You're not, although the picture of you holding books in a garbage bag? A little funny.

Somehow, it just seems right (to me, at least), that the 100th drabble topic is late. (Also -- 100! That's a LOT of good writing!)

Challenge #99 (the perfect vacation) is now closed.

Challenge #100 is: commemorating an event. (It just seemed to fit with reaching topic #100.)

23 February 2006

Chilly, dry, quarter-moon on the horizon. I'm meeting friends for Afghan food, over in North Beach. First, though, there's something that needs doing.

123 Valparaiso, where I ran, shut myself away, disintegrated, reintegrated. I ran from you, from needing you. Nothing I've done since was that self-destructive.

I've put this off for a quarter-century. It's time.

From up the street, I hear piano music. I remember how I ran, my cowardice, my selfishness.

Tomorrow would have been your 62nd birthday.

I lay my hand against the wall. Breathing your name, I ask you for the forgiveness I can't give myself.

Spring in Bloom

When we moved into the house my mother planted two things in the yard. One was a maple tree in the southeast corner of the lawn for shade. The second was a pussy willow next to the driveway. The maple flourished and casts its shadow across half the lawn, including the Russian sage and her currant bushes. The willow, well, it barely lasted a year. Mom pulled it out because once the fingertip plush buds bloomed, the pollen made her sneeze.

Her casket spray had spring flowers: daffodils, iris and tulips on a bed of pussy willow boughs.

A heartbreaker, Sail. But then, I have the feeling the bulk of these are going to go down that road.

Very easily, Deb. My cousin and I were saying today how we're at the age where we're going to quit counting years and start counting obituaries to mark time.

I just wrote to Pete Townshend, asking for a blurb for Kinkaid.

Talk about fucking ghosts from my past - dude.

I'll just be in the corner, sucking my thumb and whimpering. I wrote:

(taking a deep breath)

Hey there, Pete,

A long time ago - mid-seventies, in fact - we met a couple of times. Yes, I know, that would be along with seven million other people. We had mutual friends, though, and one in particular.

Here's the thing. I'm a novelist - my current mystery series, Haunted Ballads, is out on St. Martins Minotaur. These deal with a player of traditional music, and ties into various Child Ballad song titles (see below, if you're angelic about it and decide to read that far down). They're mystery/ghost story crossovers, on the literary side (or so I'm told), rather than the commercial side.

I've just begun book four of a brand new series, the Kinkaid Chronicles, and these are a very different thing. The narrator and protagonist, JP Kinkaid, is a South London-born, 54-year old ex-pat with multiple sclerosis. As the premier session guitarist in 70's London, he was invited to join a megastar band called Blacklight, and did, becoming their second guitarist. The books are a very loving look at rock and roll, both in the present day and through his memories.

It's also a chronicle of growth and coming of age, in a profession and world that can muffle reality. There are some very big themes in here: love, loss, family, loyalty, adulthood. And since I know you're a Michael Chabon fan, I thought these might appeal. I'm actually hoping for a blurb from Michael on these; he's an acquaintance of mine and his wife, Ayelet, is a friend. She and I have done book signings together.

Anyway......my question is, do you think I could possibly get a blurb from you? I know you guys are going out on the road for a long stretch, but hell, if you get bored and want some reading, say the word and I'll send along a Word attachment of any of the three books, or just the synopses, or any part thereof. And I think you're actually mentioned in the third book, "London Calling", which deals with racism and how music deals with it.

By the way, if you see your way to saying yes, you'll find a familiar character in the second book, "While My Guitar Gently Weeps": a legendary session bassist, who dies of complications from progressive multiple sclerosis. I met Ronnie Lane a couple of times, and since I have MS myself, I can write this with authority.

Good grief, this email got long-winded, but I swear, the books aren't. I was just nervous.

Let me know, if you get a chance? And happy touring. I seem to recall that the Bay Area was never your favourite place to play, but if you do, I'll be there.

Cheers,

Deborah Grabien

hunches into small tight ball and whimpers

It would be great if he did read and blurb!

I hope that he does.

Removing thumb from mouth long enough to say that Marlene wants to try FSG. Total long shot - Farrar Strauss are total elistist snobs - but you never know and I've met one of their top editors, and he introduced me to the entire St. Martins/FSG sales staff at BEA in Los Angeles.

Do this in remembrance of me

Where is the love that will save us, now?
Be still and listen, for it beats within you.
Find a Muslim, a Jew, a young Christian and an old sceptic,
Take them by the hands and look deeply into their eyes.
Say the words: "You are my sister, my uncle, my grandma, my beloved.
You wear the face of the angels, of all that is good in the world."
And dare in your heart to make it true.
"What is love?" you ask me, and I have but one answer:
"The only hope we have, and the gift we must not forget."