sovay | 'Cept for hurry up and hit the road

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'Cept for hurry up and hit the road

If I am to get up early without sleep, I much prefer catching a train to see an incredible stage production to looking at an apartment which I will probably not be able to rent, but the latter was this morning nonetheless. Let's get back to New York.

Essentially, I had four goals for this trip: see Hadestown, hang out with

ladymondegreen (with bonus points if I got to talk to either

akawil or

pecunium for longer than the traditional forty-five seconds in the middle of Arisia), hang out with Michael Cisco, and buy books. All were achieved. I expected to sleep on the train down from Boston, but instead I wrote a poem.

I appreciate that Lady Mondegreen's work-mates seemed to be all right with me stashing my stuff under her desk and running off without much in the way of introduction. I got in a brief conversation about Tolkien with two of them. The security guard in the downstairs lobby apparently missed me coming through the first time, which worked fine until I tried to get back into the building. In hindsight of the state of my foot, possibly I should not have walked the mile and a half to the Strand, but since I will prioritize books over almost any other comfort I don't actually regret it, especially since I scored a hardcover of Barbara Hambly's Graveyard Dust (1999) and two Hard Case Crime reprints with superlatively pulp titles, namely David Goodis' The Wounded and the Slain (1955) and Ed McBain's The Gutter and the Grave (1958), which I did not intentionally purchase as a pair. I keep thinking about McBain's So Nude, So Dead (1953), but I'm genuinely not sure it will be able to live up to its title. I hadn't realized before that the bookstore ships, which of course makes sense if you're thinking about international business—Boston is objectively not that far off, but it still enabled me to send my mother a pair of Dick Francis hardcovers which would otherwise have been difficult for me to transport. No luck on the biographies of Van Heflin and Dorothy Arzner or the translated poetry of Aleksei Kruchonykh. I will bravely face of the prospect of more used book stores.

For dinner before the show, we ended up at Whole Foods, that being the easiest place to feed Lady Mondegreen and in this case about four blocks from the theater. I am weirdly unsurprised that Whole Foods in New York City carries the crunchy things of my childhood for which I have been searching fruitlessly in Boston for over a year now. I bought several bags. Then I had to carry them everywhere. Still worth it. I did not realize until we got there that the New York Theatre Workshop was next to KGB Bar, where I have been many times. We saw Hadestown and I loved it. Afterward we could have cut our time to the PATH by catching the subway, but we took the scenic route on foot. I didn't think we had walked as far as the Manhattan Bridge, but I don't have another explanation for the massive granite arch and colonnade that caused me to remark again that more cities should have monumental architecture. That said, I find the high-vaulted underground station at the World Trade Center a very strange space. Apparently it is supposed to resemble an eye or a bird in flight; I looked at its ribs and spines and sternum of marble and paint-whitened steel and could think of nothing unless a cathedral designed by H.R. Giger or Stanley Kubrick's idea of an ossuary. Lady Mondegreen informed me that part of it is also a mall. I am pretty sure you are not supposed to put a mall in an ossuary. I would also lose the gigantic American flag currently unfurled from one level to the next, although perhaps that's only because I am feeling very wary of the ways in which national symbols can be used these days. On yet the other hand, I asked for monumental architecture and I got it. It's an enormous art installation for the practical benefit of the public and it's even made out of materials designed to last more than a lifetime. I am probably happier that it exists than not. It's got the 1968 Penn Station beat sideways, that's for sure.

Most houses are mosaics of the people who live in them, but the one in which I was staying the night had an especially distinct personality—it featured a kitchen with about ten different kinds of honey on offer (I put two of them in my blueberry tea), a balcony garden containing etrogs, olives, and pomegranates (which I have just been informed are blooming), and a bathroom decorated with mermaid pictures. We could not figure out how to turn on the fan in my bedroom, but I opened a window; there are not many stars visible in the light-smudged sky over Jersey City, but there was an immense hunter's moon with craters like scrimshaw that had tracked us through the streets as we walked from the theater. I browsed Lady Mondegreen's shelves and we talked about children's books and early imprints and late, important discoveries. She gave me a shell from Israel as a down payment on further fragments of antiquity and the sea. We stayed up way too late and I slept almost nine hours, including through some insistent morning construction across the street.

Pecunium was still at home when I woke up the next afternoon and not only talked to me for more than forty-five seconds but helpfully provided some antibiotic cream and molefoam padding to cushion around my heel. I found my way back to Manhattan in time to meet Michael for what turned out to be dinner at Cha-an Teahouse: in my case, lavender mint tea, smoked salmon toast (nota bene: the toast is approximately the dimensions of a Roman brick and the salmon heavily layered underneath a mustard-dressed salad; this is a feature, not a bug), and black sesame crème brûlée, which came surmounted by black sesame ice cream and a savory, buttery, doily-ish object I can only describe as a black sesame Florentine. Afterward he treated me to a ceremonial shot of mezcal at La Palapa, having correctly diagnosed that I would like Del Maguey Minero because it is essentially the peat monster of mezcals. He charged me with writing either a story or a poem with the title "I Left My Heart with the Banana Slugs." Somebody hold me to that. Lady Mondegreen very kindly waited at her office so that I could retrieve my once again desk-stashed stuff and we parted on the far side of the shortcut through Café R, which is fortunately nowhere near as impassable as the Styx.

I always forget there's a tiny bookstore in Penn Station. I went in for a bottle of water and came out with Michael J. Tougias and Casey Sherman's The Finest Hours: The True Story of the U.S. Coast Guard's Most Daring Rescue (2009) because

negothick had mentioned at Readercon that one of the co-authors was rather distressed at the romanticization of the story. Much to my surprise, I got back to Boston while the subway trains were still running. I did a lot of catch-up work and wrote about Hadestown. I didn't sleep at all, so we'll see how the rest of the day goes. It may involve city-walking with

derspatchel, since I'm fond of the one I live in, too.

It was a really splendid forty-eight hours.

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That does all sound lovely. Good luck with the apartment!

That does all sound lovely. Good luck with the apartment!

Thank you!

I am glad New York is where I put my week.

The Strand! I actually live in NYC, but am not in that neighborhood very often. So whenever I am I always drop by to check out which Hambly books they have in stock. Congratulations on finding one!

Speaking of monumental architecture, have you heard about the proposed new "Low Line" park? Supposedly it'll be a companion to the Highline, but this time underground. I'm intrigued by the idea, but it'll be years before it actually opens.

So whenever I am I always drop by to check out which Hambly books they have in stock. Congratulations on finding one!

Thank you! I am finding them surprisingly rare to run across, which I suppose speaks to the quality of the series. (Or the paucity of the print runs, but I wouldn't give away my copies at least.) I picked up secondhand paperbacks of Die Upon a Kiss and Wet Grave about the first week I started reading the series; I didn't realize at the time what a windfall they were.

Speaking of monumental architecture, have you heard about the proposed new "Low Line" park?

I've heard nothing! It's a fascinating idea; I'm reading about it now. I like both the idea of reclaiming a ghost station and the fact that there's a visitable proof of concept.

I am finding them surprisingly rare to run across, which I suppose speaks to the quality of the series.

Yes, I have the same problem. I originally read the whole series as ebooks, but I've been slowly trying to build up a collection of the physical books. I still only have five or six, and certain volumes seem much rarer than others. It seems easier to find copies of the earlier books, oddly; I think her newer publisher maybe doesn't do as much distribution? Though on the other hand, I did happen across a copy of Drinking Gourd last month at the Strand, which I'm pretty sure was before the actual US release date and yet it's not an ARC, as far as I can tell.

and the fact that there's a visitable proof of concept
Oh, I hadn't realized that they'd opened a lab! I'll have to go and visit sometime soon. I wonder how they'll deal with seasons underground – it might be the only park that can host picnics all winter.

I originally read the whole series as ebooks

I've just been visiting various libraries.

It seems easier to find copies of the earlier books, oddly; I think her newer publisher maybe doesn't do as much distribution?

I would believe that. The Bantam books had a mass-market paperback run, too, which increases the chance of finding some edition, whereas my efforts to locate a copy of Dead and Buried have been frustrated by the fact that (a) it's out of print (b) the hardcover's all there is. I saw a couple of trade paperbacks of Good Man Friday and Crimson Angel at Readercon at the beginning of the month and did not realize I should have fallen upon them possessively.

Oh, I hadn't realized that they'd opened a lab! I'll have to go and visit sometime soon.

Please report back! A solar garden under the earth sounds appropriately katabatic to me.

whereas my efforts to locate a copy of Dead and Buried have been frustrated by the fact that (a) it's out of print (b) the hardcover's all there is.

Have you not had a chance to read this one at all, or just not had a chance to buy a copy? I hope you've been able to read it, it's one of my favorites!

Have you not had a chance to read this one at all, or just not had a chance to buy a copy?

Just to buy! I'd really like my own copy, but I read it from the library with the rest.* I correctly called Hannibal's family from their first appearance (well signaled, Barbara Hambly, in nine books you only ever used the adjective "black-coffee" for eyes where Hannibal's were concerned), settled happily in to see just how Shakespearean late romance/dime store melodrama things were going to get, and then despite obvious warning signs completely failed to realize how much of a number the recurring thematic death-metaphors were going to do on my head. There's some static on my journal from around that time. I still think it's one of the more complexly plotted novels of the series, even leaving aside my personal stake in Hannibal. I went looking for an affordable copy immediately afterward and was frustrated to find it dead out of print.

* At this point I have read all of the novels but the last few chapters of Drinking Gourd, which I expect to finish tonight, and none of the short stories, which I wish she would collect.

and then despite obvious warning signs completely failed to realize how much of a number the recurring thematic death-metaphors were going to do on my head. There's some static on my journal from around that time. I still think it's one of the more complexly plotted novels of the series, even leaving aside my personal stake in Hannibal.

It is excellently plotted, and completely surprised me too. On rereads though, you can catch slight allusions to Hannibal conceiving of himself as dead in previous books as well, which is just an amazing feat of characterization to be stretched out over multiple years of writing. I do constantly wonder how far ahead Hambly plots her books, because she lays the groundwork for future developments so very, very well; you can partly do that as you go along, but hers is so exceptional that I can almost never catch the seams.

And yeah, Jesus it's emotionally compelling. I mean, you'd think fake-suicide would be emotionally and dramatically powerful enough on its own, but it somehow becomes ever more so by Hannibal's absolute commitment to it.

And yeah, Jesus it's emotionally compelling. I mean, you'd think fake-suicide would be emotionally and dramatically powerful enough on its own, but it somehow becomes ever more so by Hannibal's absolute commitment to it.

At the risk of too much information, it hit especially hard with me because I thought of myself as dead for years after my life derailed badly from its expected course in grad school; it took a very long time for me to unlearn the habit and it still comes back when I am doing badly. It's where my collection Ghost Signs came from. I was a classicist by training at the time. My go-to underworld was full of Greek shades and Roman sibyls. I thought of the process of learning to be alive again in explicit terms of katabasis, making my hard way back to the upper air. So I got a double whammy from the novel: while in no suspense whatsoever as to the present-day identity of "the son of the eleventh Viscount Foxford, who drank himself to death on a bet in Paris at the age of thirty, leaving behind a much-relieved wife and a five-year-old son" and perfectly well aware that the story was taking place in October, I still failed to foresee that the natural dovetailing of these facts would come to Hannibal playing his own shade for the Feast of All Saints—"the night when those dead and buried come back to help the living"—and that of course he would refer to his state with classical allusions throughout, because when has he ever missed a chance in this series to deploy a dead language? I finished the book and wrote some notes on it to a friend of mine and puttered around for a bit and then a bomb went off in my head. It's one of the weirdest things that has ever happened to me with a book I really enjoyed. I had to stay up talking the rest of the night and it still took a couple of days to exorcise. Major verisimilitude points to Hambly, because she absolutely nailed the way that someone with a sufficient classical education will think of themselves if their life really goes down the tubes, but I didn't expect to be the test case in my friend group for it.

What other long-term plot arcs have you tracked throughout the books? I was paying attention to any hint of Hannibal's backstory from the start, because it was obviously going to be dramatic, but any number of other developments I think I just accepted as they came.

(Ah, I am so sorry that I've taken so long to respond to this. I know that waiting for responses is always a bit awful, and it must be worse when it includes an emotional disclosure like this. I can only apologize.)

I haven't had any Classical training and understand a great deal of Hannibal's dialogue solely through the aid of Google translate, but I do sympathize. My life also took a drastic turn in grad school, and it took years (or more accurately, probably "is taking") to unlearn the habit of thinking constantly about where I "should" be, what I should be doing, what I would have been doing instead of what I am. It's very hard not to dwell on all the expectations I had that are just not going to happen, and to instead relearn everything – how to live and work and what sort of future to plan for. I didn't have the specific death and underworld symbolism, but it's easy to see how applicable it would be. So – yeah. I do so why the book would have been so effective.

To change topics...
What other long-term plot arcs have you tracked throughout the books?
I meant not just that the facts of Hannibal's background are set up, but the specific way he behaves in the earliest books of the series gives off a strong air of "whatever I do doesn't really matter/I'm not really part of this", which fits in explicitly with his belief in himself as dead. Which is surprising to me – not just that Hambly had thought out who he is so early on, but also the specific way he thought about it and processed it.

A couple of other ones I was particularly surprised by was how well-set up the Mexico adventure in Days of the Dead was; it would have been easy enough to just say "Hannibal's gone to Mexico" at the beginning of that book, but instead Consuela is introduced two books ahead and Wet Grave is entirely missing Hannibal. Another is the pirate treasure in Wet Grave – at the time it seems just like a slightly over-the-top happy ending, but several books later in Dead Water it's heavily implied that the Virgin Mary arranged things to Ben and Rose to find the money, specifically so they could buy a house that could be used as part of the Underground Railroad, which fights so well with the general vague supernatural appearances that it feels more deliberate than after-the-fact to me.

That was indeed the Manhattan bridge. I would have said so, but I thought you had recognized it, and besides, we got distracted by some other thing by the time I thought to mention it again, we had digressed, and our digressions tend to be fascinating rabbitholes, so I completely forgot about my opportunity to sell you the bridge.

I would have said so, but I thought you had recognized it

I sort of clocked it as we went by without thinking about what it meant for our walking route and then afterward went, "Wait, what?"

and besides, we got distracted by some other thing by the time I thought to mention it again, we had digressed, and our digressions tend to be fascinating rabbitholes, so I completely forgot about my opportunity to sell you the bridge.

It's okay—there's one in Brooklyn you haven't shown me yet.

I am happy to show you every bridge in the tri-state area for comparison shopping purposes.

Also your dinner sounds delicious, I am a particular devotee of black sesame, and have hopes of making the liquid black sesame packets I bought at the Japanese market into a non-dairy frozen treat at some near-future point.

I used to be quite the regular at the Penn Station bookstore, which used to have two locations (and might still). In fact, I once cut my finger open because one of the clerks from the store brought me flowers, but that is neither here nor there.

I am happy to show you every bridge in the tri-state area for comparison shopping purposes.

I would enjoy this project. How many can you walk over? I have always loved the Hell Gate Bridge for its name, but I'm pretty sure it's railroad-only.

I am a particular devotee of black sesame, and have hopes of making the liquid black sesame packets I bought at the Japanese market into a non-dairy frozen treat at some near-future point.

That sounds like a wonderful experiment and I wish to be kept appraised of its progress. What is your preferred non-dairy base? I would make it with coconut milk, but I can't remember if you can drink that.

In fact, I once cut my finger open because one of the clerks from the store brought me flowers, but that is neither here nor there.

What on earth were the flowers made of?

I would enjoy this project. How many can you walk over? I have always loved the Hell Gate Bridge for its name, but I'm pretty sure it's railroad-only.

I would enjoy it too. I'm not surprised that the Hell Gate Bridge is railroad only, given the context of Hadestown. This looks like a good resource for starting a bridge-walking project.

That sounds like a wonderful experiment and I wish to be kept appraised of its progress. What is your preferred non-dairy base? I would make it with coconut milk, but I can't remember if you can drink that.

Too much coconut milk tends to result in distress. The current theory is to use hazelnut milk, and make a sort-of low-heat custard before freezing. I'm not sure to what extend that will change the flavor, so I'll have to do some research and taste-testing. I'll let you know what the results look like. I expect I may have to do documentation and quite a bit of playing around with flavors and sugars. On the other hand, I may luck out.

What on earth were the flowers made of?

Nothing unearthly, they just had thick woody stems. I had been cooking and had forgotten the adage of "feed yourself before you start a long project" so when P. arrived with the flowers I went to lop the ends off, but my knife was dull and I managed to cut into the bed of my index fingernail and had to wear a false nail on top of it (after cutting it down to the quick) so that it wouldn't snag on things and pull it out of the bed. This was successful, if somewhat annoying, and P. never brought me flowers again. It didn't wind up being much of a date. Between the blood and being served salmon for dinner, he pretty much high-tailed it out of there. Alas for squeamishness. :(

I'm not surprised you paid a teind of blood for this series of fortunate finds. I'm still amazed you found a copy of Tougias and Sherman's book anywhere, let alone in a small bookstore in Penn Station. They didn't even have it to sell the night of the Coast Guard premiere.

I'm still amazed you found a copy of Tougias and Sherman's book anywhere, let alone in a small bookstore in Penn Station. They didn't even have it to sell the night of the Coast Guard premiere.

That's unreasonable!

Sounds like a lovely trip. Black sesame crème brûlée!

I think it would be hard for So Nude, So Dead to live up to its title.

Black sesame crème brûlée!

There is no reason for such a thing not to exist, but I hadn't been aware that it did, and now I think the world is a better place.

I think it would be hard for So Nude, So Dead to live up to its title.

You understand!

I will prioritize books over almost any other comfort

I read this paragraph out loud to Andrew, who wishes you to know that should you ever find yourself in Toronto you have a standing invitation to come by here. I second the motion.

I read this paragraph out loud to Andrew, who wishes you to know that should you ever find yourself in Toronto you have a standing invitation to come by here. I second the motion.

Thank you. I will very definitely let you know if I am ever in town.

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'Cept for hurry up and hit the road

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