Tuesday, August 7, 2001

 

11:33 p.m. Now that I'm Doing It Myself, I've become newly appreciative of other people's acts of home improvement. All through the streets and alleyways of Venice there are sudden splashes of color, individual moments, small and whimsical gestures. It's one of the things I love about living here -- the confident exuberance of a city full of artists of every size and kind.

Lately, we've been in and out of many houses, also of every size and kind. We're probably going to have to move, and there's no telling what kind of place we're going to end up in. Therefore, we're looking at everything that's for sale, or rent, or even spaces that maybe possibly might one day become available.

The only thing that's sure is that we're sure we want to stay in Venice. If you can't live on the East Coast, surrounded by friends and family, this is the next best thing. Most of the people here say hello when you pass on the street, and if you want to start a conversation, you most likely can.

Not that I'd know what to say these days. These are strange days, in spite of the near-perfect weather. The sun may be shining, but still I've had this odd feeling ever since Gore did/didn't/actually did/ (but we can't talk about it) win the election, that time has slipped and we're now in an alternate universe.

It looks pretty much like it should, but things just aren't right. We should have gotten funding for our Internet ventures, but -- we didn't. I should have been able to sell a bunch of books this year -- but I haven't. There should be unprecedented harmony in the world because of the Internet, but ... there isn't.

TV should be better, but it isn't. There should be a good summer movie, a blockbuster summer beach book, a song that's on everyone's lips ... but there isn't. Ah well, maybe it's just me.

I'm reading two different books with keys on the cover right now. I've had one of them for years and years, quietly stuck on a shelf, and I've always wondered how I got it and/or why, but I've never been inspired to read it until just this past week when I found it on a Salon list of the ten most paranoid books of all time. It's called Quincunx and it's by Charles Palliser and it's big and thick and just the thing if you want to escape from the particular slipped-time frame you might find yourself in.

The other book with a key on the cover is called, interestingly enough, The Key, and it's signed by the author, Whitley Streiber. It's as thin as Quincunx is thick, but it also just sort of showed up on one of our many book shelves. And why? Syncopated abundance, that's why.

I've had the luxury of space these past few years and as is most natural, I've expanded (and expanded) to fill it. Therefore, books just sort of show up on my shelves; plants and socks and plastic hangers multiply in the dark of night and I nonetheless have room for each and every one of them.

Is it wrong to want to keep everything? Probably. Maybe not.