings } Two more.

During the open mic last night—there was a big turnout at Real Art Ways that included lots of new faces—a member of the audience caught my eye. She looked exactly like a student of mine who was killed shortly after her graduation last year. I know I’ve mentioned this student several times before, and I realize I also wrote about a woman who looked like my former student before—I wondered, in fact, if she might not be the same look-a-like I saw on the train. No reason why she couldn’t be. I hoped she’d read so I’d then have a reason to speak with her. She didn’t read. And when the open was over, she was gone.

Not only was she gone, but her seat was occupied by someone completely different, a young man who read a poem about “Her castle,” punctuating each line by clearing his throat.

Aside from this mildly off-putting visit, last night was terrific. I was honored by good people. The food was extravagant—baked brie! caviar! dried sausage! cheese! wine!—and I was pleased to celebrate both Color Plates and the two year anniversary of Inescapable Rhythms. A few of us gathered by the fire at Andrea’s, talked about publishing, listened to records (real records, including Paul McCartney’s excellent Ram “…but I leave my pajamas to Billy Budapest / and I don’t get the gist of your letter”).

When I was younger, I thought it would be so wonderful to join the gatherings of the great writers and artists; turns out it is pretty wonderful.

Saturday morning I’ll head to Norwich, where I’ll read with the venerable John Cotter as part of the Otis Library Holiday Book Fair, which may mean any gains I make selling Color Plates will be spent buying books. I feel I haven’t enough Penguin Classics (Dear Steve Reads, I disagree with you on Oh! so many things but greatly enjoy your “Penguins on Parade” series. I’m currently reading Bernal Diaz’ The Conquest of New Spain—a wonderful book. What’s your take?).

Sunday, John and I will share a podium at Bank Square Books. The reading begins at noon. I hear tell that this is the book store where Julia Roberts once made the staff extremely nervous by enjoying a rapidly melting snow cone over their recently received and autographed hardback copies of  The Bonfire of the Vanities.

24. Readings } Real Art Ways

Above, a photo from an Inescapable Rhythms reading held during the summer before it was moved to Real Art Ways. In the photo, I’m having a conversation with poet (and sometimes poet-collaborator) Kristin Kostick. After a brief humanitarian stint in Baltimore, she’s supposedly returned to Hartford, coincidentally in time for my featured reading on Wednesday.

Hosted by Andrea Henchey, Inescapable Rhythms (the series’ name in honor of hometown hero Wallace Stevens) is a once-monthly poetry reading, usually including both a guest reader and an open mic. Guests have included Jennifer Karmin, Deborah Poe, Matthew Klane, and Ken Cormier, to name but a very few, and not to exclude C.S. Carrier, a reluctant local poet whose book and blog y’all should check out. The readings happen on the second Wednesday of every month, and seem to happen no matter what: we’ve read by candlelight when the power was out (a most silent and beautiful experience), we’ve read when only three or four of us have shown up, and we’ve even read when Andrea has had to telekinetically lead us from the west coast.

As is customary, the reading will begin close to 7pm. We tend to gather a little bit beforehand, to buy each other drinks and to catch each other up and sometimes, just occasionally, to finish a poem to be read that night. Kostick, Henchey, and Carrier will all read, for sure, and they’re excellent readers. I’ll read poetry and some little stories from Color Plates. There’s a narrative to my reading, too—a thread to trail through the maze.

Come. Not just for me, indeed, not for me, but because it’s better than online, it’s better than TV, it’s never dull, the poets are mostly kind, and we listen.

23. Shadows & Tall Trees } + Wormwood no. 15

Issue first of Michael Kelly’s new journal “devoted to weird and strange fiction” is published. Of the six fine fictions, and not including my own contribution, my favorites are Geordie Flantz’s “The Ghost Days of Melody Brown” and Nicholas Royle’s “The Blue Notebooks.” I'd already read the Flantz story: it was originally sent to me as a New Genre submission. My intern Ashley Spears singled it out as worth my reading and she was so right. Immediately, the language catches the attention; here’s the first line: “That night the weather broke, and the land was born anew beneath a black baptismal rain.” It’s a long story, and I knew it wouldn’t fit the mood of the upcoming issue of New Genre, so I hailed Michael in the hopes he could pick it up for S&TT #1 and I’m very glad he did. Really, it elevates the whole issue. (By the way, Flantz sent me something else that is exactly right for New Genre, and will appear in the next issue—more on that later.)

My first exposure to Royle was his “Very Low-Flying Aircraft” in Exotic Gothic II (edited by Danel Olson). I didn’t think much of it. (Note that Ellen Datlow liked it very much, praising it frequently and including it in her Best Horror of the Year Vol. 1, and obviously Olson liked it; purchase EG II or Datlow’s best of and decide for yourself.) Royle’s “The Blue Notebooks,” however, I liked. It appeals to me for the way it brings so much together and so vividly: eyesight and degenerative illness, abandoned structures, libraries, birds, and suicide. Royle obviously loves abandoned and locked-off spaces (as I do) and is fascinated by the difference between what we see and what is. I’d love to see this story made into a novella, or as part of a triptych.

The other contributions are good too: Simon Strantzas’ story compliments my own (or vice-versa, if you’re from Canada), Sandra Kasturi’s is a very physical ghost story, and Joel Lane’s tale of a man back in his rotten hometown during a winter holiday is utterly Lane-esque, i.e. nasty and despairing. Promising, too, is Kelly’s inclusion of reviews. I look forward to the maturation of this non-fiction section. Within the genre(s), there is very little worthwhile criticism; S&TT, paired with the efforts of Supernatural Tales might fill the void left by All Hallows.

And Wormwood, edited by Mark Valentine. It is the only journal entirely devoted to the criticism of supernatural/ weird/ horror fiction I consider worth reading. I wish its scope were broader—not that I find its focus a flaw; I’d simply like to see the Wormwood standard applied to contemporary and mainstream genre fiction.

I have yet to finish this latest Wormwood, but am currently enjoying Jonathan Woods’ essay on the poet Wilfred Rowland Mary Childe. Adam Daly’s essay on Gerard de Nerval is excellent (it’s hard to tell who is a poser and who is honestly weird and who is just plain crazy—Nerval was all, poor bastard) and so is Robert Eldridge’s short piece on the weird fiction of Arthur Johnson. I’m very pleased—for reasons I’ve stated above—to see Reggie Oliver’s new column “Under Review.” He discussed recent books by Quentin S. Crisp, Adam Nevill, and Mark Samuels.

My own contribution is unusual for Wormwood, as it’s a hybrid piece of criticism and fiction. “Threshold in the First Half of the Tenth chapter of Lucius Shepard’s Viator” uses that small portion of Shepard’s book as a jumping-off point for numerous considerations of threshold, while also criticizing both versions of Shepard’s book. Thanks to Nick Gevers at PS Publishing for the Viator Plus ARC—he probably wondered if I would every get around to writing my review.

By the way, I’m sending postcards to anyone who orders a copy of S&TT #1. On each card is a line from a fiction in progress, or from one of my notebooks. If you come across that line when reading one of my stories, and let me know that you have, I’ll send you some additional treat. The decaying leg of a camel, or a book, or jewelry made from the bones of my enemies.

22. Upcoming Reading } Black Squirrel, Washington DC.

Last time I was in DC it snowed. DC is no stranger to snow—last winter friends living in the city sent pictures of picnic tables set with five feet of snow while plows made mazes on the boulevards along the Mall. But the last time I was in DC was in May, so to see snow fall was… beautiful—but ominous. Someone in that city made a deal with the devil.

Maybe on Thursday I’ll find out who.

This Thursday—November 11th—I’ll take the train and join stalwart pal John Cotter, fellow Rose Metal Press author Sherrie Flick, and the poet Maureen Thorson at the Black Squirrel where we’ll read as guests of the Barrelhouse Presents Reading Series. We start at 7pm. More info here, at Sandra Beasley’s Chicks Love Poetry blog (thank you, Sandra), and here, at Maureen's Applies to Oranges blog.

21. Doctor Faustus } from the script.

RAFE: Why, Robin, what book is that?
ROBIN: What book? Why the most intolerable book for conjuring that e’er was invented by any brimstone devil.
RAFE: Canst thou conjure with it?
ROBIN: I can do all these things easily with it: first, I can make thee drunk with hippocras at any tavern in Europe for nothing. That’s one of my conjuring works.
RAFE: Our Master Parson says that’s nothing.
ROBIN: True, Rafe, and more, Rafe, if thou hast any mind to Nan Spit, our kitchen maid, then turn her and wind her to thy own use as often as thou wilt, and at midnight.
RAFE: O brave Robin! Shall I have Nan Spit, and to mine own use? On that condition I’ll feed thy devil with horse-bread as long as he lives, free of cost.
ROBIN: No more, sweet Rafe. Let’s go and make clean our boots, which lie foul upon our hands, and then to our conjuring, in the devil’s name.

—from The Tragicall Historie of the Life and Death of Doctor Faustus by Christopher Marlowe

20. Readings } the KGB Script

Last week, Wednesday, I drove to Manhattan for my reading in the Fantastic Fiction series. All along the Saw Mill Parkway were deer, their coats shaggy and dark. Once in the city, I lingered outside the KGB Bar (pictured above) as long as I could, stayed outside to watch the sky, as much sky as could be seen from the alleyways that make up the grid of that city.

KGB Bar is on the second floor of a three-story walkup; the bottom floor is a theater, upstairs I don’t know what. A rehearsal space? I’m pretty sure people were auditioning for a show. There was a woman on the second floor landing, a glistening gash above her eye, she was weeping, a script rolled tightly in her hand. She was called—I stepped aside and she rushed past me, up the narrow stairs. At the top of the stairs stood a man waiting for her, a sack in his left hand. Everything’s always weird in Manhattan.

The bar was red. High-ceilinged. Decorated with Agitprop and bears. Since I was reading, I was treated by Matthew Kressel and Ellen Datlow to a Baltika porter I very much enjoyed. Jenna Lawrence was there, a comfort—I wanted to ask, Are they auditioning for Grand Guignol?—but the opportunity never presented itself. I was introduced to the main act, Paul Witcover and friend Cynthia Babak. The audience gathered and soon enough it was time for me to read.

After Paul read, I stepped out of the bar to make a call. Before I could dial, the woman with the head wound stumbled down the stairs. I asked, What’s going on up there? She stopped in front of me, stared at me, then forced that rolled-up script into my hand. I gestured, like, I don’t want this, but she just shook her head and took off down the stairs. Jenna appeared at my side and told me we were going, Matthew and Ellen were taking me and Paul out for dinner. Very nice, I shoved the script into my bag and forgot about it, Rick Bowes distracted me and Jenna with stories about NYC architectural peculiarities.

Once home, exhausted from a dark drive, I dumped the bag in a closet and forgot about it.

Until tonight. Of course I have other things to do. I’ve got to read a few essays concerning Kit Marlowe, “poor deceased Kit Marlowe,” and knock out a few pages of a story I’m writing for editor Danel Olson. I don’t have the time to read the script tonight. Tomorrow.

19. Readings } John Cotter & Adam Golaski

Taken at Freebird Books, Brooklyn, October 24, 2010, by Jenna Lawrence. John and Adam alternating between readings from Color Plates and Under the Small Lights.