wildcat

The pulp story has quickly become a tale of gothic horror. The working title, so far, is "The Terrible Guest," but that could change at any moment.

I started reading Kurt Vonnegut's Breakfast of Champions. I've read Slaughterhouse Five and Welcome to the Monkey House; I remember gobbling up Joy's copy of Five in the living room at Green Street, back in the day. I think it was during winter, when stepping outside brought slush and squish. I probably read it while I ate sushi from Cafe Depot, a weird little business just at the end of the street on Quadra. It's since been swallowed up and converted into a pawn shop, or maybe it's an empty store front again. It wasn't thrilling sushi.

I've got an exam - Forms and Techniques in Short Fiction - shortly. I haven't studied terribly much. I studied on Sunday but then Michael came over, we had Chinese food with Michelle. Then yesterday I said I would study after writing with Joy and Matty-B, but didn't. Instead I wrote more. Over one thousand words of gothic indigestion in a night. I didn't have the healthiest of suppers - a full carton of spiced apple cider, two apple strudels, a Toblerone bar, pieces of pickled herring, and crackers smeared with smoked salmon cream cheese. We eat strangely when we write. We also continued the tradition of listening to Peggy Lee's "Is that all there is," a song so devastating and tragic and funny that it makes me want to develop a vagina and start smoking.

In regard to the poetry editors meeting? Only Joy and I showed up. Gay Matt #2 kept phoning to say he'd be coming shortly, only after an hour of that he called to say he just wasn't going to come - a good two hours after the meeting was supposed to start. Caroline had been in Vancouver for the weekend and just got back fifteen minutes before six. In the end, Joy and I did the entire thing in about forty-five minutes, made the final selections. Joy should be handing them over to Briony today, then it's out of our hands. Which is great.