Journeyman

They were tomorrow's children surely, born by error into a lion country of spears and sand.

-- Loren Eiseley, The Immense Journey.

This was required reading in the early nineties for a creative writing class I took. I was at first confused; Eiseley is an anthropologist and naturalist, a scientist at heart. What was a book of his essays on the history of man doing on the reading list for a creative writing course?

Over the years, I've picked up and re-read parts of this over and over, more than any other book I own. And each and every time, I've come away with a new perspective or new inspirations or simply a feeling of gratitude and awe. Often times, it's just the writing alone that sends me back to the computer to write again. The man may have been a scientist, but he was an artist as well, a poet, a dreamer. The most romantic aspect of anthropology must, I have always felt, been those moments when one picks up a bone, a basket, a spear head, and one sees with all vividness the person who held it, smells the air of a millenia past, feels the ancient ground beneath one's feet and realizes that this person stood here as well. And Eiseley brings you along on that journey back and then props you up again in today, and it has a sense of renewal about it.

I must warn you that the book was first published in 1946, and their are certain politically incorrect aspects to his writing. If you can forgive him this for being a product of his time, then let the language flow over you and new ideas seep into your brain like primordial ooze. Also, for a book written in 1946, it is remarkably fresh.

I am re-reading this today as I embark on a new project. As I had mentioned before, the first six months of this year were spent doing one thing, and I am dedicating the second six months to doing them another way. It's exhilarating in a different way, and if you know me, you know I don't like stale. Move, move, move. Explore new territory. This often means learning new things about yourself, and that, frankly, is scary. But for the moment, I'll take Mr. Eiseley's hand and drop into the pit, and maybe we'll dig side by side for a while.

Today's theme: Zombies! (not as good as tigers, but they're okay)

This post has been majorly zombified. You are warned, if you're here for the story.

I wrote a book review and dated the post for August, but it still posted today. I have now deleted it, and I guess I'll just re-do it on August 1st (I have my reasons, LOL!). If anyone knows how to do that whole post-dating thing, let me know. And no, I'm not talking about being friends with your ex after the break-up. Because after we break up, you are fucking dead to me. But not actually. Like zombie dead. Which means that if I ever see you out again, I will be sorely tempted to put a spike through your brain.

And yay! It's Three Word Wednesday! Remember that you don't need to blog to do it; if you've got a LiveJournal or Deviant Art account, do it there, and go back to 3WW and link. Your words, if you choose to accept them: abuse, cramp, hatred.


Twist of Fate

You can only abuse a body for so long. At some point, it's going to rebel.

Across from me, Janie sips her mocha, legs crossed, one foot jittery. She smiles, lips pulled tight over her teeth. I'm holding my index finger, twisting around and around it.This isn't going well. I knew it. I never should've come, never should've let Rob talk me into this. I mean, it just can't work.

I tried to be presentable. Extra Aramis to cover the smell of putrefaction, a Mariners hat to cover the hole in my skull (I don't care what they say, I am not getting cosmetic surgery -- that hole marks the day I got undead!), and two sneakers even though I've only got one foot. Duct tape is truly wonderful stuff. I saw this article the other day on keeping your ribcage intact using the stuff and...

Janie is horrified when I babble on about the miracle of Duct tape. I can't help it; when I get nervous like this, I tend to go on and on. I change the subject. She doesn't golf. Next. Her favorite movie star is Mel Gibson. What? Doesn't she know -- oh, it's a joke. I laugh. My tongue almost falls out. I stop laughing. It really wasn't that funny, anyway. Bad timing. Like, you can't make Michael Jackson jokes yet.

She asks where I work. Now she's just being catty. She knows how hard it is for us to get work. No one wants to hire someone who might eat their other employees, which, I would like to state, hardly ever happens anymore.

I feel like my poor finger is cramping, but I'm getting worked up, and I can't stop twisting it. Rob's my best friend, and he probably meant well, but he should've known that lifers and undead just don't mix. And this is why. I'm trying to have a conversation, be brilliant, show interest, and what is she doing? Sitting over there, looking at her watch every two minutes.

I ask her if she likes to cook. She says she should get going, she has to be somewhere. I say that my mom used to cook all the time, like, every night. Spaghetti, pork chops -- I'm babbling again. Her eyes fall to the table, and she freezes. I look down. Sure enough, my finger's come unattached. I'm just holding it in my other hand -- which, let's face it, isn't in that great of shape, either -- and she's staring and I try to casually tuck it up my sleeve, but it's too late.

She pushes her mocha away. "Disgusting," I hear her mutter under her breath as she stands. She won't look at me. I say, please, please stay. But she's getting her purse, her jacket. And that's when it hits me.

The red. We call it that. When you just can't be like them anymore, no matter how hard you try, and something breaks inside you. You look at them and see red, red, red. Pure, focused hatred. You're consumed by it.

Janie doesn't notice the change, because she isn't noticing me anymore. I say her name. She starts to pass by me. I grab her arm, and her head whips around to snap something at me, but then she sees. She notices me, finally. She's actually looking me in the eye for the first time since she sat down at the table. I feel the panic hit her, hard. And I yank.

I pull and claw and rip, and when I'm finished, the whole coffee shop's silent. I stand over her, gnawing on a mouthful of Janie's cheek, when the little bell goes off. We all turn. It's my ex, Sarah. She pauses, looks at what's left of Janie on the floor. Snorts. Then she goes up to the counter and orders a vanilla cappuccino with an extra shot of espresso on the side. Minutes go by. The barrista hands it to her with shaking hands. She comes over and gives me the shot. I do it. Caffeine doesn't do anything, but the liquid sears my tongue and that feels good.

"Idiot," she says. "Come on." We go out into the parking lot and make out in her car. I don't know why I ever broke up with her.

*

Another reminder! xTx's Zombie Summer is on-going. Today's entry, Bob and Steve Coming Together by David Backer, ripped my brains out and replaced them with a car battery. I feel pretty good about this.

Running, Writing (I do one, not the other)

Bryan Russell, Writing With Sneakers: as I said in my comment, I'm not a runner, but there's a lot to be said for the metaphor. I've often been called "prolific" (probably the best of the things said about me in recent times, LOL!), and when people ask me how I "do it," I've been very long-winded in my answer. The truth, though, is just this and only this: I write. Nearly every day. As much as I can, usually more than I think I can. There's no science to it.

Sure, I think that part of my success (success here being defined as merely producing xx amount of words and finishing xx amount of projects, not quality of those words or type of recognition for having written them) is because I approach this as my job, though it does not now and almost assuredly never will pay the bills. I read novels, anthologies, online zines by the dozen, agent blogs, editor blogs, author blogs, blogs about fuckall, the back of the cereal box, the back end of the construction guy building a new deck for one of my clients and whose ass doesn't have words on it but if it did those words would be Fuck, am I delicious or what? (yes you are, mister)

And then I write, and I think about all those things and then I get angry and toss them out the window and then later realize they may have been right about that thing, you know, that thing they said. But still, I write.

Read Bryan's thinky thoughts and then go directly to the Rejectionist's blog, which he has nicely linked to and which I am too lazy. And then SACK UP.

I can use that phrase because I have been using "balls to the wall" since I was 15. Some days, B comes home and finds me sitting on the couch, drained and ragged. He says, "How was your day, honey?" and I stare at nothing as I sit, hunched over, and say, "Balls to the wall, man. Balls to the wall." And then I shake my head and take another drag on my cigarette which is really green tea with honey. And he tells me how he hates that phrase and wishes I would stop using it.

I won't.

So look, quit yer bitchin', as my dad likes to say. Sack up, write something, send it off. You could even send it to me. In fact, comment here with it. Show me how ballsy you are. Because I am tired of excuses, except the one which gets me out of mowing the lawn. And yes, this worked before: right here. Dude, I do not know who you are, but your comment was glorious. Other comments stare at you and wish they knew what you were talking about, but it's okay, because I do. Maybe.

Bees Slain; Tiger fic

This week, thousands of bees were murdered at the Hayes Valley Farm in San Francisco.

Incredibly saddening. Yes, bees scare me, but I do, in fact, respect and adore them. I've had a love affair with honey for a good fifteen years, if not more. And we all eat things that bees had a hand in producing. My favorite little pollinators.

It's heartening to see that the folks at Hayes Valley Farm and the SFBC are turning the focus on education, not punishment, and if you don't know exactly what bees do or what a positive element they are in our world, please, read the article and learn more.

*

On a far less depressing note, I've had this story sitting around for a while and I haven't been able to find a place for it. It just doesn't seem to fit anybody's wants or needs except mine, LOL! It was originally inspired by this gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous art:

Terrorsel by Joy Ang

Originally, I wrote this using a technique suggested by Joseph Quintela, chief instigator at Short, Fast and Deadly and editor at Deadly Chaps. He said to write the story, keeping it to 400-600 words, and then cut, cut, cut. But when I cut, I still had too many for my upcoming chapbook, and so I've been polishing it and wondering who in the world would publish it. So, up it goes here.

BTW, I would definitely suggest this technique. Self-editing is difficult -- we love each and every word we write. But if you give yourself permission to write the story however you please as step one and then, in step two, think about cutting, say, half the words, you'll suddenly see how much is unneccessary, how much is fat and where the muscle lies. It gives energy and pacing to your story that didn't exist before, and it certainly is a great lesson in self-editing.

Tiger

"Hold on!"

The boy lurched forward, grabbing the golden pole. Jangling music covered his shrieks as small sneakers banged against the tiger's smooth sides. Up and down, up and down, around the circle. The boy tossed his head back and roared. When the ride finally slowed, he cried, reaching for the black and orange stripes as he was lifted off.

"They're closing, honey. Sorry. Don't cry! We'll get an ice cream on the way out."

Minutes later, the lights shut off all down the boardwalk. The carousel goes dark, a birthday cake, candles blown out in an instant.

The tiger dreams.

Leaping and running, leaping again. Up and down, muscles like oil.

When he catches his prey, the boy shrieks and shrieks.

Fic rec, Poetry rec, dreams and nightmares

Searching for the Giant Squid by Jimmy McCullough, whose entire gallery is mindblowingly strange and interesting.

*

The Inky Deep by Bryan Russell.

Hi. I'm RSB. And I'm a recovering cephalopod addict. Meet my new pusher.

Just when I thought I'd got over my love of all things tentacular, along comes the delicate and spooky brine that is Russell's prose. Told in a unique voice and with words and formatting that are different and yet, somehow, don't disturb the flow of the piece at all, this is not something you'll have read before nor will you be likely to read again.

It's funny to read the comments. Whose side were you on? You can bet you know which side I was rooting for.

*

I Will Prefer To Call It Giving by Ramesh Sood.

Sood's poem touched me on several levels. Mostly, this poem is about choices: how we choose to behave everyday, how we can react to others, and most importantly, how we choose to perceive the world around us.

While some might be tempted to call Sood "victim" in this poem, he transcends that description and rises above. There is a beauty in his attitudes and perception that begs to be shared, and if this doesn't alter your frame of mind for a bit, you must've only skimmed through. I applaud Sood for espousing a view that isn't very popular these days, and through his eyes, I see a better place.

*

Two submissions today, and I look towards August with a fretful but excited eye. Pieces submitted months ago are approaching the August deadline for a handful of places, and most say they'll respond within a month after the deadline. I try not to get too wrapped up in the submission process, the waiting, etc, but there are two pieces I'm especially hopeful for.

My dreams have been so vivid in the last week, and incredibly disturbing. I don't put too much stock in dream interpretation (sorry, Teri!), because most of the parts are obviously lifted from my waking life.

For instance, I have a bird feeder. I love feeding the birds, and watching a crowd of 20 or 30 jostle and flutter is very entertaining. Like everywhere else, we've also got squirrels. We bought a Yankee Flipper, which is a battery-operated feeder with a ring that swings around whenever something heavy enough trips it. It flips the squirrels off. Works marvelously well. The squirrels have learned to just sit on the ground and eat whatever falls, thus leaving the ring for the lighter birds to sit on.

But recently, I went outside to find a row of birds sitting on the fence, none on the feeder or the ground beneath. There were birds on the lines. Birds in the lilac. No birds eating.

Puzzled, I went out to see what the problem was. To my dismay, I found a pile of feathers underneath the feeder. Watching it for the rest of the day, I saw a young squirrel who hasn't learned any manners come and sit beneath the feeder, and any birds who got close were threatened. He was quite the thug.

This pissed me off. I moved the feeder, and any time I saw this particular squirrel in the vicinity, I let my German Shepherd, Lucy, out the door. She's quite the squirrel hunter. After two days, he gave up, and I haven't seen him again. The birds have returned in droves.

This same week, I noticed a lot of wasps around. Their nest wasn't on my property, because I scoured it for signs of a wasp nest. I decided it was probably the neighbor's garage, but I wasn't sure. I should tell you that in my early twenties, I got locked out of my apartment when I went to get a pizza and forgot my key (pizza place was literally across the street). I thought it wasn't a problem, as there's a fire escape and the door to that was unlocked. So I went around back and climbed the fire escape stairs, pizza in one hand. Halfway up, I came face to face with an enormous hive of hornets, just beneath one landing. I froze.

White-faced hornets. Nasty creatures. I don't know how many times I was stung, but my hands swelled up like sausages from the bites, and I was in such shock that I had to be stripped by my boyfriend and sister as I stood, motionless, in the living room and they killed the hornets that were just sitting on my skin and stinging me over and over. I'm not sure I was really, truly conscious throughout.

So. Wasps in the backyard now, thug squirrel...

I had a dream in which the feeder was being swarmed by creatures. They had dark grey squirrel bodies, but giant wasp wings, giant wasp eyes, and worst of all, huge stingers. They were attacking the birds, grasping them with their squirrel paws and stinging them repeatedly, to death.

Even now, I'm trembling a bit. I woke up crying.

Worst of the week, no doubt, but there have been some others which left an impression long after I woke up. I'll be glad when I dream of normal things, such as flying above the earth or baking a cake (I dream of baking a lot...).

3WW

I can already see how addicting this is.

It's another Three Word Wednesday! Today's chosen ones:

bait, jump, victim


*

Mule

Carol was a victim of chance. Nothing more. It was useless to assign significance to her having been chosen; in fact, she was little more than the faceless mule for the more experienced among us. A faceless, virgin mule.

Here’s how it played out: she stood in line at the tiny Cozumel airport, staring out at the ragged palms and rocky slopes she’d soon be leaving behind. Seven days gone, and she had little more to show for it than zero tan lines and a lingering hangover. She’d been a hit at the bars, with her strawberry-blonde hair and bleach-bright smile. Conch salsa and a parade of the fruitiest drinks the tiny island had to offer, afternoons in a hammock watching iguanas climb around, and the murder mystery she’d brought along still sitting at the bottom of her luggage.

Ah, her luggage. Arms loosely crossed, gaze unfocused on the view outside the windows – but she had one foot against her suitcase in typical tourist fashion. Claiming it. Guarding it, her sandal the first line of defense. Not that any was needed. Everyone had been so friendly. You could really relax down here, not worry about a thing.

He recalled her from Thursday night. On the rooftop bar, shouting down to passers-by at midnight, pulling down her tube top. As if this was Mardi Gras in New Orleans.

Perfect.

“Hey, don’t I remember you? Didn’t you buy me a drink one night?”

She turned, startled. “I… I don’t think…”

“Nah.” He flashed a charming smile. “You don’t buy drinks for men. They buy drinks for you.” The smile ramped up a notch. “Bailey Leveque.”

She took his hand hesitantly, said nothing.

“Wait. Are you going to Boston too? You’re kidding?” He slapped his thigh. “I live in Boston. I work at Donovan and Radecki’s. The law firm?” He said a prayer that she wasn’t a lawyer or someone familiar with the law firms in Boston.

She wasn’t.

“Actually, I live outside of Boston. I don’t know that law firm. Or any, really.” She shrugged, smiling. “Never been sued. Oh, I’m Carol, by the way. Sorry.”

“Well, Carol, that’s a good thing. Because I know a thing or two about suing people, and it’s not pretty. Say, I wonder if they have drinks on the plane…”

This is how easy it is to bait someone. A thing or two in common, a resume that matches the expensive sunglasses and designer shorts and shirt, and maybe an accent. Women love men with accents. Australian, in this case. Carol wouldn’t know the difference, and by the time they’d moved up in line a few spots, he could probably even talk her into a quickie in the airplane bathroom.

Except that he wasn’t getting on the plane.

In his pocket, his cell rang. “Excuse me.” He made a pretense of checking it. “Oh, god. Look, I’ve got to take this. I’m going to step outside. Don’t worry, I won’t ask you to hold my place. Listen, I’ll be back in a few minutes, and I’m sure I’ll see you on the plane.” He squeezed her arm. “Carol.” A wink.

He smelled like sun tan lotion and brisk cologne as he went by. She watched him go, bag over his shoulder, straight through the automatic doors.

And she stared right over my head.

As she moved to the counter, I checked my own cell, shook my head in agitation, and stepped out of line.

No one noticed me. No one ever really notices me. They notice Duane – sorry, Bailey. But never me.

She looked over her shoulder one more time before she went through security. Sorry, honey. He’s long gone.

I peered back one last time, just to see if she’d made it through. The light flashed green, and on she went.

And then I called our friend in Dallas, where this flight makes a layover. Unfortunately, Carol’s luggage was about to become very, very lost. If she knew what the alternative was – five to ten in a Mexican prison – she’d be satisfied with just a missing bag.

Me? I’m satisfied with another day’s work here in Paradise. It sure beats checking groceries in a three-lane supermarket in Nowheresville, Alabama.

And Duane, he’s happy that he’s finally getting paid to be charming. Shame he’s been skimming a bit off the top, though. This afternoon, he’s going for a dive on the north side of the island. I hear he’s got a few friends going with him. Duane’s been a bit jumpy lately – well, I’d be looking over my shoulder all the time too, if I was up to what he was. But he can trust his buddies.

Probably.

*

A/N: I haven't been to Cozumel in about fifteen years. There used to be one tiny little airport, and you walked through "security" and a light randomly blinked red or green. Red meant you were being pulled aside to have your luggage checked.

I smuggled. A toaster once, and a twin-size bed set. I know, hard core, right? My other half was a dive instructor, and his wealthier students could opt to have their final certification in Cozumel or the Bahamas, so we'd fly down for a dive vacation every few months. Our guide was always Miguel, and he had a wife and children. Mexico's poor, Cozumel's a tiny island -- yeah, they didn't have much. So we'd put things in our luggage as a gift for him and his family.

But Mexico has (or had) some laws about the contents and value of what you could bring down. So we'd parcel everything out in different pieces of luggage. I was always terrified that I'd be stopped, and I'd have to explain why I had a microwave in my suitcase.

Three Words Wednesday -- it rules. Write your own, then go over to 3WW and link. And then -- tell somebody else.

Oh, and like Carol, I never had tan lines either...

3ww, poetry rec

Three words, once a week. Infuse with wine (my guideline, not theirs).

3ww words of the week:

praise, gentle, vulgar

My take:

Pulp Romance


The fly on the window praised my cooking. I said, I find your thousand eyes vulgar, and your habits offensive.

But when I went to bed that night, I deliberately left the cherry pie uncovered on the table. I fell asleep and dreamed of being gently fed syrupy sweet orbs already masticated, black barbed legs touching my mouth again and again.





*

I want to especially recommend you read Megan Kennedy's Source, an absolutely divine poem. Best thing I've read today. Just beautiful.