I was just doing a search on Carol’s Bloggie for where I’ve talked about the book and found that I have posted earlier excerpts of rough chapters before. All this time I swore that only one chapter was out there, and now I find that my memory really does suck.
Looking it over, that chapter sure got a make over in the final version. It kind of reminds me of that children’s game, Operator, where a phrase is passed as a secret – ear to ear – and comes out in the end nothing like how it began. The thing has just been through so many edits, it’s as if it has another life now.
The picture I posted in that blog entry however, is the actual Hargas Street house near Culver City. The area was called “Palms” at the time. I don’t know, maybe it still is.
The house looks so much better nowadays, or whenever I snapped this picture. Probably 10 years ago, now that I think of it. When I lived there though, the house was yellow and white. This photo actually reminds me of my favorite Van Gogh painting – ha! The one that hangs at the Hammer Museum of the trees outside the mental hospital where Vincent stayed at Saint-Rémy. I don’t know why, but it just does. Maybe because I see this house forever yellow and now I see those trees have grown so large. Something.
I think that not seeing the book for a while is a good thing in that I will be a lot less married to all the working “parts” – in that, I think they work together, but they probably don’t. I need to let go and be open to another objective view of what does not work, and what does. What can be dropped all together. Stories that can be told another time perhaps. They aren’t all important. The main story is important. The main wreckage, and the survivor’s narrative is what’s important. I thought I had that focus in the last drafts, but maybe not enough.