"You will admit that if it wasn't life it was magnificent."

While I'm waiting to learn of Harry Potter's fate, I've picked up Fitzgerald's This Side of Paradise again. I read it years ago and am enjoying it in the second read-through. It's not quite as clean and deliberate as Gatsby, but it's engaging and sparkling and intelligent and playful, just as you want your Fitzgerald to be.

One of the reasons I enjoy Fitzgerald's work is wholly removed from his actual writing. He and Zelda--you cannot forget Zelda, an integral part of the image and the reality and everything that came after--were, and I suppose still are, the very personification of promise, of decadence and frivolity, of levity in a world trying to find its feet: the drowning out of reality with champagne and rides in open cars and splashing in big-city fountains while wearing furs and diamonds.

They circled the flame in a way that left their fates certain. Yet it's a beautiful dance until then. And so we watch.

Fitzgerald was America when everything was still possible: "They wandered on, mixing in the Broadway crowd, dreaming on the music that eddied out of the cafes. New faces flashed on and off like myriad lights, pale or rouged faces, tired, yet sustained by a wearied excitement."

Fitzgerald is like the moment before the fall.

Carefully planned seredipity.

There's a certain blogger, who lives in Austin, whose writing I love. It's the kind of writing I would aspire to if I even remotely thought I had a modicum of his talent: funny, sincere, intelligent, literate. He is seriously talented, and I admire the hell out of him.

Good writing makes me excited. And I believe in applauding people when they do a good job--especially when there's so much crap writing muddling the internet, because I know I would want the same if I made my living by writing. So it started innocently enough: I wrote him an email about a year ago to tell him that I appreciate his writing, and he responded back. I thrilled a little, I'll admit. Over the next year, I read something of his whenever I could, and sometimes I laughed out loud, sometimes I teared up unexpectedly, and sometimes I would copy parts of it into this journal of quotes I've been keeping since high school. His writing is that good.

And so, inevitably--and because I am stricken with a malady similar to drunk dialing, except I send emails when I am completely sober--I sent another email. Which he responded to. And another. Which he responded to, with a question. It took me an hour to craft my 50-word response.

Keep in mind that the writing is the reason for all of this. I realize how this all sounds, but it's really just me getting caught up in the writing. In the way that I liked to be around people who read and wrote in grad school; same thing here.

I happen to read in his blog that he was planning to be at a certain Austin establishment this morning. And so I decided I would happen to be there as well. I would happen to be reading a book by his favorite author--not the one that everyone reads in high school, but his first one, to show that I know my way around modernist writers. And somehow, we would meet. Completely spontaneously.

I have a record of carefully planned spontaneity when it comes to writers I admire. And that record is: I act a straight-up fool around them. My carefully rehearsed speech to Dave Eggers made me look crazy, and my would-be memorable aside to Jonathon Safran Foer ended with me blurting out my full name and then nearly tripping down the stairs when my heel caught in the cuff of my pants. Because of this, I have put myself on restriction from talking to anyone whose work I admire.

So I decided I had one of two options here: do it but never tell anyone; or, don't do it and write about it instead. Sanity has clearly won the day. Relatively speaking. And it's for the best, really. Because I am 30.

Cewl, as the Irish say.

I just saw the most ridiculously charming movie: Once. Go see it, go see it, go see it: if you're in Austin, it's at the Arbor. It has all the ingredients I need to love a movie: Ireland and/or Irish people; not-the-right-time love; music; music being the reason for living; montages set to music; and good writing. It's not a musical in the traditional sense, but the song lyrics do advance the plot. Which sounds like it could be a long narrative music video, but it's not. It works, is all I can tell you. Bloody fantastic. While my cold, cold heart hates rom-coms, it does enjoy a (musical) drama with a love subplot and a beautiful ending. Check and mate. I immediately came home and iTuned the soundtrack. Perfect for a rainy Independence Day.

The lead is Glen Hansard of The Frames, which I think is going to be my new favorite band. Oh, Irish bands, will you never cease to make me love you?

One shot, one beer, and a kiss before I go.

Ryan Adams, July 14, Paramount Theater. I must.

I have no problem doing most things alone--going to movies, out for dinner, moving to strange towns, etc.--but I find that solo concert attendance is a toughy for me. Kind of the last frontier. I've been to two: Pete Yorn and Ryan Adams. (Pete Yorn's first record--I feel the need to specify that.) You might think that going to a show alone would be easier than the rest, because music is essentially a personal thing, and it's not like you can talk to someone the whole time anyway. But music is also a shared experience, and that's the whole point of going to a concert (and also why I hate serenades, but that's a story for another day): turning to someone between songs and saying "I can't believe he played this one live!" and speculating what might song might be next. Because I mostly think, if you can't share it (et voila: this blog), it isn't real.

Ryan Adams's music makes me feel like there is always someone lonelier than me. There is strange comfort in that. His music makes me want to get in a bar fight and then make out with a stranger. It makes me want to be a farmer that has lost everything. It makes me want to move to New York and sit on a rooftop and think about my regrets. It makes me want to dance on a dance floor with lighting just like that one barn dance scene in Hope Floats. You know the one; don't pretend.

And I defy you to name a better song than "Come Pick Me Up." And he did play it the last time I saw him. And it was outstanding.

Somehow this is turning into a thesis on why Ryan Adams is worth going to alone. Eh, let's go with it. He is, I think, even though he can be a bit precious and somewhat diva-esque. I don't want to go by myself, really, but I don't know anyone who even kinda likes him, let alone Loves (with a capital L) him like I do (shamelessly, but not fanatically). Who wouldn't laugh if I teared up. Who would feel the same way I would if he played "Dance All Night" or "Sweet Carolina." But I won't not go for that reason, either.

The key is to look like you're just waiting for someone else to show. Maybe they are late. Maybe they can't find parking. Don't worry; they'll be there.

Any minute now.

My former so-called bacchant life.

I moved to Memphis eight years ago. At the time, it was new and adventurous and so radically different from the towns I grew up in that I couldn't help but fall in love. It felt like I had cut myself out of the ropes that had been binding me in California. Driving across the country on I-40 with my Saturn sedan stacked full, I remember thinking, I have literally no idea what's around the next corner. Those moments in life are exceedingly rare and somewhat heart-stopping.

I stayed for three years. They were three of the best years of my life. I was writing. I was taking literature classes. I was going out. I was friends with wonderfully smart people. I didn't work (unless you can call teaching 1 class a semester and putting in 10 hours a week at the literary journal "working"). I loved my life and I loved who I was. But I always knew I would never stay there. Maybe that's what let me love it so much.

So last Friday afternoon, I rented a car in Little Rock and drove the two hours into Memphis. It was my first visit back since moving five years ago. I tried to prime my nostalgia by playing Whiskeytown--which, for better or worse, was largely the soundtrack of my time in Memphis--but it didn't quite fit. I knew before I even saw the city rising on the horizon that I wasn't wishing I could go back in time. That was surprising, because I was sure I would feel that way.

On Friday night I met up four of my dearest friends from grad school. I haven't seen one of them in five years; it's been four since I've seen the others. Since then, Jerome has published a novel, Scott and Ashley got married and have a daughter, and Sarah has three children under the age of three. We live in Massachusetts, Alabama, Texas, and Memphis. But as it is with good friends, it felt like we had been apart no longer than a week. We met at the bar in the lobby of the Peabody Hotel. The Peabody Hotel is renowned for the ducks that live in the lobby fountain. It's the fanciest hotel in Memphis, and there are ducks that live in the fountain. This is the kind of city Memphis is. I don't even know what I mean by that statement, but I know it's 100% true. Every day at 5:00, they roll out a red carpet and herd the ducks into an elevator, where they go up to their rooftop fountain and nest for the night.

From the Peabody, we went across the street to Automatic Slim's. We shared some Thai-spiced calamari and 3 spring rolls. We might have made a mistake by not eating more.

On foot over to the new Madison Hotel and its rooftop bar overlooking the Hernando DeSoto Bridge (the one that makes an "M") and the Mississippi, which I could stare at forever.

Final bar of the night via the street car. Ernestine & Hazel's was a turn-of-the-century general store, then it was a brothel, and it is now a bar. The original paint and plaster are still hanging on--barely. The original claw-foot tub is still in the bathroom, but don't look in there. It's dirty. The lighting is low, bare bulbs with barely 20 watts. Beer only. We had one of the upstairs rooms to ourselves. Back in the day we were all living off $800/mo stipends, so any money we had went to drinks. And we were beautiful and in our early 20s and there was no future beyond the next drink. But now, all of us over 30, that many drinks takes a toll, even though we can finally afford them. Luckily, we could take the street car home. Drunk 30-somethings are not as cute as they seem at the time, I bet.

The next day I had to myself. I drove around all my old haunts, and once again, expected to be teary-eyed and nostalgic. But I wasn't. The mystery and newness that I used to feel about living in Memphis had given way to a kind of low-grade shock: the city is a little rough. Mostly it feels like it has a tired spirit: sunburned, sitting on the banks of the Big Muddy, weary to the bone, just trying to survive.

The duplex that I lived in for two years, the one without a proper shower and that only cost $275 a month, has been restored to a single-family home. It's an adorable little craftsman-style cottage. You literally can't go home again.

That afternoon I went for a walk down S. Main, which is experiencing a rebirth similar to South Congress in Austin. Ten years ago you would have been knifed walking down that street; today it's all cuteness and boutiques and coffee shops. But the turn-of-the-century brick architecture remains: sure, it's all high-ceilinged lofts and American Apparel stores, but it's not as obtrusive as a lot of new development in Austin. Whatever its faults, Memphis has managed to maintain its vernacular architecture--that's something to be applauded.

On Saturday night we went to Ashley's father's house for dinner and drinks. It was the very definition of Southern entertaining: whatever you think might fit under that idea, it was there. Dinner at 10:30, boy-girl-boy seating, roses and tulips and peonies, candles, china, crystal, silver, a centerpiece with gilded seashells. Art on the walls. Low lighting. Just magnificent. But at the same time, so comfortable and relaxed. It is a great gift to be reminded of how much you love your friends. And to know it's mutual. It is one of life's joys to feel like someone really knows you. And I haven't laughed like that in a long time.

So I was surprised that after it all, I teared up a little as I pulled onto the DeSoto Bridge and watched in my rearview as downtown disappeared on the far side of the Mississippi. I think I was sad because I knew I wouldn't be back, and I knew I didn't need to go back. This weekend was closure on something I didn't even know was still open. But: nostalgia without longing; memories without regrets. Somehow, those 48 little hours in Memphis this weekend was a like giant validation for everything that's come in my life since. That feels pretty big.