gwynnega

Noveling ate a large chunk of my weekend, and the Jo book kept me awake last night suggesting edits. Ugh, I hate Sunday night insomnia. Chapter 17's not done, but it's in pretty good shape. I should be able to move on to chapter 18 by some point next weekend.

This weekend also included Dark Shadows viewing. In 1971, nearing cancellation, the show turned into a bizarre blend of Wuthering Heights and "The Lottery," with Jonathan Frid and Lara Parker playing star-crossed lovers ~~Heathcliff~~ Bramwell and Catherine.

Yesterday afternoon I met up with an old friend at Skylight Books to see Eileen Myles read from her new book, The Importance of Being Iceland: Travel Essays in Art.

Also this weekend I rewatched Truffaut's The Story of Adele H., which figures in the Jo book. As I'd remembered, it's a beautiful downer of a film. It reminded me that I once wrote a poem based on various Truffaut films after binging on a TCM Truffaut marathon sometime in the late 90s. I looked up the poem, which was published on the Exquisite Corpse website, and discovered I still liked it. So here it is:

an American ending

their heads from side
to side on pillow
faces gleaming with sweat
hair attractively mussed
Isabelle Adjani falling in a heap
& those two English girls
tubercular & wearing dark glasses
"love doesn't complicate life
but the uncertainty of love"
apparently most women in love
have guns in France
the woman next door
shooting Gérard Depardieu
& herself after sex

unlike Truffaut
shooting another movie
or me
writing another poem
because of love
or in spite of it