Yesterday

Yesterday was good. It was my fifth sobriety anniversary and also the launch date of R2, the Rice Review. At the launch, I found out that my story "El Santo" had won second place in the Williams Prize in Fiction, a $250 prize. I plan to spend all or most of the prize money on gold jewelry. I wasn't counting on the money, so I feel it's wisest to spend it frivolously. Any other use of the prize money would encourage me to factor future possible prize money into my budget. Of course, I realize that I'm still stuck in a superstitious, magical way of thinking. I don't care. It's not my job to be rational. My first purchase will, of course, be a Texas necklace bought from Fiesta.

I dreamed last night that I'd gone on a trip to Japan. And it was everything I'd hoped it would be. It all lay before me. All that was left to do was to move to Japan.

I recently viewed The Story of Floating Weeds(1934) by Yasujiro Ozu. The camera dwelt upon still objects between shots of actors. It was transcendent. You can see echoes of this technique in Bresson and Herzog.

Please pray.

I am posting these fliers around Houston. Why? To make people pause. Perhaps they'll giggle. Maybe they'll think about it later. Perhaps one or two will try to figure out whose eye is in the picture. I've made over 200. Somebody is bound to pray for me.

On a serious note, my eyes are messed up. It might be conjunctivitis.

Fiesta

I bought a one-way ticket to New York City for May 20th. And so an era is closing. As the days grow warmer, my departure approaches. And just as before in London, as I am planning my escape, the city unfurls its blossoms to me, a last ditch effort at seduction. Azaleas, magnolias, and flowers whose names I do not know. Flowers that beg me to learn their names. The city is fecund and dewy. It rains most nights, a warm, heavy rain, decadent like a monsoon.

As I stroll through Fiesta, the Latin-American supermarket, selecting Mexican pasteles, I feel almost wistful. For some reason, they always play oldies over the intercom here, a fact which, I admit, has influenced my devoted patronage of this place. I have memories of grappling with a mound of avocados, bobbing my head to Little Richard, dancing in the aisles as I pick breakfast cereal. I remember coming here with Zarla, when we still loved each other without reservation, and lurking in the produce, covertly ogling the poet Adam Zagajewski, watching him fondle pears. On my way out, I pass the jewelry counter. You can buy pendants of gold or silver, cut specially into the shape of your name. I am considering getting one. But instead of Nancy, it will say Texas.