from an article in the NYT on the importance of talking to your baby

the Texas winter

This is what it is to travel: you're at home, checking on the weather, as it is wise to do. You learn that in Austin Texas, where you will be going, it will be extremely hot, feeling like more than a hundred degrees, it tells you. So you pack tank tops and sunscreen and hope for the best in that ferocious heat.

And then the day comes, in Austin Texas, when you are standing frozen, huddled against a bitter, icy wind as the rain lashes, and you think - what the @#$#? "This is our winter," my landlady exclaimed. "It's the schizophrenic season." And sure enough, it's predicted to get hot again in a few days. But in the meantime, I went out wearing a sweater and light jacket under my rain poncho - because this is hot old Austin - not the lined hooded coat I'd brought for Washington but was sure I would not need here. Because Austin would be very hot. When in fact, today, Austin was very very cold. And wet.

But I do not mind. It was a fine day otherwise. Because she was on her way somewhere and it was dark and pouring, my kind landlady dropped me off at Lynn's. I did my homework - read the Grace Paley and Henry James stories Lynn had assigned as relating to the issue of fiction and non-fiction, before going in to speak to her university short story class. And then I left, several hours before my date with Lynn, to get the bus to the university, which meant a 20 minute wait shivering in the icy wind. Incidentally, my landlady, Jade, pointed out that there are no sidewalks here and life revolves around the car, "because we have 9 months of summer, and there are months at a time when it's too hot to move, let alone walk." Point taken. As a Canadian, this had not occurred to me.

Then, heaven, or as I call it, geek heaven. I went to the Ransom Centre for research on campus, which is the home of the papers of many important people, writers especially. I'd read that Spalding Gray's papers were there. Gray interests me, because he turned his personal stories - very personal stories, in some cases - into performance art. He sat at a table with a glass of water and a spiral notebook in front of him, a screen with projections behind, and he told stories - "Swimming to Cambodia," for example, his best known perhaps, about being in the movie "The Killing Fields." "Gray's Anatomy," about his eye problems. I never saw him live but I've seen DVD's of his work. He was charming, funny, mesmerizing, as he faced the audience and related, without pause, his tale.

What I wanted to know was - WHAT'S IN THE NOTEBOOK? He never refers to it, at least in the films, and yet he carries it in when he comes on stage and places it carefully on the desk in front of him. So I went to the Ransom Centre to find out. Went through a process of registering and watching a video to find out how to use the materials, and finally, once I'd been admitted to the special hushed room, two boxes of S.G.'s works were brought out.

AAAh - a kindred spirit, was my first thought. This man scribbled all the time; included were his notes on all kinds of scraps - bills, imploring letters from producers, little cardboard bits. Mostly, yes, notebooks. But not a performance script, just stories flowing along in his slanting, incomprehensible writing.

But then - I found them, his performance notebooks for Gray's Anatomy. So what I think is this: he wrote countless thoughts and ideas on bits of paper, fiddled with them until they gelled into scripts he wrote longhand in notebooks, and then he wrote performance notebooks with chunks of stuff he'd say highlighted. The notebooks were there in case. At the end, always, he wrote notes to himself on how to do things better. Mixed, in one, with a heartbreaking letter to Kathie, who I realized must have been his former partner, mother of his child. From Wikipedia:

Describing the uniqueness of the film-play monologue, theatre director Mark Russell wrote:

"He broke it all down to a table, a glass of water, a spiral notebook and a mic. Poor theatre—a man and an audience and a story. Spalding sitting at that table, speaking into the mic, calling forth the script of his life from his memory and those notebooks. A simple ritual: part news report, part confessional, part American raconteur. One man piecing his life back together, one memory, one true thing at a time. Like all genius things, it was a simple idea turned on its axis to become absolutely fresh and radical."^[7]

He committed suicide, Spalding. Jumped off the Staten Island ferry. From the stories, I learned that his mother committed suicide too, so his is much less of a mystery. Anyway, two hours in a quiet room communing with an inspiring writer - my idea of heaven. As for the others there, including the man next to me who was communing with Walt Whitman. There, beside me, the handwritten manuscripts of Walt Whitman.

On to Lynn's class, a large group of undergraduates - how old, 18, 19? Interesting, lively young Texans who want to learn about the short story and today met a Canadian writer pushing the joys of non-fiction. They asked good questions, we had a great talk, I laid out my case, Lynn asked piercing questions, they seemed to enjoy it. What must have been fascinating for them was the spectacle of these two women who were very old friends working side by side. Lynn called me Professor Kaplan and it sounded so silly coming from her, I almost laughed. But did not. I hope they were left with a sense of the power and importance of true stories, as well as made up ones.

To the free shuttle bus in the freezing dusk, to the grocery store near her house for wine - so cheap, unbelievable, even the best bottles - and take-out Mexican food, burritos and dirty rice. At home, we ate and gabbled, as we always do, on topics, fuelled by a glass or two, from Does God exist? to Should I dye my hair? That's our range.

In Lynn's kitchen, tonight, there was a huge water bug on the wall. Like a big brown beetle. Neither of us wanted to tackle it. This is where men are invaluable. Yes, there are many other things men are invaluable for, but particularly dealing with HUGE WATER BUGS ON THE WALL. MAN WANTED!

P.S. Just got a note from Cousin George in Washington where, as you may recall, it was surprisingly cold. Weather gorgeous today--90 degrees and beautifully sunny.

Everything in full bloom in a way that few places in N Amer

can match - everything suddenly boomed into bloom. It should have happened while you were here,but Mother Nature delayed it til now,out of pure spite,no doubt.

lovin' Austin

"Howdy y'all, how y'all doin'?" "Y'all come back now." People really do say those things here, and sound like they mean it. People in stores and restaurants are unfailingly polite, patient and friendly. This is a wonderful open city, with music everywhere, much going on, a very youthful spirit. Lynn loves it so much, she's reluctant to go back to the south of France, which shows you how great it is.

Odd thing: many of the streets have no sidewalks. City life revolves around the car; one of the main architectural wonders is the number of above ground parking garages of all styles and sizes. I passed a daycare centre today with a big playground outside - a play house, play cars and a big play gas station. Gettin' them ready. There are almost no stores downtown, all are in distant malls - which means that the streets downtown, even huge Congress Avenue, are amazingly empty, full, I gather, only during the festivals. Of which there are many. The city is filled with ornate mansions, shapely old trees, and very loud birds - competing with the music pouring from every door, perhaps.

Today Denis left to fly back to France, and after a slow morning, Mme. Blin and I took the bus to the university; she worked at the library and I went to the Blanton Art Gallery nearby, a nice collection, including - take note Brucie - a real Claude Lorrain, and a Last Supper in chocolate syrup by Vik Muniz. I wandered around the university, noting that the entire campus is deemed smoke-free, and passing a large building entitled "Longhorns for Christ."

In fact, the Man himself is very much in evidence everywhere - I don't think I've ever seen so many churches, even in Catholic countries. On our drive the other day, there was a church every hundred yards, it seemed, with a highway sign - "Church" - to let you know there's one coming up, in case you feel a great urge to pray.

We took a free shuttle bus to the groovy part of town, where there's a fabulous record store called Waterloo and the best bookstore in Texas across the street. At 5, there was a free concert at Waterloo by the Wheeler Brothers, mucho rockabilly talent, great fun, much toe-tapping and looking at a vast array of CD's, including singers like Ontario's Kathleen Edwards and Ron Sexsmith. Supper nearby, delicious beer, local produce, a big open room, as friendly as everything is. And then a wander around the bookstore, which was full of left-wing signs, kindred spirits, no "We don't dial 911" spirit here. Lots of readings coming up there, and more free concerts at Waterloo, tons of interesting people coming to town - Tony Kushner, Kate Atkinson, Kris Kristofferson tomorrow, and soon - be still my beating heart - Paul McCartney himself. Maybe I should come back. Maybe Lynn and I should just set up camp.

"Y'all come back, yuh hear?" they say. To which the only answer is, "Yes ma'am!"

P.S. As usual, my French friends know how to appreciate the best of wherever they are. On Denis's last night, our dinner at home consisted of avocados to start - the avocados here are unbelievably good, so we just ate them French-style, cut in two and filled with vinaigrette - then steak (because he was going back to France where beef is five times more expensive) cooked just with salt and pepper, a piece of corn, and for dessert, divine local mangoes. They marvel too at gas prices - again, five times cheaper than where they live.

the sorry story for writers

For anyone considering becoming a writer - a sweet soul wrote me for advice about this just last week - please read this. It is profoundly unsettling. Do not, repeat, do not quit your day job.

And by posting a link here, I'm probably violating copyright myself.

The Slow Death of the American Author

Texas chronicle

Once again, I'm so full my eyes are glazed - this afternoon, Lynn, Denis and I drove some 30 miles out of Austin to Lockhart, "home of the best barbecue in Texas and therefore the world." And since there's not that much to do in Austin, driving 30 miles to eat barbecue is important. The place was unprepossessing, to say the least, not what we expected at all - you grab a styrofoam plate and plastic cutlery and help yourself to stuff until you get to the sizzling barbecue department where they give you what you ask for.

I may never eat meat again. The quantities around us were overwhelming. A man and his young daughter sat down with a little bit of coleslaw, some potato salad, and a vast platter of brisket, sausages and several kinds of ribs. Caveman style. Which goes with the macho climate of this interesting state.

Backtracking slightly, to tell you about my trip here on Southwest Air - I was in the front row, and since the door to the cockpit was open before takeoff, I asked the funny flight attendant if I could take a picture of the control room. He went to ask the pilot, then beckoned me to the door and, as the pilot stood up and moved off, said, "Have a seat." I climbed into the pilot's seat and he took a picture of me grinning like a maniac. Before take off, the same guy made an announcement. "Please fasten your seatbelts extra tight, ladies and gentlemen," he said. "The pilot says he wants to try something new."

Lynn and Denis picked me up at the airport - Lynn one of my oldest friends, from first year university, and Denis, the husband she met in France at the age of 20. We have travelled around France together many times, so it is surreal to be here in Texas with them. Lynn's university in Montpellier has an exchange program with the university here, so she is teaching here for a term, and Denis has joined her for a few weeks; he's leaving Tuesday. They drove me to my Airbnb room, which is okay, a big eccentric room in an apartment not far from Lynn's. And then we went to Dann's Depot, their favourite place, as authentic a country and western bar as you could find - incredibly friendly, cheap beer, great music - hurtin' music - and dancing. An elderly fellow was having his birthday party there, wearing a giant flashing hat and bow tie, and his wife went to all the tables to invite everyone to have some birthday cake. "I made enough for a hundred," she said.

People are extremely casual and friendly. Everyone says hello. One little nightmare for me - in Lockhart today, and in the small town we visited on the way, there were lots of vintage stores. Vintage is huge in Texas. And everything for sale in these stores seemed to be exactly what I'd thrown out of my mother's condo just last month.

Though hot weather had been predicted, the day was cool and overcast until mid-afternoon when the sun blazed for a bit before disappearing again. Tomorrow, maybe rain. I have been gone four days, and I think I've gained five pounds - constant eating and almost no moving, except for the nature walk with Barbara. This must stop or I'll have to buy a whole new wardrobe. And as you know, I only have a VERY SMALL SUITCASE.