Still Reading The Border Trilogy

Still reading McCarthy’s Border Trilogy. All the Pretty Horses is addicting, especially John Grady’s sojourn after leaving the Mexican prison, first to find Alejandra, and then his long journey home. Rawlins' departure is really heartbreaking—how he hated Blevins then can’t get over how Blevins was walked behind a copse of trees and shot. There’s something broken in Rawlins after the whole ordeal, and McCarthy handles it perfectly when he has Rawlins buying a bus ticket home, and choosing a seat away from the window where he can’t see John—it’s such a disjoint to the wild, youthful ride south on horseback. Also, loved the passage before John finds Alejandra, where he’s watching some kids bathe and play in an irrigation ditch, and he shares his lunch with them and ends up sharing his whole story. John’s normally so taciturn, but he spills everything to these kids, then listens to their advice on how to win Alejandra back. Great, great, great.

Been thinking about the movie adaptation, and while I liked it (though it’s been a long time since I’ve seen it), now that I’m almost finished with the book I think Billy Bob Thornton missed a lot of opportunities. He should have used younger actors, since John Grady and Rawlins are only 16 and 17, respectively, and it should have been a lot grittier. I’m thinking about the Coen brothers adaptation of No Country for Old Men, and John Hillcoat’s fantastic film version of The Road—while both movies took liberties with the novels (Charlize Theron in The Road), they were pitch perfect with the tone.

Writing and reading continue to move in seasons, and I’m trying to make these next few days a season of writing. I spent the last four odd days painting the trim on a cottage in Michigan, and that took up most of my time. It also tested my fear of heights again, with ladders, scaffolding, and a lift. Here’s me painting the rear peak:

I got used to the height, but what really gave me the chills was when the lift rocked with the motion of me scraping old paint. I kept telling myself I needed to trust in the ingenuity of what smarter men than I had built, and I also realized that “Don’t look down” is not a cliché. Really. It’s better not to look down. Made me think some about fear—I realized I could keep looking down, spitting and watching the spit hit the stone below, imagining my body flailing through the air, or I could ignore the suppressed panic and try to move my roller along the trim. I wasn't overcoming diddly, I just tried to stop thinking. I never knew I was afraid of heights, and I’ve been wondering where it came from, or if everyone is naturally afraid to be up high, except some people make themselves get over it and do what they have to. Maybe people who like heights are the exception? I don’t know. But, like my extension ladder ladder, I got used to the lift by the end of the weekend. Like a frog in boiling water or a body dangling from a noose.

About to start working on my manuscript, again at Barnes & Noble, using a copy of The Southern Review to prop up my computer so it doesn't overheat (I think the fan is broke). I’m now making my chapbook-in-progress The Withering Season the second of three sections for my book, and reworking the first section with poems influenced by fantasy and magical realism. Yeats meets One Hundred Years of Solitude meets Terry Brooks. I’m slowly coming to realize I’ll never be anything but a narrative poet, so I may as well stop fighting it and start coming up with more interesting narratives.