I like that Texas October has its "the way Summer ought to be" qualities. But ninety degrees is a bit too Summer-ish. I begin to have fevered dreams. In one dream, Jane Campion made the film of "In the Cut". Meg Ryan, of all people, was cast in the lead. Oh, but wait--that's not a dream. It's real. Life has transformed to a dream. I remember reading "In the Cut" and finding it so gripping and genuinely eerie. Halloween has nothing on life-like narrative. Now I am left with the heat. Ninety degrees. I love Campion's "Angel at my Table", but I think that's because I have an in-built Janet Frame weakness. I am always intrigued by people like Janet Frame and Vera Brittain, whose autobios intrigue me more than their novels. I think about minor writers, or minor works by major writers, as if I knew the story of the people just from the magpie fragments from which I have built my pseudo-intellectual nest. What of Winifred Holtby, who wrote novels nobody now reads, but died of cancer before her prime? Why does everyone know AA Milne's childrens' stories, but nobody knows the amusing adult stories? So many grand novelists out of fashion, so many novelists in fashion because of a curious bio detail--an affair, a kinship, an historical bit of trivia. I have another trip to SF coming up, for an all-day meeting. In the after 9/11 era, fewer evening flights back to Texas exist. So I'm flying to Oklahoma City again, to either drive or fly the rest of the way on Saturday morning. Maybe I'll stop by that cool garden in the Arbuckles. Maybe I'll just spin straight home, and sleep. For sure, I'll be glad to take a break next week from travel. A break with a good book. My own book, less than good, has sold 3 copies on eBay this month now. The first offer via "Buy It Now!" sold pretty quickly. It's been a good month that way. But I will still miss ER tomorrow, as well as have to fly all night. Trade offs. Life is full of them.