At the funeral, 7

Michael is beside me, as he has been for so many countless millenia. He is not pleased.

“Are you going? Tell me you're not going.” he asks. I sense his irritation, like a distant lightning strike, and I am grateful we’re alone, up in the now empty choir loft, looking down on the congregation as they shuffle out. Paxton is in front, behind the pallbearers who are beginning to carry her mother’s white coffin out of the church to the hearse that waits outside. She’ll be leaving for the cemetery in a few moments. I think she’ll be going alone; her friends have gotten caught up in the crowd and can’t reach her.

“Why should it matter to you?” I ask, although it’s a stupid question and we both know it.

“Gabriel, you’re a jackass,” Michael says, and I am shocked by his language, here in the house of God. I tear my eyes away from the solemn procession and glance over, seeing that he has surprised himself as well. “You remember as well as I do what happened last time.”

“It’s not like that,” I protest. “There’s no chance of that. It’s not like the Fallen. This is different.”

“How?” he demands. “Exactly how is it different, Gabriel? It always starts the same way -"

“No, it doesn’t. A friendship does not have to deteriorate into an affair, no matter what the others have done before us. We’re here to help, Michael. How can I let her suffer alone?”

“Then go, fool,” he says. “Hold her hand, do what you think she needs you to do. But for the love of God, don’t expose yourself, Gabriel. And don’t pretend to be human; it never ends well. For any of us.”

I glare at him. “I won’t pretend to be anything I’m not,” I say. “And I’m –“

“Smitten, is what you are,” Michael says, almost spitting with disgust. “With a human, and a witch, of all people.”

“There is no reason for this conversation to continue,” I say, with less heat than I expect. I'm no longer angry. I am adrift, hopeless. “Whatever I feel for this woman cannot manifest in anything other than friendship – you and I both know that.”

Michael seems to have decided that bombast is getting him nowhere. “Does she know that?” he asks, his voice low. "How can she help but want you, Gabriel? And what happens to her, when you regain your sanity, when you see that your mission calls you to other souls than hers?”

"She is stronger than that," I say.

"I doubt it. Or maybe she sees through you, maybe she knows that you want her; have you considered that? You may not know her as well as you think you do."

"That's enough, Michael," I say. In the space of a thought, I move to the church foyer, where the altar boy is opening the doors to allow the funeral party to leave the sanctuary. Michael follows, and I'm not surprised. He knows he's getting to me.

"Greater beings than you have attempted many kinds of unions with humans and failed. Jesus and the Magdalene were doomed from the start, He knew it, and still he tried."

"Michael," I hiss. "She is alone. She is in pain. Deserting her would be a sin against the nature that God gave me. There is nothing else you can do here. Go."

Michael stares at me with furious exasperation. "What will you do?"

I look away from him, at the pallbearers carrying the white coffin through the double doors. Paxton is a few steps behind them. The woman who sat with her during the mass is gone; perhaps she was caught up in the crowd as well. Paxton's eyes are blank and empty; I have seen dolls with more expressive faces. I wonder if the woman I know is even in there anymore. She passes by me without even glancing up, though a week ago she would have known I was there before the doors even opened. The bit of lace she wears in her hair has come halfway out, and it seems shameful to me that there is no one there to fix it for her.

"I don't know," I admit.

Michael sighs. "Good luck, Gabriel," he says, resigned. "And try not to be more of an idiot than you already are."

Saturday Night at Smitty's, part 7

Nah, I don’t remember nuthin’ after I hit Little Earl with my pool cue. I know that he deserved it and Shelly’s always been sweet’r’n pie to me and I don’t abide no man hittin’ a woman like that, ‘specially out in a public place. What happens behind closed doors is a man’s own bidnis, I ‘spose, but what he did that night, well that just aint right. And I said so right before I broke my favorite cue over his big dumb head, and that’s how I ended up here, I guess. We was just minding our own bidnis, havin a nice friendly game until he had to go and show up.


Listen man, my head hurts real bad and I don’t feel like talkin’ no more. Yeah, I heard things got busted up pretty good over there and I guess I’m lucky to be alive today, but it don’t feel like it right now, no sir, it hurts like hell and I don’t like your tone, to be honest. Shelly aint done nuthin’ wrong if’n she wants to take a ride then I ‘spose that’s her own bidnis too.

Hey, you got a smoke? I can’t think right without a smoke and these damn nurses won’t even let a man take a piss without holdin’ his hand, I pert near shrivel up ever time, standin there with stagefright too ‘scart to even let ‘em see the ol’ one eyed monster.

I need one of Smitty’s burgers too. Get me them things and maybe you got yerself some more information, mister. All I did was to defend the lady’s honor, and got my head all busted up fer my troubles. Just let me be, man. You aint gittin nothing more from me. Somebody call me that nurse, the cute lil redhead, cuz I gots to piss like a friggin racehorse.

haiku near midnight

writing to a wall
a solitary nightmare
can i wake up now?

Saturday Night at Smitty's, part 6

Its nights like this make me think of quitting the whole scene, sell the bar and head on down to Mexico. But I know that’ll never happen. I’ll die right here in the only place that’s ever felt like home to me, here at my bar. You know, the one with the shattered overhead light from last night’s shotgun blast, wide plank wood floors still splattered with beer and glass.


Today I’m taking the day off. They say the doors are never closed here, but not today. Seems like everyone in town was here last night and that was good for business until they all started in on each other. Now Ol’ Jimmy and JD are both in the hospital, Little Earl is in jail, and no one seems to know where Shelly ran off too.

The weirdest thing though was that howling. When people started smashing up the place I had to call a stop to the mass destruction of property and I did it the only way I knew how, since JD wasn’t helping too much. (Remind me what I pay him for?) So I had to take out the shotgun and shoot up my own goddamn place. Everybody stopped at that and for that one moment they were all quiet, I know we all heard it. It was the weirdest thing that it happened at just that time. It was kind of like a wolf, that high pitched lonesome song, but then at the end it turned into something more like a woman’s scream, sending chills down more than a few spines by the looks of the clientele.

Then everybody split, leaving me this freakin’ mess to clean up. Truth is, I’m just tired. I’m tired of the drunks I’ve built my life around. I just need a rest. I don’t know what I heard or saw. I just know I need some time.

At the funeral, 6

“As awful as the weather is outside, I can’t wait to get back out in it,” my son whispers. He sits next to me on the pew, doing a better job than he used to at sitting still, but for a thirty-five-year-old man, he’s very fidgety. I tell him so, and he glares at me out of the corner of his eyes. I try not to smile; it’s a solemn occasion, after all, but I enjoy teasing him, and I hope I always will.

There might be two hundred souls in this church, not including the ghosts. I don’t think I’m the only one who can see them, but if a ghost-watcher were anything like me, she certainly wouldn’t be mentioning it to strangers anyway. Although it’s tempting – I can see it now, leaning over to share the peace of Christ with the older gentleman behind us and saying, “That’s a lovely boy sitting next to you; do you know him?” Once again, I try not to smile.

The ghosts make the church seem almost oppressive – but watching the people around me is so entertaining that I can hardly mind them. They’re not bothering anyone – not today, anyway – which I appreciate, given the circumstances. So many of the younger ones these days refuse to show any respect for the newly dead, especially if the person has already passed on.

I should have called. I should have visited. She wouldn’t have agreed to see me, but I’m sure I’m stubborn enough to have gotten through the doorman and up to her apartment. I’m old, but I’m not that old yet. At the very least, I might have met her daughter, which would have been such a comfort. It’s selfish, I know, and at the moment I don’t care in the slightest.

Alex nudges me and hands me a slightly wrinkled tissue. He really is the sweetest thing sometimes. I wipe my nose and let the tears run. There’s no point in stopping them; they’re going to flow whether I want them to or not. At least I’m not the only one crying. Even some of the ghosts are looking terribly sad, and of course they would – some of them would have known her like they knew their own family. After all, Catherine went to confession regularly and I’ve never known a ghost who wouldn’t eavesdrop given half a chance.

It’s very strange how they’re all looking at the priest today. In a church, they’re usually more interested in the congregation, especially if they’re strangers. I’m sure it must be like watching a new TV show or opening a new book – a good way to pass the time. But now they’re all watching him. He has sprinkled the coffin with holy water, blessed it with incense, and is finishing up the last prayer, I think. The ghosts begin to surge forward en masse. Even the ones in the choir loft are floating down; it’s very lovely, but I wouldn’t want to be in that priest’s position right now. Some of them look very resentful, and there are one or two who seem to be actively enraged. Can he walk through that crowd of souls and not feel it?

Apparently he can.

Oh. Goodness. That hurts very badly indeed. I clutch my son’s arm hard enough to make him grunt.

“Headache?” he whispers.

I nod, because it’s the only thing he’ll understand, but this is more than a headache; it’s a pressure on the inside of my brain, and it goes all the way down into my belly. Like a stake through the heart, but I think if it were just through the heart it wouldn’t be quite as bad. I gasp. Curling up only makes it hurt worse.

Alex puts his arm around me and says he’ll get us out soon, and I lay my head on the soft wool of his suit jacket and breathe it in, finding some comfort in the smells of dry-cleaning, coffee, and my son’s light sweat.

A blessedly cool puff of air passes over the back of my bare neck and the pain begins to let up a bit. I think it’s Alex, but when I look up, I realize my mistake. The ghosts have come to me. They stand close around me, their translucent colors superimposed over the faces of the people around me; it’s very unnerving. I’ve never been this close to so many of them and I try, very hard, not to let my fright show on my face. I doubt I’m successful.

The smallest one, the boy I saw sitting next to the older man, looks at me intently, as if to make sure he has my full attention, which of course he does.

He raises his arm and points to the priest, who is walking in front of the pallbearers who are carrying Catherine’s coffin. Every ghost around me does the same thing, until I am surrounded by a crowd of undead beings who are pointing their fingers straight at the priest, their arms tracking him as he walks slowly out the door.

I don’t know exactly what they’re trying to tell me, except that there’s something they need me to do, and it obviously has to do with that priest. But I nod briefly to the boy, who blinks in response, and moves away. The crowd of spirits separates into individual souls, and they return to what are probably their accustomed places in the church.*

I consider it for a moment, but the pain has receded and I can finally get a full breath again. “No,” I say, and I smile, because he’s so genuinely concerned, and so handsome I can still barely believe he’s my son, even after all these years. “I’m fine. Let’s go on to Mount Saint Mary’s. I’m sure the interment will be short, and then we can go get some ice cream.”

Alex rolls his eyes. “Ice cream. I’m not ten anymore, Mom. Can we compromise and go to Mona Lisa? You can get your sugar fix and I can get a decent plate of ravioli.”

“Perfect.”

*I revised the end of this scene today (3/30/10) to keep this lady around - she and her son need to be at the graveside ceremony.

doncha just hate it when...

you're reading a really good book about characters and viewpoint and suchlike and then you remember that the guy who wrote it is a screaming batfuck mad supercalifragilibertarian even though he's a pretty good writer?

i fucking HATE it when that happens.

At the funeral, 5

Why why why didn’t I just meet Jillian in Queens? We could have had coffee, gone to the cemetery together, skipped all this Catholic craziness. I could have slept in. Could have gone to temple and lit some joss sticks instead faking it for these lunatics and their death cult.

Doors are closed. It’s a sign, right? Wouldn’t want to interrupt the service; there’s no telling what they’re doing. I’d probably walk in right in the middle of a moment of silence. I should just call Jill and go to Queens now; we still have time to hit that coffeehouse on 33rd, and there’s that incredibly hot barrista, she might be working today. Man, the ass on that woman, a guy could go nuts just thinking about it.

But it’s Paxton. She’s in there somewhere, up at the front, and maybe her mom’s in a coffin a few feet away. Does she have any family coming? I never thought to ask Sara. I hate to think of her up there by herself. No, surely she’s got someone with her. Maybe even Sara and Robert; she’ll be fine, she’s a rock.

I could just sit here on this hard bench and wear holes in my butt cheeks for the next hour. Then I can catch her on the way out, at least so she knows I’m here, that I showed up. Or I could go in. What’s the worst that could happen? It’s not like I’m going to be struck by lighting. They’re not going to come after me with pitchforks. They’re not all going to turn around and stare at me – maybe a couple of people will, but not all of them.

No. This is bullshit. What it comes down to is that Paxton may or may not know I’m here, but the least I can do is go in and be there. Not because she might need me – I know she won’t – but because she’s practically a sister to me, and that’s what you do for your sister. I’d walk through fire for her. I can walk through those doors. And if I do nothing else, I can at least bear witness.

Saturday Night at Smitty's, part 5

We could see the full moon, and we were joking about how it makes people crazy. JD handed me the joint as he blew a long stream of smoke toward the sky. It seemed to go on forever. Even when he started talking his words came out in puffs of smoke. Then I realized it was the steam of his breath in the cold night air. He was talking about the loggers, how restless they are since the sawmill closed down and there’s not enough work.


I was feeling pretty restless myself, itching to be on the road again, tired of this town and all the people in it. I liked Smitty’s better on quiet nights, when me and Smitty could just hang out and shoot the shit. Even Smitty seemed on edge tonight. I pulled out a smoke and offered one to JD. He took one with a massive, rugged hand. “I really ought to get back to the door,” he said, and I agreed. I needed another cold one. We could hear the volume of noise rising as we got closer to the front door, and I noticed JD pick up the pace a bit.

When he opened the door in front of us, all I saw was a blurr of bodies and I didn’t go any further. JD had to go in, it was his job, and I didn’t envy him any of it. I saw some guy punch a woman in the face, and another woman pick up a chair and smash it over the guy’s head. Then JD started going around with the bat, trying to break up the fights, but he didn’t get a chance to use it – somebody came up behind him and smashed him over the head. I saw him fall over on top of a woman who looked like she was trying to crawl out of there. That’s when I knew it was definitely time to hit the road again. I stuck out my thumb and haven’t looked back since.

At the funeral, 4

There are veils upon veils of illusion in this place. With this many people, they're changing all the time, overlapping each other. It's getting hard for me to see through them. We're right in the middle of the congregation; there's no getting out until the mass is over. Robert said when his grandfather died, the mass went on for what felt like half the day, but then he was eleven at the time. He guessed it was more like an hour. I can manage for that long. If I close my eyes and bow my head, it will look like I'm praying. And maybe I should pray – although it makes me uncomfortable to pray to Lady Brigid when I'm in a Catholic church. I don't know why – in the side chapel is a lovely statue of the Virgin Mary and I don't think she would mind. Still, it seems disrespectful to pray to a Goddess in a house where only one God is acknowledged. Not that it matters what you call it --

That's odd. There's a dark, shadowy corner of the church towards the back chapel, but something's glowing there. It's a familiar sort of light – I can't be entirely sure, but it might well be the same one I saw in Paxton's apartment during the ritual, the one she didn't want to tell the others about.

"Robert," I whisper. And Lady bless him, he's so tuned into me that he hears, even though I've barely made a sound. He doesn't say anything; unlike me, he has manners, and he wouldn't interrupt the service. But he looks at me and raises an eyebrow. "Look," I say, nodding toward the light.

"What is it?" he says. "I don't see anything."

"Oh. I wondered if you would," I say. "I think I have to go find out what that is."

"What what is? Sara, look, there's Paxton coming in. They'll be starting soon. Can it wait?"

"Probably not," I say. "I'll be back in a bit."

Robert sighs with no little exasperation, but there's love in it, too, and he lets me go. He knows I'll tell him all about it later. I push my way out of the pew as politely as I can, although it's hard to do this when the larger people don't notice I'm here. I don't mind my height, or lack thereof, except in situations like this. I do so hate crowds.

I circle around the back of the church and approach the light from behind. I don't want to scare it off, whatever it is. There are, of course, many possibilities I can eliminate – no fairy would be found dead in a church, and elementals don't usually like company.

The light is brighter the closer I get, shifting, folding in on itself, and it's definitely the same one I saw before. The colors are the same – transclucent blue, aquamarine, silver, like watching a frozen waterfall in impossible motion. I'm feeling slightly giddy.

"Hello," I say, and in less than a moment, the light is gone. In its place stands a tall, well-made young man, his eyes narrowing at me with suspicion. Even though I know the eyes are an illusion, the sentiment is real.

"You're Sara," he says, and his voice is like a low bell.

"Yes. And you are...?"

"It doesn't matter," he says, and turns towards the front of the church, where Paxton is finally sitting down in the first pew. The lady with her is very kindly pinning a bit of black lace into her hair – of course Paxton would have forgotten a veil. I would give a lot to be there with her right now, holding her hand.

I look back at the young man – or whatever he is – and I see that he's feeling exactly the same thing.

"Why don't you go to her?" I ask. "I'm sure she would welcome your company."

"I don't think so," he says, and although I can't tell what color his eyes are, the desperate sorrow in them unbalances me, and my own eyes begin to well with tears. But I don't know why. "She doesn't want me there."

"May I ask why?" I say. "No, I'm sorry, of course I don't mean to pry."

"She doesn't want me there because I'm not real. Not in the sense that she's real, and that you are real. I'm not exactly -"

"Human, yes, that much is evident. But – real? I'm afraid I don't understand."

"The last time I saw her, the day before her mother died, she told me that I was just pretending. That I didn't know what the stakes are, that I didn't know what it means to feel something so deeply it consumes you, what it means to be human," he says, his eyes never leaving the front of the church. "She told me to go away."

I bite my tongue to keep from laughing – it's not the first time I've fought the urge to laugh at an inappropriate time. Robert says it's nerves, and I'm sure he's right.

"And you thought she meant it," I say, once I can be sure of my composure.

"Of course she did," he says. "She's not the kind of person to say things she doesn't mean."

"Not on purpose, I'm sure," I say. "But we all – even you, I suspect – say things that don't show what we really feel. And things have changed for her since she last saw you."

"Yes," he says. "But I don't want to take advantage of that."

"Of course not," I agree. "But I think you're not being as brave as you could be."

He straightens, and his eyes meet mine. They aren't as dark as they were before, as if the light of his being is beginning to radiate through his body, dissolving the illusion. In moments, the human figure is gone, and the glorious light of his being is back beside me. It pulses once, then disappears. I wonder if he was saying good-bye.

I breathe deeply, but the incense in the church is almost more than I can bear. I want to leave, to consider this alone, to get out of the press of people and their layers upon layers of masks. But I need Robert more.

I wait for a moment when the congregation is standing, then I make my way back to Robert. I hold his hand tightly. My heart begins to pound in my chest, and I think he must hear it, because he looks down at me, concerned.

I pull him down to me and whisper directly into his ear.

"I think I've just met an angel."

Saturday Night at Smitty's, part 4

When Bobby left for another 3 week job in his big rig, I figured I’d just take advantage of the quiet, rent one of those romantic comedies he hates, and eat bon-bons while nursing my injuries. Then Lilly calls up and says “put on your sunglasses, girl, we’re going out drinking.” How she knew I had a black eye again is a mystery to me, but I guess nobody has secrets in a small town like this one. So, I thought, what the hell.


Melinda came too and pretty soon I was done feeling sorry for myself and feeling pissed off at all of mankind. Man, in particular. Lil was ordering a second round of tequila shots when this table of guys next too us starts making rude comments. Then there’s a ruckus over by the pool table and I see that Little Earl has just hit Shelley, then this guy at the table next to us starts laughing about it and I say, “you think it’s funny for a man to hit a woman, huh? Do you think THIS is funny?” And I take off my sunglasses to reveal my blooming shiner and you know what the motherfucker says? He says “you probably deserved it.” So I didn’t even think, you know, I just picked up my beer bottle and hauled off and smashed him over the head with it. That’ll show him. Beer and blood start running down his face and he’s not laughing anymore, he looks like he’s really going to give me some hell. But I know hell. I’ve been there and back and he can’t hurt me. Just then Lilly and Melinda and all his friends jump in and start hitting and kicking and smashing so much I don’t even know who’s who, I just keep trying to make sure whoever I hit is a man. Because I’m sure they all deserve it for one thing or another.

Saturday Night at Smitty's, part 3

My man Brody here and me were just cruisin’ up the coast after hittin’ some sweet waves, headed toward Humbolt, man, when we saw this old honky tonk and thought we’d step in for a cold one and a little “cultural experience.” (laughs) Yeah man, yeah, like we totally got more than we bargained for. I can’t wait to tell the guys this one.


Oh right, what happened. There was this chick playin’ pool with this skinny old dude, cigarette hangin’ out of his mouth, lookin’ like he’s about to keel over from emphysema.

Dude, she WAS hot. In like, a 80s video kinda way. You could see her whale tail sticking out over the top of her skirt, right below her tramp stamp so you KNOW there wasn’t much underneath there. Man, I wasn’t the only one ready to ride that wave, you know what I mean man? (high-fives his buddy)

Bra here goes up to the bar for a coupla brewskis while I’m enjoying the show. He starts yelling to me but I can’t hear him over the jukebox playin’ country music and all the people talking – man it was a riot in there already, even before the whole brewhaha went down. So I finally figure out he wants to know if I want Bud or Coors and when I turn back around, the skinny old dude’s hittin some freakin’ burly-ass logger over the head with his pool cue. Chaos ensues (laughs, high-fives Brody). Dude! Un-freakin-believable.

Me and Brody, we got this communication thing man, we don’t even need to use words when things get gnarly, like out on the big waves dude, we just signal each other and down we go, movin’ toward the back of the bar to, like, relative safety, man. Then the bartender pulls out a shotgun from under the bar and one shot cleared the whole place out. Cultural fucking experience, man.

At the funeral, 3

This robe itches. And it's hot. It's not fair Mom signed me up for this without asking. There's a game on at three and I know I'm gonna miss the first quarter, plus I lost all my practice time getting here so early. I didn't do anything, and she knows it. Matthew ought to be the one stuck swinging this stupid ball. The smoke is killing me. Father Blackwell calls it incense and there's some stupid special recipe he uses but it smells like horse crap to me, especially when it's getting all up in my nose. I'm gonna smell like this all day and if I take a shower Dee'll just make fun of me and tell everyone I'm jacking off in the bathroom. She's such a bitch.

What's the big deal about the body, anyway? He said they did the vigil last night, it's not like they haven't all seen her laid out already. It's creepy having the coffin open anyway. Not as bad as Grandma, but still weird. At least it doesn't smell like anything. Maybe that's what the incense was for to begin with, before they started with the chemicals and stuff – maybe it smelled so bad no one noticed how nasty the rotten body was.

The altar, finally, I swear it's like walking down the aisle took a freaking hour. Crap. How many times am I supposed to swing this thing? Is he really paying attention? Hell yes, of course he is. At least I didn't have to dress him this time. Nate says he smells like old sweaty onions. Barf. OK, it's never more than four passes in front of the altar, so I'll stop at three and just hope it's not too far off.

Wow. This place is packed. I've never seen this many people here, except at Christmas. Aw, man, he's doing the mass in Latin, I hate it when they do that. I can't even keep track of what he's saying when it's in English. Please God let this be over soon. Matthew was right, I should have worn kneepads if I'm gonna be kneeling for this long. He said they only give deacons and old people the padded kneelers. So of course Father Blackwell gets one.

I can still feel it in my knuckes when he grabbed my hands. Swear to God I thought he was going to break my fingers. And I didn't do anything, all I wanted was to use the piano in the music room, Father McKinney said I could.

What's he saying now? Damn, I lost track. And he's looking at me like I'm supposed to know what I'm doing. I am so screwed.

At the funeral, 2

For a dead woman, she looks fantastic. My aunt Melanie went from cancer, younger than Mrs. Hollister, and she looked like she was about seventy by the time she finally died. Mrs. Hollister looks like she was in her forties, even though I know she was over sixty. I don't get it. Maybe it was her faith in God. Maybe I should consider going back to church. My husband would shit bricks.

I wish to hell I knew how she did it. I'd love to look that good in a coffin – not that I expect to be buried with this kind of pomp and circumstance. I don't expect to be buried at all, actually, although I'd prefer not to think about that at the moment. Not easy, under the circumstances.

I wonder how it started for her. I wonder if it was like mine, striking out of the blue without a single warning symptom, no risk factors, no sense to it at all. Because if I hadn't felt the lump with my own fingers, if I hadn't seen the scan yesterday with my own eyes, I wouldn't believe I was sick at all. I don't feel any different. I walk, I run, I breathe, I get the kids to school, I go to work – but they tell me it's stage 2 already, and how is that even possible?

I heard someone say on the way in that she stopped treatment back in September. But I think I misheard them – they must have been talking about someone else. Because that night at the shelter, Abby told me Mrs. Hollister was pretty far gone, and that was... when was that, anyway, August? How do you keep going for six months with terminal cancer? Jesus God, I hope I never find out. I'm glad I didn't have to bring the kids, but I could really use some company. Abby should have come instead. She knew Mrs. Hollister better than I did anyway. Shame she's in Florida. For me, not for her.

The choir starts, and I realize I have to pee. Damn. I can't make it through a Catholic funeral mass without a piss first. No line at the bathroom, small miracle. I get in and out quickly and try to walk quietly back across the entryway to the church but these damned heels seem so loud on the floor. It's embarrassing, but there's no one here anyway; everyone's already in the church. I can sneak in and sit at the back. Perfect – I'll get out early, too.

Oh. Someone's even later than I am – or she doesn't want to go in either. The woman sits on the polished wooden bench down the hall from the church doors. She's got her heels off, and she's rubbing one of her feet. It doesn't look like she's any happier about wearing the damned things than I am.

"That looks like a great idea," I say without thinking.

She glances up at me and smiles vaguely. It's enough of an invitation for me, and I sit down on the bench next to her. Her hair is pulled back into a tight French twist, the kind of style that would look absurd on my frumpy head, but she does it justice. Her eyes are empty, and there are dark smudges under them. It doesn't look like she's been sleeping very well.

"I'm Lana," I say. "Lana Darling."

Her eyes sharpen a bit at that and she focuses on me for half a second. Then she blinks, and the vacancy sign is back on in the motel window. Not much going on there. She won't mind me slinking away, then; I doubt she'll even notice. I've seen people at the shelter like this – weird, hollow, but mostly harmless. I turn back to her to say good-bye and then I catch a glimpse of her face in a perfect profile. My stomach drops. Damn. I never know what to say, but clearly I have to say something.

"You must be Mrs. Hollister's daughter," I blurt. "You've got her face."

She looks at me as if she's forgotten I'm here. "Oh," she says, so softly I wonder if I imagined it. "Thank you." I'm guessing she's said that about a million times today.

"I'm so sorry for your loss," I say. "I work at the Shelter and your mother meant so much to us. She was..." Good Christ. I give up.

The choir ends their piece then starts up another one. I check my watch and it's seven after one. I don't know why they haven't started.

Oh. I think I do know, after all.

I stand up. "Are you ready to go in?" I ask. "I think they're waiting on you to start the service."
She raises her eyes to me and I'm sorry I said anything at all. In this moment, I can see how she must have looked when she was little, five or six maybe, those pretty green eyes so trusting and open. I feel like I'm about to tell a kid there's no Santa Claus.

"Let's go," I say, holding out my hand to her. "The sooner you start, the --"

"The sooner it's done," she finishes, taking my hand. She stands up and leans on me to put her shoe back on. I tuck her hand firmly in the crook of my arm. "Thank you," she says, as if it's normal for a perfect stranger to lead her into her own mother's funeral.

"You're welcome," I say automatically, patting her cold hand. I wonder if it will be like this for my daughter, when I go. Not that it'll be soon – I'm in good health, aside from the obvious, and I'll handle the surgery and the treatment just fine. I'm here for a long while yet. And as long as I'm stuck in this church for two hours, I might as well be of some use to someone, even if she has no idea who I am. It's probably better that way, for both of us.

Saturday Night at Smitty's, part 2

Christ, what a mess. By the time I got there, there weren’t much to be done but pick up the pieces. Poor old Jimmy had his head stoved in like a dropped watermelon on the fourth of July and the whole place looked like fireworks had gone off. Chairs and tables were smashed, glass and beer and blood scattered all over the floors and walls. All the lights that still worked were on. Smitty still held his shotgun behind the bar, looking like he had the situation under control. He just stood there watching people crawling off, like this was the sort of thing that happened every day around here.


Nobody even thought to call me. I just happened to be driving by, taking the patrol car out for a cruise, when I noticed an inordinate amount of people limping away from Smitty’s before closing time. Just about everybody in town had been there, as far as I could tell, but nobody seemed to know what had happened. Nobody was telling me anyway. Shoot, I know I’m not supposed to take it personally, but sometimes it’s real lonely being Sheriff of this town.

Smitty pointed his shotgun toward the far wall, over by the pool table. Little Earl, all 220 pounds of him, slumped there with his head on his chest, either passed out or too dazed to be much trouble. I enlisted the help of a couple of young surfer dudes who were hiding in the corner to help drag him into the back of the squad car.

They seemed to be the only ones who hadn’t gotten involved in the fight, so I took their statements, for whatever that was worth. Since they weren’t locals they couldn’t name anybody and their descriptions were hazy at best. Probably stoned, but hell, that was the least of my concerns.

Saturday Night at Smitty's, part 1

Who, Shelly? Yeah, I saw that slut at Smitty’s Saturday night, drunk as a skunk. Her, not me. Didn’t know her ass from her elbow, with all the guys following her around like a bitch in heat. She was wearing one of those tube tops, like from the 70s, all retro and rainbow, barely covered her friggin tits. Some girls don’t know when to quit, you know?


So she’s playin’ pool with ol’ Jimmy, stickin’ her ass out under that tight blue jean miniskirt while she takes a shot and HE walks in. I tried to get his attention but he weren’t havin’ nothin’ to do with nobody but that skankhoe bitch, and he had some serious business to attend to with her ass, for sure.

So she comes on with this lovey dovey bullshit about to make me puke up my four budweisers but I held em’ down then got the laugh of my life when he hauls off and smacks her right across her painted face.

I see the blood spurt outa her mouth plain as day, nevermind the smoke. She was fuckin’ pissed. Never seen her like that before. Turned on him like a goddamned animal, nearly frothin’ at the mouth. Next thing you know, there’s beer bottles smashin’ over heads and fists flyin’. I never seen nothin’ like it, ‘cept in the movies.

What’d I do? Well I hid under the goddamn barstool, like any sane person would. Fuck! People’s throwin’ glass and shit. The place is about to explode! I tried crawlin’ outa there on my hands and knees but some big fucking drunk dude fell right over me, pinnin’ me down for as long as I can remember. I woke up and it was all over. I crawled outa that freakin’ hole and went home.

Who’d a known a bitch like that could be worth so much trouble

At the funeral, 1

This isn't just another funeral. It's got an odd ambivalence to it – some people are greeting each other with smiles and hugs, others are giving somber pats on the back, still others are sitting by themselves in the pews, staring at the backs of the people in front of them. I hear a peal of laughter echo through the church, which shocks me and the people around me, but it's like a glass of cool water first thing in the morning and I want to hear more.

I'm still waiting to find a seat. There's a crowd of people who haven't been seated yet, myself among them, and we're moving slowly. It's early yet, so there's no rush, but I'd like to claim a spot at the end of a pew and be one of those quiet ones before I have to stand up and speak. I need a few more minutes to collect myself, to convince myself that I can do this and maintain some shred of dignity – not for myself, but for Catherine.

Her name in my thoughts makes my hands tingle and burn, even after all this time. I gave up on her more than ten years ago, but not one day has gone by that I haven't thought of her and what we could have had, if her life hadn't been so cursed with grief and loss. She never stopped mourning John Hollister, but that wasn't all of it – she was haunted by something other than his death, as tragic and senseless as it was. There was something else.

I used to wonder if it was worry for her daughter. But several years ago I met Paxton Hollister and I don't think Catherine would eat herself up with anxiety over Paxton's future. She's a bright girl, went to Barnard, I think it was, graduated early. Not a surprise given her mother's intelligence. And she has that spark, that essential light that most children seem to have, the one that gets buried under experience and disillusionment the older they grow. By the time they're teenagers, the light is so dim you almost can't tell it was ever there at all. It may have been so with Paxton as well during her adolescence, but when I met her she was twenty-seven, and as graceful and brilliant as a sunbeam. Somehow she found joy in her life, even after her father died. And I know it had to have been Catherine's doing.

I've found a place I like now – as much as I can like anything, having to be here at all. It won't take me long to hobble my old bones up to the podium and deliver the elegy. And when I do, I will keep her face in my mind, the way she looked the day I met her at the Shelter board meeting. Fierce, sharp-eyed, glowing with determination. I don't remember what she wore, or how she smelled. I just remember the look in her eyes, and I remember thinking that I would never know a moment's peace until Catherine Hollister was mine. She got the money she asked for that day – the Board couldn't say no to her. We knew she gave as much of her own money as she asked of us, and her generosity and passion shamed us all.

"Jack," says a voice, accompanied by a gentle pressure on my arm. Lettie Gardener reeks of violets and whiskey, as she always does, and it's all I can do not to slap the old spiteful thing with all the force left in my good arm. "It's good to see you," she says, simpering. Of course she's here. She wouldn't miss this chance to show up Catherine, not when there's finally no competition for the spotlight. I wonder what it will be. She might just blow her nose in the middle of my elegy, or she might go for the big show and burst into those awful howling sobs she likes to affect at public gatherings. Weddings, funerals, Sunday mass, it's all the same to her, as long as someone's looking at her, even with disgust.

I am so sad, and so tired. Catherine used to laugh at Lettie's behavior, but with such compassion that it made me ashamed of my own hostility to the woman. The fact that Lettie is still alive, and in obviously robust health, when Catherine died in pain that morphine couldn't touch at the end, bewilders and infuriates me. God makes no sense to me, nor does karma, nor any other system people like to use to explain things like this, things that should not be in a world that has any justice at all.

I wish it was me dead instead of her.

you asked for it.

There's a lot of material out there to advise a writer how to deal with writer's block - that is, what to do when you're faced with a blank screen and no words. Apparently there's another kind of writer's block that's more insidious. I don't know what to call it, but we discussed it at length last night and the word you both used to describe it was "laziness."

In lieu of telling you both to sit your asses in front of the computer and write something already, I'm throwing out the next assignment, which you can, of course, take or leave as you like.


Think of a traumatic situation, such as a car accident or a funeral*. Describe the event in a series of first-person monologues from fifteen different participants/attendees. Give each character his or her own voice and interpretation of events. Don't stop after three! Keep going! Stretch!

Giving credit where credit is due, this is from Writing Begins with the Breath, by Laraine Hering.

*To open this up a bit, there are other events and situations that are emotionally charged and involve lots of people. I don't think we need to limit ourselves to traumatic stuff. I think the critical point here is that we're not describing a walk in the park.

Submit one perspective every day, no shorter than 300 words, posted here.


FIFTEEN? I can't just do seven and leave it at that?

Of course you can. But all three of us know that we have enough imagination to come up with fifteen different characters and fifteen different monologues. Don't wimp out. Do it.

As far as subject matter goes, yeah, I'd like to use a scene from Sanctuary. Lori, I think this is a perfect time for you to do something completely unrelated to the NHN and the lycanthrope project. Dig into that storehouse of memories. Kelly, if you're tricky about it you could even cheat and fold the childhood assignment into this as well.

So. Fifteen different perspectives. Fifteen days. Starting now. First post due by midnight tonight, your time.

Go.

Me and Andy in Paris in the spring: memory du jour

Every once in a while I am assaulted by some random ancient memory. I say assualted because it actually physically hurts like a punch to the gut. Okay maybe not that bad. What is it? Do I ache for my misspent youth? This morning's memory du jour: me and Andy in Paris is the spring. Was that really over twenty years ago? Was that really me? And now five years go by in the blink of an eye.

When I was younger, I always knew that I wanted to write. And I was constantly writing, filling up journals with self-absorbed bullshit. I thought, I really want to write but I don't have much to say. I haven't really lived. I have to get some life experience first. So I went out and got some. Now I've got this storehouse of memories from my adventures, but I'm not sure what to do with them.

So they sit there getting dusty, or aging like fine wine, I'm not sure which.

So I'll share it.

Andy and I have been friends since the fifth grade. He recently got in a bicycle accident and messed up his nose pretty bad, so he no longer has a sense of taste or smell. I describe for him the smell of the patisseries, the taste of the croissant au chocolat, the cafe au lait. We drink beer and play foosball. We visit the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, the Mona Lisa, the Thinker. We go into a grocery store to buy a baguette, and mayo from a tube like toothpaste to lunch in the city square. In line in front of us are some obnoxious American tourists, asking loudly "do you speak English?" to the clerk. Their interaction is awkward and semi-hostile. Andy speaks much better french than I, so he speaks for us. He does a good enough job that the clerk commisserates with us, nodding toward the tourists walking out the door, "stupide americans." We laugh and agree, two french kids on lunch break.

More writing, less drinking

Yesterday was St. Patricks's day, so, naturally, I felt obliged to drink. Twist my arm. It doesn't take much. Sure I'm part Irish, just look at my freckles and reddish hair and pale skin that burns too easily and stays red for too long after I exercise. I'm also Italian (Sicilian to be exact), Polish, Welsh, French, and who knows what else. But does this really give me the excuse to drink? Sure. I mean, genetically I'm predisposed to drinking. My ancestors had to drink alcohol because the water was so polluted. It's this European evolutionary adaptation that may come in handy for my line one day when we once again pollute all the available water. I digress. And really, that's what this post is all about: digression.

Before I started drinking, I went down to the elementary school to pick up my son. The place was all green and leprecauns and rainbows. And I had this weird thought as I was walking in to the school. "I am the rainbow." I thought. "I am the pot of gold." I was in a good mood. I started thinking about GOD and all the weird ideas that have coalesced in my mind about this being or power or whatever he/she/it is. I thought, if god is everywhere and all-powerful, then god exists in that fat woman's ass in front of me. God is down at the bar on a drinking binge. God is doing terrible things. And why not? God has been known to be a vengeful, judgemental being. Did God make man in his image? If so, God is weak and enjoys all the good and bad of the flesh that we all do. It was a weird, ranting thought about God that started with rainbows and leprecauns and that fat woman's ass.

So then I came back and had "happy hour" while chatting on-line. And all the while, I've not written anything worth a turd in a long time. What a waste! I manage to find time to sit around playing scrabble on-line or drinking a 1/2 bottle of wine and BSing but I'm not writing and that really bothers me. So I wrote this. Scrabble anyone?

Night Haiku

Staring at the sky:
an infinity of stars;
my small thoughts below.

The Big Fancy House

Because my house is on the market and we are in the process of trying to find a new place to live, I have been hyper-aware of other people's homes lately. When we moved out here to our current home 5 years ago, we knew we were making a compromise. The house was actually smaller than the one we'd had in town, but the land around it made it worth it. Plus, we could always add on. But with the CF and the economy shitting the bed, the addition never happened. So, we live in a small house. I really don't mind most of the time. I do wish that we had another bathroom, one I didn't have to share with little boys who often have poor aim.

So, last weekend I went to a couple of parties. One was a birthday party for a 5 year old girl from my son's preschool class, another was a "housewarming" for my friend who recently had a remodel completed on her home in town. I am constantly amazed to find myself in big fancy houses. Who are these people? How do they make their money? I know that Missoula seems to attract an inordinate amount of trustafarians, but I don't think that is who these people are. I've often found myself in the kitchens of other stay at home moms, the kind who do it because they really don't need to work, in awe of the granite counter tops and huge refridgerators...the kitchen itself bigger than the entire downstairs of my house, wondering, "well, how did I get here?"

Then there are the televisions, massive, and many times one in every room, and then the "home theatre" in the lower level, complete with surround sound. What is up with that? We have one small television that we use for watching movies since we don't get any channels.

Anyway, back to the parties and the houses. The little girl's house was one of those big fancy houses with the two rooms entirely devoted to tvs, but they had absolutely no yard. OK, so there's the trade off. And Emily's house is a great reflection of her personality: bright, open, classy, and somehow managing to look simple and elegant at the same time. She's now got a beautiful four bedroom, four bathroom house in the most desirable area of town. But she is the only one living there (and her dogs). I do envy that anytime she needs to use a bathroom, she doesn't even need to go to another level of her house. And she never has to put the seat down.

At first I thought what I felt at being in these homes was envy, but that is not it. Because I really do just want a simple house. When I look at the big fancy houses on the market that we could afford if we stretched it, I think, "but how would we afford the furniture for that place?" And I realize that I don't want fancy furniture. The boys would just ruin it anyway, and I'm not about to put plastic all over everything to protect it. I want a house I can live in, comfortably.

Plus I like to keep things in perspective. I have been to third world countries. I know that in some places, entire extended families could live comfortably in a house the size of ours. I want to "live simply, so that others may simply live," as the bumper sticker goes. I know that in some places, people don't even have access to clean drinking water, much less indoor plumbing. And I feel thankful for what I have.

What is it with these big fancy houses? Why is it that so many people have these huge fancy televisions? Here we are, this big wealthy country and THIS is how we use it? When so many people don't even have health insurance and can't afford health care, and yet every one has these big freaking tvs? (and the government actually handed out coupons for people to buy digital converters so they could still watch tv after the changeover - wtf don't they offer health care?) I just don't get it. I feel like an alien living on some strange planet.

The Pit of Despair

I don't usually talk about my depression, because, well, it is depressing. And nobody really wants to hear my poor me poor me bullshit. Years ago I told my doctor I was depressed and she offered me a prescription, which I declined, thinking that I had plenty of reasons to be depressed (I have too many debts, not enough income, one of my sons has CF, I never get enough sleep, my father wasn't there for me during my formative years, blah blah blah) and that I could work it out on my own. I could fix it if I could just get enough sleep and run and do yoga and eat right and think good thoughts. Over the last few years there have been many times that I've second-guessed this decision, and found other ways to self-medicate. I look at my life and all that is good in it (I live in a beautiful place, I have a fantastic husband who adores me, my kids are awesome) and I think, how can I be depressed? But I am. For the last few weeks it has been building, and this is what happens to me. I can't really call it PMS because it is more like 3 weeks out of the month that I feel this way. Ug.

When I try to figure it out, here's the thing that seems to really be bothering me, and it might sound silly to you but I'm going to tell you anyway. I don't feel like I am doing anything to make the world a better place. And, if I am not a part of the solution, then I must be part of the problem. Is this flawed thinking?

We have talked before about how writers seem to be more depressed than other people. I once looked up how many writers had committed suicide and it was a list that went on for pages and pages. But I was thinking, maybe its not that writers are depressed, but that many many people are depressed, writers just write about it.

So how has this affected my writing? Well, I haven't done much. But I will crawl out of this pit, once again, like I always do, and I'll get the latest assignment done. I am thankful to have that goal, and to know that someone will read what I wrote. Thanks guys. I'm on the upswing. Things are looking brighter. Maybe next time I'll call for help before I reach the bottom of the pit. Will you throw me a line?

that is one hungry bear

There is a lovely post bouncing around the inside of my head like a soap bubble. It's been there for a week or so now, and I don't think there's much chance of popping it, because I wrote the ideas down in my journal over the weekend. Unfortunately, at the moment it doesn't stand a chance in hell of being written.

Because sometimes you eat the bear, and sometimes the bear eats you. Right now my body is lying half-chewed in the middle of a dark (and probably muddy) forest.

I just don't want to be the bear that eats the rest of my family. I fucking hate feeling like this.

So you know what I'm telling myself? Stop whining, bitch. Stop making excuses for your goddamned plot monkeys and who gave them machine guns, anyway? Shut up and write.

Maybe it'll work, for a little while.

~andi

well, hell.

my main character's backstory just got more interesting than the story i'm telling now.

buggeringsonofawhore.

keepthewheelsstraightkeepthewheelsstraightkeepthewheelsstraight...

Fucking Imagine That

Yeah, imagine that. You've had a really nice day -- got a lot done; boring stuff, dishes, laundry, picking up, prepping for a freelance job. Shit like that. Imagine you got to put off a boring shopping trip till the next day, but dinner is nice anyway -- leftover pasta, a great salad with homemade asian dressing. Imagine relaxing, really late, with your boyfriend (husband -- whatever) and enjoying a hot toddy to ward off the night-time chill (yeah, it's southern New Mexico, but imagine anyway).

So it's really late, and the BF is falling asleep on the couch, and you go take an innocent piss, and the toilet goes fucking nuclear on you. Seriously nuclear, like Linda Blair nuclear, like spewing all over the fucking bathroom tile.

That.

So the seriously nice, seriously beloved BF asks if you've flushed a tampon, then...heads to bed.

Yeah.

While I (not you) waste four towels and scrub up the floor and take a shower and throw out all the poker mags and scrub the floor again and take another quick shower and scrub the floor AGAIN and ... wash, rinse, repeat. Literally, in this case.

WHAT. THE. FUCK.

Like, didn't I just survive a (thankfully rare) migraine four days ago? Like, am I not lucky enough to already spend more time on home upkeep because I am an intermittently employed freelancer? Like, WHY THE FUCK DID MY TOILET CHOOSE TO OVERFLOW AT TWO IN THE FUCKING MORNING?

Yeah, like that.

On the other hand, I'm now having a smoke and a G&T at three in the morning, because what the fuck else is my damp self supposed to do?

So this week was supposed to be about cleaning up for my sister's visit later this month; helping the BF grade his coursework; prepping for a really good freelance grantwriting contract.

Who wouldn't want to clean up a goddamned toilet?

Yeah. Well, at least there was no hurricane, or earthquake, or tsunami, or tornado. I really need to learn to count my blessings. Lesson to be learned. I still hate my fucking toilet. But the G&T is really good.

mud

I have complained to Kelly numerous times about my road. A little over a year ago, I got my car’s alignment straightened out, only to have a miniature sinkhole open up under my left front tire on my way to pick up Aeryn from school. Back then, Brian had a truck with a winch that he used to pull me (and quite a few of our neighbors) out of that nasty spot in the road. Needless to say, my alignment was once again shot to shit. Since then, the sinkhole has been filled, the ditch dug out and the culvert replaced, which seems to have fixed the problem.

Now a new chapter has opened in the Saga of Chinaberry Lane. (No one knows why it’s called Chinaberry; there are no Chinaberry trees nearby, any more than there are azalea bushes by my house, although the post office in their infinite insanity decided to call our little lane “Azalea View.” But I digress.)

The last few seasons here have been unusually wet – we’ve seen thunderstorms, rain showers, snowstorms, or ice at least once every couple of weeks. In mid-December, we got over a foot of snow in the space of twelve hours, which set off a chain of events that has resulted in the dirt road going from the pavement to my house – about a third of a mile – dissolving into mud. One of our well-meaning neighbors decided to scrape it over the weekend, which had the unintended effect of spreading the mud from one end of the road all the way down the entire length of it.

So, for the last three weeks, I have been learning how to drive in mud. I’ve managed relatively well in snow and ice; mud was a new experience. After I had struggled with alarming scraping sounds from the bottom of the car and a less-than-stable driving surface for several days, Brian finally had enough of my ignorance and snapped, “Keep the wheels straight! Whatever you do, keep the fucking wheels straight!” Coming from a man who has lost his license for a year, this might be laughable, but once he explained the theory I was appropriately terrified, enough to take him seriously. Apparently, if you have the wheels turned to one side or the other while the car is actually still going forward, you run a very high risk of busting your CV joint, which he explained to me as being essentially the front axle (or one half of it). In other words, you’re fucked.

It makes very little sense on paper – to have a car’s wheels turned one way while the car itself is still moving forward. I understand the converse of that, having slid on ice before, but this concept was new to me and I didn’t get it. Until I had to drive through mud, repeatedly, at least two, and sometimes as many as six times a day, depending on our schedules.

To drive in mud, you have to do several things simultaneously. You have to look ahead to see where the ruts are leading you and try not to let them force you into large objects, such as houses, trees, and other cars. You have to keep your eyes open, instead of closing them tightly when you hear the awful grinding noise of your car hitting bottom. You have to keep the pedal down even when you think you’re losing control of the car or about to be stuck, otherwise you really will stop. And if you stop in a mud pit, you’re dead.

Side effects of this complex process can include intense and unpleasant adrenaline rushes and temporary attacks of Tourette’s syndrome, when it seems as though every profanity is absolutely necessary to keep you moving forward. This is problematic when you have an impressionable six-year-old in the car with you, although to Aeryn’s credit, she seems to understand that those awful words are not to EVER be repeated. Especially at school.

I have been toying with the experience as a metaphor for writing – specifically, for writing Sanctuary. It’s so easy to get bogged down and misdirected by things that are outside of my control, and by my own mental processes, which are having a grand old time juggling characters and back stories and plot, even though I haven’t asked them to, and frankly, life would be a lot easier in my head if they’d stop that shit. Traitorous bastards. At least the setting hasn’t changed, and the essential characters and plot points are still there, which is heartening.

Then there’s the illusion of stasis, or even of backsliding – where it feels like I’m not going anywhere, and that all I’m doing is, as Stephen King says, “shoveling shit from a sitting position.” It brings to mind my efforts to learn the fiddle a couple of years ago. I would practice almost daily, for around an hour, even though for days at a time the sounds I made should have attracted male cats for miles around in hopes of getting a little pussy. Then, when I was just about ready to give up and stop wasting my time, I would take what felt like a huge step forward – suddenly my fingers would hit the strings without conscious direction, the bow would sound true, and the Rocky Road to Dublin would finally click. It was enough to keep me going.

It’s a cycle. I tell myself this every day – on days when the writing is flowing well and on days when it’s blocked completely. I am always moving forward, even if it doesn’t feel like I’m making any progress at all. Sitting, typing, working, brainstorming, plotting, whatever I’m doing, even if I don’t use it later, is progress – and as Laraine Herring likes to say, “Nothing is wasted.” Not even if I think it is.

So what do you do when you’re trying to get through what seems like an impassable mudpit, where the substrate of the road changes daily, depending on the weather, the underlying rock (or lack thereof), and the driving decisions that other assholes have made since the last time you drove the road?

You keep the wheels straight, and you lay the pedal down.

And, hey, if you get stuck – as I did yesterday morning – you call for backup. Because sometimes there’s no way you can get out of the shit on your own. Sometimes you just need a shovel, and a push.

~andi

Details

Tonight I am reminded (once again) of how easy it is to get bogged down in details and overwhelmed with information, to the point where any creative process in my head gets stomped on by a bunch of bullshit facts that probably aren't that important to the story anyway.

Bullies, all of them. Took my lunch money. And the last hour of my life. Not that the research wasn't fascinating, but I'm still left with nothing but a blank page. Plus I could have been watching the men's short program.

So. Back up and punt. At least there's a decent idea and a direction - which is better than nothing.

Nighty-night, ladies. Hope your efforts are making better progress than mine!

Andrea's Car Poem

I had meant to post this old, old poem for a long time, ever since I rediscovered it in a pile of ancient writing -- mostly shit I should've gotten rid of ages ago. This one, though, is a keeper. I wrote it in 1993, about a year after Andi and I made an unforgettable trip to Chicago, and just after another short but lovely road trip in Florida. Here's to you, Andi!

=============

sunglasses warrior sister
in a blue convertible florida spring,
the heat rises off us
like a death valley mirage.

the open highway ahead
looms large
like those passed by already
in relentless travel.

we are a movie
that no one can name,
the physical embodiment
of a tattooed singer's lust.

we speed down the asphalt
and know our minds
are twice as fast:
alive -- alight -- incendiary.

Training Exercises

Yesterday I got up in the morning and put on my running clothes. First I had to bring the kids to school and make a mandatory trip to town to the store but then I would squeeze in a run before the youngest boy got done with preschool. It was all perfectly timed. Except for one thing. I forgot about the preschool's field trip to the post office that I'd promised to be a driver for.

But I still had hope. Jim was supposed to be coming home early from work. He could stay with the kids while I went for a run. The eldest son had a 1/2 day of school, I picked him up and learned that he had a playdate planned. So we went over to his friends house. I stayed, determined, in my running clothes. Got home at 4:30, Jim still not home. Turned out his work day was longer than he thought. Finally, 5:00 rolls around and he gets home. The sky is beginning to darken. I don't like to run in the dark, especially in winter. I say it's too late, I'm too tired to run, but I feel like shit and I need it, I need so much to get outside by myself and breath the cold fresh air and move my body, so I go.

I'm writing about this here because I got rid of my running blog and Andi requested an update and eventually it has something to do with writing. I've been depressed and annoyed with everyone and everything. I'm tired of winter and everything feels so gray and cruddy. I have dark circles and bags under my eyes. I am so tired. But as I ran through the woods at dusk, I began feeling better. Even as I imagined mountain lions watching me as they hunted for their evening meal, I felt better. I felt alive again. I imagined, as I often do, one of the stories that I am working on that is inspired by this small patch of woods where I often run. I started formulating ideas.

I tripped over a log. I gasped. A soft "whump" as my body hit the soft snow. Nothing injured. But suddenly I found myself so tired, the ground so soft and comfortable, I just lay there, not wanting to get up, wanting to actually just sleep right there. But I got up. When I got home I realized that I had done my short loop really fast.

Now I've cleared some of the crud out of my brain and feel like I can write again. I have been frustrated with my writing, and was really hoping that by participating in this little writing group of ours, I would work on some new stuff and have some fresh ideas. For me, the purpose of having our little "writing assignments" is just to do some writing other than whatever big project it is I'm working on, to just do some writing because we are accountable to each other. So I was disappointed with the way that the last one went, for a few reasons. First of all, I think two weeks is too long. Kelly sat down and did her "assignment" in one sitting. She just cranked it out. We can all do that. Why should it take us 2 weeks? Then there's the thing with Andi not finishing hers because she was still editing. Come on! Fuck the editing. That's not what this is about. Edit it later. Just get it done. So then we didn't end up being able to talk about our writing at all during the last chat.

I see these assignments as exercises. Like training for the big race. Each training run doesn't have to be great. Sometimes you can run a measly freakin two miles, fall down in the snow and want to go to sleep. But the important part is to do the exercise on a regular basis, to work up to the big run, the race, whatever your goal is. These writing exercises are like training runs. We just have to put in the miles. You don't stop in the middle of a run, go back and re-run the last mile because you feel like you could have done better. You just keep going.

Lori

excuses, excuses

So here I am, having a grand old time imagining the story of my villain, and I've gone and forgotten all about last week's assignment. My goal for this evening was to finish the editing and send it out, but now I can't find the finished file, although surely it must be somewhere because I have the hard copy and... well, you get the idea.

So what do I do now? Do I retype the last two scenes or would that be a waste of time? Do I continue this blog post? Or do I...

I think I retype the last two - no, three - scenes and have done with it.

In the meantime, how's about an update? How's the new setup treating you, Kiki? How's the training for the half-marathon coming, Lori?

~Andi

Update: 2/10/10, just past midnight.

Couldn't bring myself to retype seven fucking pages when the damned file has just GOT to be at work. Have made progress with a scene in Sanctuary that's been blocking me for a while. Brian asked this evening how I was going to have time to actually work on the book when I'm busy working on the assignments. "Well, when I'm working on the assignments, I actually am working on the book. The last short story gave me some information about Paxton that I just didn't know before. And this latest one is making my villain real, so that he doesn't disappear when he turns sideways, like Gwyneth Paltrow on a MasterCleanse. And, like Lori said, they keep the juices flowing." He gave me a rather lewd look at that. "You KNOW what I mean." "Yeah," he said. "I do. " So that's OK.

Big Babies

Are we all just big babies?

Mostly, and recently, I would have laughed at that idea, and at people who thought it was true. The older I get, paradoxically, the less sure I am.

I just finished setting up my guest room as a quasi-office. I have a laptop and it's nice, but it's also too easy to get all wi-fied in front of the television and then get jack-shit done. So I moved my (grievously ignored) desktop into my guest bedroom, hooked it up to the internet, installed a webcam per my current job's requirements, and voila...a wired computer set at a sane distance from the satellite dish, refrigerator, front door, and all other distractions.

The guest room and bath in my house are set nicely apart from everything else -- their own little private space. They were also, two years ago, the tiny suite for one of the many cats I've rescued. Mija, a four-week-old kitten of inexplicable origins, spent two weeks there before we deemed her old and big enough to hold her own with our other cats. She was originally slated to go to our wonderful local sanctuary, but fate intervened, and she has become our one friendly cat, welcoming everyone and answering to any version of her long, long name: Mija Mustachio Honey Honey Hey.

Anyway -- I was trying to troubleshoot my webcam setup when Mija joined me in her old room. She jumped onto the guest futon, crawled around happily, and fell asleep. In fact, she refused to leave. She passed out around seven p.m.; at midnight, she still hadn't left, despite several opportunities.

A bit of background, particularly for those unfamiliar with cats: four weeks old is far too young for a kitten to be separated from her mother. Mija did not know how to eat solid food, or drink other than from a nipple, or use a litter box, or even how to clean herself. I spent two weeks teaching her those things. For many months, she treated me as her mother (and I was). In her youth, she would sometimes crawl on top of me and suckle my t-shirt. It was sweet and sad and inevitable, and she mostly outgrew it -- after her first year, she stopped this behavior, and would revert rarely.

So, today -- Mija curled up onto the bed of her youth, and stared around the room strangely, and then she began to purr and mrr in a kittenish fashion. I laid down beside her, and she curled into me and began to try to nurse at the blanket. I petted her and tried to soothe her; she eventually fell asleep. I was surprised by her reversion. Eventually we left the room (and I finally got the fucking webcam set up).

It made me wonder, though. I visit my sister and her family (best brother-in-law ever; sweet niece and nephew) for a month or two every summer. I am in New Mexico; they live within twenty minutes of my childhood home in York Beach, Maine. For a million reasons, at least, it is my favorite time of year -- I get to enjoy the incomparable company of my family, and also to revisit the haunted haunts of my (early) youth. We are adults now, but we are also children retracing time-worn paths, and getting to choose the best of it all.

We go to the beach at York. We follow the meandering back roads between York and Eliot and Berwick and Kittery, Maine; Portsmouth and Newington and Dover and Durham, New Hampshire. Simultaneously uplifted and starved by the usual cacti and creosote and mesquite of the Chihuahuan Desert, I feast on the pine trees and granite and cold, sandy beaches. I inhale the humidity, dance in the rain, feel friendly green grass beneath my bare feet. I live a totally different life.

In fact -- I live my old life, just as Mija does, in her old room. I know it's an old life, but it's a new life too. It's hard to separate -- do I love this place for now, or for then? It's both, of course. But it's also confused...in a happy way.

I wouldn't trade my past; I wouldn't trade my present. And I wouldn't trade the jumbled-together joy of having it all, even if just for a moment -- on the lemon-lit beach of Short Sands, a quick jog from Nubble Light, a sweet walk from Wild Kingdom, a brief jump from beach-side skee-ball -- every now and then, life is perfect.

Fun With Words!

OK, so, speaking of Facebook (Andi, a little while back), someone suggested looking up your name at urbandictionary.com and posting the definition on your status. Here is what I found for Lori:

#1  The Most wonderful person in the World. Kind, Sweet, Loving, Caring, Gentle. Perfect in Every ways. The one you love for all your life.
#2  Crazy hot girl. Beautiful, smart and funny; Lori posesses atributes absent in 99.9% of women. Truly a lucky find. Plus she rocks.
#3  The most wonderful drug in the world, better know as Hydrocodone or lortab. taking the pill may cause a sense of euphoria, and well being.

So, that was kind of fun. Then I found the word "Lorgasm." (It actually has to do with sneezing, not sex). It reminded me of the fun exercise that Kelly and I have done using old, rarely used words, like hurley-burley. Check it out, see what you can find. What does your name mean?

Insomnia

You know what I love? This pseudo-insomnia caused by two weeks of watching the Australian Open (tennis) and being on Melbourne time. Because I'm actually writing like mad all of a sudden, three or four pages so far tonight.

You know what's weird? How easily I slip into "being" Casey -- and that happens (happened) with Coco too. And a few other protagonists, past and present. Am I a million characters contained within one body? Just telling their stories? Who knows?

How does it work for you?

Rain Chronicles

I thought about writing a whole series, in haiku, that chronicles the rain patterns here over the course of the year. Of course, most of it would be dull whining about the fact that it isn't raining, so I don't think it's the best idea ever. I've just been spoiled by an oddly rainy (for southern New Mexico) winter.

Nonetheless, wish me luck: it's supposed to rain Tuesday evening through Thursday morning. If so, I will be in desert heaven...dancing in the drops, singing at the tops of my lungs, shrieking happily at the dark clouds, and watching my hair slowly expand into a scary Irish afro, all volume and no substance.

Wow. I just wrote a post about not writing about something. Kind of like my Irish 'fro. How...inspired. Or something.

this week's assignment...

... is SO much more fun than working on the novel!

Also, I think the main reason why I still check Facebook is to avoid writing. And I don't think I'm the only one who does it, either.

That. Is. All.

~andi