Hero Worship: "There Might Have Been Something To Enjoy in Swallowing that Color"

That subtitle above?  Diane Williams wrote that.

Last night,  I sped into the night (well, it was still light) on my bike to catch one of my all-time fave contemporary literary heros, Diane Williams.  I used to carry her first collection fiction (short, slanted stories that gave me permission to construct askew sentences and leave oddly shaped gaps between them) around like a tome of scripture that I'd consult with great reverence and awe.  I've been taking this book around from place to place for the past 22 years, so the fact that it had taken me this long to see its author was a little unnerving.

The reading was in one of my favorite spaces (to write and eat) in downtown Manhattan--a bookstore cafe which generates cash for people living with HIV/AIDS.  All the books/food are donated.  The entire staff is volunteer.  They host weddings there, and I would totally have a wedding there if I weren't already married.

The reading was sponsored by McSweeney's.  Diane went on last.  She read about six flash fiction pieces from her new book to often uncomfortable silence.  It was hard to interpret the silence, actually, was it uncomfortable?  Or just stunned?

From the back row, I rose and took her photo with my phone.

She was a good reader, confident and clear.  She is 66.

Afterwards, I went up to the little table at the front and fondled the books stacked upon it.  I opened one of them and read.  I decided I had to have it.  You would have decided that, too.

Some older woman with overwhelming hair and obtrusive energy, arms around a stack of books,  commanded Diane's attention, so I went and paid for my book.

Then I stood and waited.  When the seat opened up I sat down reverentially:

Me:  Thanks for reading.  I have to say that your first collection totally inspired my master's thesis.

Diane (visibly touched):  Oh, wow.  That's wonderful.  Where did you write your thesis?

Me:  The University of Utah.

Diane (seemingly unimpressed):  Oh.  What is your name?

Me:  Julie

Diane:  Julie what?

I told her.  She had never heard of me.  Diane signed the first book and then opened the new one.

Diane:  Is this my copy?

Me (trying to sound wry and ironic and fun):  Uh, no!  I have the receipt!  (In reality, I sounded panicked and anxious, desperately afraid she was going to swipe my new copy of her book, because how often--in my tight place--do I get to buy a new book?)

Diane:  Okay, weirdo.  (Well, she didn't actually say this, but it's what I heard.)

Me:  Thanks again so much.  I can't wait to read the new one.

Diane smiles.

I run away and find my bike.

I have to tell you that I NEVER seem to be able approach an author I admire without coming off feeling like Travis Bickle, or some other genre of creepy stalker.

Is it just me?

Punx Win!

I have no idea where I'm going with this post tonight except that I do love the photo that opens it.  I spotted the graffiti in my neighborhood last Sunday afternoon, and had to take it home with me.  The phrase makes me happy on many levels.  It's fun to say--with your fist raised over your head, especially--and it has a solid, yet exhilarating retro feel.  It plays rights into my Gen X sensibilities.  After all, punx should win, and always do in my imagination.

After work, I met, for lunch, an old friend who works at Random House, where I love going, not only for my friend, but for the lobby.   I've posted a photo of their auspicious lobby below.  There is a matching bookcase on the other side of the lobby, and the books on the shelves are all RH books (BOOKS, you punx!) arranged chronologically by date of publication.  I did snap a first edition of Invisible Man before I left for the day.  Those books (plus the lighting) make the lobby seem like a temple.  The downside is is that the books are for display only:  museum pieces behind glass.  But still.  Punx win!

Didn't you find Lara's post so inspiring today?  After reading, I put lit candles on my dinner table, turned up the music.  Didn't you?  And while I wore no tights of note, I've been wanting to transcribe a beautiful tights' passage from Dana Spiotta's first novel, Lightning Field (Scribner 2001), which I read this past fall:  

"Mina bought cashmere tights, guaranteed to let you wear skirts through the most frigid days of winter. They were the most expensive hose in the store .  .  .  .  She had to admit the Viennese 70 denier strumpfhose in Pearled Cracked Cement, part of the Urban Disaster collection, tempted her, as well as the Semi-Sheer Velvet Finish Tights in Bruise and Blood Ultra Ultra Red . . . . But these couldn't match the feel--the promise, really--of the Cashmere Pure-Luxury, woven with the tiniest bit of nylon and Lycra (to make the cashmere cling and not bunch, barely detectable, a soft breath, a whisper on the skin).  When she spotted the last pair in medium, in the sort of oatmeal cream that would make her feel October and Ivy League, coed an coquettish, or at least like a sort of wrapped Xmas treat, all warm and inviting to the touch, she said, yes, knowing, in a sinking way, it was obscene" (78).  

Now do you see why tights are just as important as books.  The Punx in the audience will understand.