the books (the lemon of pink) . nobody (pacific drift) . movietone (the sand and the stars) .

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each one is full of lovely, spacious noise. good for fake novel-writing. the november-novel that I'd originally foreseen (a mild kind of younglady scifi) has turned into little but semifictionalized memoir-writing. long lists of descriptions and feelings. places I've been and things I thought about while there. lessons learned. hearts broken. hearts broken by. sidewalks by canals. startlingly beautiful art. et cetera. self-indulgent, maybe, plotless, mostly, but it's satisfying to put to paper. and the pretense of writing a novel provides me license to sit and write all night long in the pleasing isolation of laptop, headphones, words, memories, sweet & pretty noise.