After days of rain,
bursting through the steelgray clouds,
the sun makes me sneeze.

Looking down at snow
From thirty-six thousand feet.
A god's perspective.

Approaching Utah.
Six hundred miles an hour.
Storming Zion's gate.

Dark mountain tops peek
From cold, white melting blankets,
Think of hitting snooze.

If angels could dance
On clouds and snowdrift mountains,
I'd see them from here.

Dear Giant Robots:
Please destroy Chicago, 'cause
that airport plain sucks.

No coincidence:
AA is both an airline
And a bunch of drunks.

---

Best thing I could say about the flight home? It could have been worse. Two hour-long delays on the tarmac, choppy skies, and no hard alcohol served in-flight (but they'd be happy to sell you a seven dollar turket wrap) considered, it still could have been worse. American Airlines is definitely not my first choice. Hell, if I can help it, next time American Airlines won't even be in the running.

Still, can't let a bad flight (and really, considering AA's record, it could have been much, much worse) spoil a great weekend. I met some wonderful people (inevitably-incomplete name-dropping post to come soon), had some great conversations, gave away tons of Night Shade T-shirts (though a handful of men's large turned out to be hiding in a suitcase under the table), and sold plenty of books. It was all very punk rock, but that's just how we roll in the 'Shade posse. I'd do it again in a heartbeat... just not next week...

I need some serious sleep.

But first, a shuttle ride home. My ETA in Petaluma? Two in the morning. enigmaticae is giving me a ride home from the fairgrounds (she's a godsend!), and I'll bet a certain little dog will be quite happy to see me (not to mention a certain wife). I'll post this from the shuttle...

Regarding hotel
Rooms: John Bonham had nothing
On Jeremy L.

So we've reached the end of the trail. A handful of World Fantasy attendees wander the lobby, checking out or awaiting shuttles. A new convention, something Candidates something, is moving in. Circle of life.

I'm killing time while Jeremy gets ready to go. I feel like I've been flattened.

We'll load the car, run what's left to UPS, then hit the road. He heads up to NYC while I get to kill time at the Syracuse airoprt. Lots of time. Hours. (my flight's at four)

But I'm on my way home to Jennifer & Maddie. Two planes and a shuttle, unless someone wants to pick me up at the San Francisco airport. Miles to go. Wonder if I'll get any sleep.

Pictures coming once I get home and download 'em.

Multiple parties
on multiple floors. To think,
it's only thursday.

Trick or Treaters roam
the streets, sort of in costume,
searching for candy.

I’m counting minutes,
watching clocks, killing time. Soon,
my broomstick takes flight.

Tomorrow, I’ll be
a continent away. ‘Til
then, Happy Samhain!

Looked outside and thought,
“Someone stole our car,” but no,
Jenn just drove to work.

Badly parked due to
construction and street sweeping.
Moving the car soon.

Laying in fixes
and corrections to a book
you can read next year.

It's raining. Maybe
not. It's wet to say the least.
Fall in the Sunset.

A few days ago, I referred to the SFSU class for which I TA as "The Bad Advice Business of Creative Writing class." I should probably clarify this statement.

One of the rules of thumb by which I live my life is this: "Be wary of the advice given by successful people; they don't crave company." Likewise, one should exercise caution when considering advice given by the less-than-successful, particularly those people who affect a pretence of expertise and authority in any given field; not only do these people crave company, but there are generally good reasons why they are less-than successful.

Sure, it's a cynical weltanschauung, but it's served me well. Your mileage, as always, may vary.

The specific bit of bad advice that prompted my comments comes from statements made by a panel of speakers, all editors of San Francisco-based (non-paying) literary and poetry journals (a couple of which you might even have heard of, so I’m not naming names). These well-meaning folks essentially recommended that the students take to carpet-bombing editors with their material, ignoring all restrictions against simultaneous submissions.

While this may very well be the expectation within the realm of poetry, that sort of behavior doesn’t cut it in the real world. But it’s not my class, so what can I do but bite my tongue, grit my teeth, and write haikus on my PDA while bad advice is freely dispensed?

Amateurs give bad
advice. Sure, they've got mags, but
ain't like they send checks.

Giving poetry
away for free is a piss-
poor buisness model.

And it’s not like the class is all bad advice, all the time. Most nights are quite informative; last night, for example, Jennifer Joseph of Manic-D Press was one of our panelists, and she had some great things to say about the financial realities of small press publishing (and she wasn’t shy about giving her co-panelists, one of whom was essentially nailing poems to trees, plenty of food for thought). It’s just that the class is more about Selling the Dream (Kinda like Oprah!) than it is about the essential things students should understand about the business end of the creative writing field, things like manuscript formatting, cover letters, proposals, editing, and presenting a professional image. Ah well, I guess that’s all stuff to go into my syllabus.

...along with their tape deck, in Walnut Park this morning.

Led Zeppelin's "Kashmir;"
She's dancing for him, he sings.
Gazebo of love.

Two anthologies,
Big as bricks, need jackets done.
Like yesterday. Bye, weekend.

What do little dogs
think of, crashed out on the floor?
could it be... goats?

This house is too quiet
without your company,
snoring as I type.