Listening to: “Psycho Killer” – Talking Heads (playing low from the speakers at the Second Cup)

At the ol’ coffee shop again (the one with the actual good coffee), working on a review of a fantastic production of Tony Kushner’s fantastic Angels in America, and I felt compelled to share my favorite quote (in a script full of favorite quotes) from the play with you, O blogosphere. It shows that Kushner’s cut from the same stalk as Frost and Merrill and Blake and yes, Pullman. The passionate declaration that life on Earth is infinitely more precious and holy and kickass than any sort of potential hereafter. This is from Part 2: Perestroika: Prior Walter, dying of AIDS, to a host of angels in heaven:

But still. Still.
Bless me anyway.
I want more life. I can’t help myself. I do.
I’ve lived through such terrible times, and there are people who live through much much worse, but. . . . You see them living anyway.
When they’re more spirit than body, more sores than skin, when they’re burned in agony, when flies lay eggs in the corners of the eyes of their children, they live. Death usually has to take life away. I don’t know if that’s just the animal. I don’t know if it’s not braver to die. But I recognize the habit. The addiction to being alive. We live past hope. If I can find hope anywhere, that’s it, that’s the best I can do. It’s so much not enough, so inadequate but. . . . Bless me anyway. I want more life.


It’s snowing again, which for some fucked reason makes winter much more bearable than when it’s really cold and sunny. Mixed weather makes me nauseas for some reason. And January sun is just perverse. Weak and pale and nickel-bright.

My as-yet-unfinished short story (novella? graphic novel? whatever it ends up as…) “World’s End” is getting published in serialized form in my friend’s Upstate NY literary magazine. I like the idea of serializing fiction. It’s not something you see too often nowadays–the exception being Michael Chabon‘s delightfully overblown Gentlemen of the Road. I feel like it makes the reader part of the writing process in some distant way. It also lights a much-needed fire under my ass to get the damn thing done, or at it least to keep it moving along.

“World’s End” seems to be turning more into a collection of stories about London during my very special apocalypse than an organized, well-plotted thing. At this point, the only real McGuffin is Alex’s zombie bite. Who knows what it’ll become?

Ok. Ok. I’m ending this post right now and writing my damned articles. Fucking blaaarrrgggh! That’s what I say to you, Sirs. That’s what I say to you.

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