Your help would be greatly appreciated.
(And, yes, if you're wondering, the shadow on the sand is the camera strap. I could have cropped it out but I figured I should leave the tail intact for identification purposes).
7.31.2006
I'm Still Waiting...
For someone to identify the headless fish here:
Your help would be greatly appreciated.
(And, yes, if you're wondering, the shadow on the sand is the camera strap. I could have cropped it out but I figured I should leave the tail intact for identification purposes).
Your help would be greatly appreciated.
(And, yes, if you're wondering, the shadow on the sand is the camera strap. I could have cropped it out but I figured I should leave the tail intact for identification purposes).
7.30.2006
Sunday Scribblings--Songs Hidden in Eggs
Went for breakfast this morning and then toured East Galesburg’s Purington Brickyards. Eventually, we wound up at the birthplace of Carl Sandburg. For those of you not in the know, Carl Sandburg was born here in Galesburg. And though I’ve long considered this fact a little inspiring (I was born twelve miles from here, in Monmouth, the same place where Wyatt Earp was allegedly born) I had never before this morning been to the State Historic Site that is Mr. Sandburg’s birthplace.
J.C. purchased some books and this facsimilie of a portion of Sandburg's "Prairie":
Sorry for the poor quality; the scanner wasn't working, and I had to photrgraph the thing.
Here's a translation:
The theme of today’s Sunday Scribblings is My 2 Cents, though. So, to make this post more appropriate to its theme: We should all of us, each and every one, be looking at songs hidden in eggs.
J.C. purchased some books and this facsimilie of a portion of Sandburg's "Prairie":
Sorry for the poor quality; the scanner wasn't working, and I had to photrgraph the thing.
Here's a translation:
Look at six eggs
in a mockingbird's nest.
Listen to six mockingbirds
Flinging follies of O-be-joyful
Over the marshes and uplands.
Look at songs
hidden in eggs.
The theme of today’s Sunday Scribblings is My 2 Cents, though. So, to make this post more appropriate to its theme: We should all of us, each and every one, be looking at songs hidden in eggs.
7.27.2006
Poetry Thursday
The good people over at Poetry Thursday have announced a theme for the week: hungry for poetry. I used to have a good deal of hunger for the stuff, but for the past few years I have feasted mostly on fiction. Against all good sense and in honor of this week's theme, I offer two takes on the subject.
Ode to his Girlfriend, the Poet
When you wiped the counters
and caught in your hand the crumbs
you didn’t take them to
the trashcan but made a fist.
You dropped breadcrumbs near the
stairwell and piled cabbage leaf
tips beneath the bathroom
mirror. Around your bed you
spread the unused bits of
rosemary and tomato.
After you had filled the
foyer with sufficient leek
and artichoke parts you
fled on a portabella
carpet, left him with spinach
leaves beneath his pillow
and the grandest designs
of everything and nothing
he couldn’t find
in the grocery’s produce aisle.
* * *
In the Earthly Republic
He used to want to write this story about hungry ghosts, ghosts that roamed the earth and starved the way the living do—constantly, yet unable to hold onto the thoughts of their specific hungers for more than a minute or two, every few seconds wanting something different.
These ghosts, he thought, represented grand anysomethings about the world, its relentlessness—how we are all at least a little hungry but unable to pointerfinger our wants we move from this thing to the next dumbly, expecting elucidation, or clarity, whateverthefuck.
Not long ago, he gave up on the idea of telling stories about hungry ghosts and all they might have stood for. He writes now full of whiskey and the love of a woman he’s been imagining all his life. He’s wholly lost the fire of want and only worries now about those ghosts out there, still starving, devouring him, out of spite, for his abandoning them, for his commonbliss earthly contentedness.
Ode to his Girlfriend, the Poet
When you wiped the counters
and caught in your hand the crumbs
you didn’t take them to
the trashcan but made a fist.
You dropped breadcrumbs near the
stairwell and piled cabbage leaf
tips beneath the bathroom
mirror. Around your bed you
spread the unused bits of
rosemary and tomato.
After you had filled the
foyer with sufficient leek
and artichoke parts you
fled on a portabella
carpet, left him with spinach
leaves beneath his pillow
and the grandest designs
of everything and nothing
he couldn’t find
in the grocery’s produce aisle.
* * *
In the Earthly Republic
He used to want to write this story about hungry ghosts, ghosts that roamed the earth and starved the way the living do—constantly, yet unable to hold onto the thoughts of their specific hungers for more than a minute or two, every few seconds wanting something different.
These ghosts, he thought, represented grand anysomethings about the world, its relentlessness—how we are all at least a little hungry but unable to pointerfinger our wants we move from this thing to the next dumbly, expecting elucidation, or clarity, whateverthefuck.
Not long ago, he gave up on the idea of telling stories about hungry ghosts and all they might have stood for. He writes now full of whiskey and the love of a woman he’s been imagining all his life. He’s wholly lost the fire of want and only worries now about those ghosts out there, still starving, devouring him, out of spite, for his abandoning them, for his commonbliss earthly contentedness.
7.23.2006
Failure
I checked the prompt word for this week's Sunday Scribblings yesterday, and the word was "Thief!"
Failure
On his two-hour layover in Detroit, a woman with a walker tried to pick Moussaoui’s pocket.
He was standing in line for a coffee, the top button of his dress shirt undone beneath his sport coat when he spotted the woman out of the corner of his eye--her white hair in tight curls against her head. She walked toward him, slowly. "Excuse me," she said. "Sir?"
* * *
I've made some changes to this and intend to make a few more and then send the thing off somewhere, so I'm pulling it. If you'd like to see what's going on with it, drop me an e-mail; you can find the address on my profile.
Failure
On his two-hour layover in Detroit, a woman with a walker tried to pick Moussaoui’s pocket.
He was standing in line for a coffee, the top button of his dress shirt undone beneath his sport coat when he spotted the woman out of the corner of his eye--her white hair in tight curls against her head. She walked toward him, slowly. "Excuse me," she said. "Sir?"
* * *
I've made some changes to this and intend to make a few more and then send the thing off somewhere, so I'm pulling it. If you'd like to see what's going on with it, drop me an e-mail; you can find the address on my profile.
7.22.2006
The Other Guy
The idea for this little story came to me the other night after I read Elizabeth Ellen’s poem in juked. The way I imagined the story then, I thought it might be a first-person narrative poem as well, and I remember thinking two or three cool lines in my head, but once I finally started to put the thing on paper, it morphed a bit. So, in homage to Fringes, here’s a working draft.
The Other Guy
Until he walks into the courtroom in shackles and that traffic-cone-colored jumpsuit you forget he had his eye half-knocked out of his head the night before.
* * *
Ditto this little thing--I think it's about ready for the transom. I do hope you enjoyed it while it lasted.
The Other Guy
Until he walks into the courtroom in shackles and that traffic-cone-colored jumpsuit you forget he had his eye half-knocked out of his head the night before.
* * *
Ditto this little thing--I think it's about ready for the transom. I do hope you enjoyed it while it lasted.
7.21.2006
Sister Feather Boa & Oil Can Gary
Sister Feather Boa went by Sister, but I’m attaching the Feather Boa to her name because I don’t think I ever saw her not wearing one. She lived in the low-income family housing units where I ran a satellite Boys & Girls Club, and I used to see her on my way to work, or when I was leaving for the day. There was a sidewalk that looped around the buildings and Sister often walked around and around, muttering to herself, or laughing, some technicolored feather boa or other trailing down her back or over her shoulder. She was a wafer-thin black woman, and she wore one of two wigs—platinum blonde or raven black. She looked, pretty much, the way someone playing a drug addict on TV looks.
The kids I worked with didn’t ever seem to pay her much mind, until one day when I was loading the van to take the baseball team to the park. Sister walked by, a red boa wrapped around her neck, a hot pink skirt and tiny scuffed high heels, the heels of her feet riding over the backs of the shoes, the platinum wig. (It was summer by then, but I’d seen her wear similar outfits all winter long, and her skin in the cold was ashy and pocked with gooseflesh, but I never saw her shiver). One of the boys saw sister walking by the van and made some comment I couldn’t hear. Three boys, though, brothers, heard the other boy’s comment and immediately defended Sister. “She used to be beautiful,” one of the brothers said. “And smart,” added a different brother. “But when she was a girl,” explained the third brother, “she got sick, and the doctor gave her some pill that made her even more sick. Like she was 'lergic. And she never got better.”
The boys had obviously heard this story from a parent or grandparent, and it reminded me of the story my father told me about Oil Can Gary.
My father knew Oil Can Gary because he went to high school with him and was friends with him. I knew Oil Can Gary because I worked third-shift at a gas station when I was an undergrad, and Oil Can Gary came by most nights to pick through the trash, looking for discarded bottles of motor oil. He kept a three-gallon gas container in the back of his truck, along with his own funnel, and he would pour the dregs of the discarded bottles into his own container, one by one, using his wide-mouthed funnel. It was kind of an odd thing to do, I thought, but I didn’t think too much of it. He would come inside when he was through, and get a cup of coffee, and we’d chat a little bit.
My father stopped in the gas station one night while Gary was performing his little ritual. My father stood at the counter and shook his head from side to side, watching Gary drain container after container. The guy was meticulous, and he worked his funnel a little like a scientist—getting eye-level with the thing, making sure his apparatus was properly constructed. “He had been smart,” my father told me, “and good-looking." Everybody liked him, even if he was a little odd sometimes. This was in 1973. Oil Can Gary went off to college like many of his intelligent classmates, but Oil Can Gary came back from college changed, a “druggie.” The drugs, my father said, had ruined his mind, and left what we had out in the parking lot—a guy who went around to all the gas stations at night collecting motor oil.
My father was essentially giving me a “Don’t do drugs” lecture using Gary as his example of how and why drugs are bad for you. It wasn’t the last time I heard about the guy.
A few years later, when I heard the boys talking about Sister, I thought of old Gary. I can’t say for certain that Sister was or had been on drugs, but she seemed to me like someone who could have been used as an example in a similar “Don’t do drugs” campaign. Instead, though, the boys’ parents had told them that a doctor was responsible for the woman’s illness. It was a legal medication that a doctor prescribed that made her the way she is.
I’m not a sociologist or anything, but I think there’s something significant about these explanations. I’ll let you guys draw your own conclusions though. And, of course, you’re welcome to share them if you feel like it.
The kids I worked with didn’t ever seem to pay her much mind, until one day when I was loading the van to take the baseball team to the park. Sister walked by, a red boa wrapped around her neck, a hot pink skirt and tiny scuffed high heels, the heels of her feet riding over the backs of the shoes, the platinum wig. (It was summer by then, but I’d seen her wear similar outfits all winter long, and her skin in the cold was ashy and pocked with gooseflesh, but I never saw her shiver). One of the boys saw sister walking by the van and made some comment I couldn’t hear. Three boys, though, brothers, heard the other boy’s comment and immediately defended Sister. “She used to be beautiful,” one of the brothers said. “And smart,” added a different brother. “But when she was a girl,” explained the third brother, “she got sick, and the doctor gave her some pill that made her even more sick. Like she was 'lergic. And she never got better.”
The boys had obviously heard this story from a parent or grandparent, and it reminded me of the story my father told me about Oil Can Gary.
My father knew Oil Can Gary because he went to high school with him and was friends with him. I knew Oil Can Gary because I worked third-shift at a gas station when I was an undergrad, and Oil Can Gary came by most nights to pick through the trash, looking for discarded bottles of motor oil. He kept a three-gallon gas container in the back of his truck, along with his own funnel, and he would pour the dregs of the discarded bottles into his own container, one by one, using his wide-mouthed funnel. It was kind of an odd thing to do, I thought, but I didn’t think too much of it. He would come inside when he was through, and get a cup of coffee, and we’d chat a little bit.
My father stopped in the gas station one night while Gary was performing his little ritual. My father stood at the counter and shook his head from side to side, watching Gary drain container after container. The guy was meticulous, and he worked his funnel a little like a scientist—getting eye-level with the thing, making sure his apparatus was properly constructed. “He had been smart,” my father told me, “and good-looking." Everybody liked him, even if he was a little odd sometimes. This was in 1973. Oil Can Gary went off to college like many of his intelligent classmates, but Oil Can Gary came back from college changed, a “druggie.” The drugs, my father said, had ruined his mind, and left what we had out in the parking lot—a guy who went around to all the gas stations at night collecting motor oil.
My father was essentially giving me a “Don’t do drugs” lecture using Gary as his example of how and why drugs are bad for you. It wasn’t the last time I heard about the guy.
A few years later, when I heard the boys talking about Sister, I thought of old Gary. I can’t say for certain that Sister was or had been on drugs, but she seemed to me like someone who could have been used as an example in a similar “Don’t do drugs” campaign. Instead, though, the boys’ parents had told them that a doctor was responsible for the woman’s illness. It was a legal medication that a doctor prescribed that made her the way she is.
I’m not a sociologist or anything, but I think there’s something significant about these explanations. I’ll let you guys draw your own conclusions though. And, of course, you’re welcome to share them if you feel like it.
7.20.2006
Fly Lady & Walker Mary
While J.C. and I were out for our drive the other day we passed through a town where J.C. said the Fly Lady used to live. According to J.C., the Fly Lady sat in a lawnchair between two downtown businesses, a fly swatter in her hand. She swatted flies both real and imaginary, non-stop, all day long. The town where Fly Lady resided has a population of about 1,200, so most everybody knew where she would be each day—between the flower shop and the hardware store—and that she would be swatting those flies. J.C. is from a nearby town, but even she knew the story the locals told about Fly Lady:
Some time earlier, her husband had gone out for that proverbial pack of cigarettes and never returned. Fly Lady, distraught, heartbroken, sat downtown and swatted the flies away, waiting for him to come back home.
The way the locals’ story of the Fly Lady seemed to explain the woman’s eccentricities, render them normal and human, reminded me of Walker Mary.
Walker Mary lived in the small town in Indiana where I spent the second half of my childhood. This place has a population closer to 20,000, but, still, everybody knew who Walker Mary was, because we would see her whenever we went out to pick up a pizza, or drove to the ballpark, or the grocery store. Walker Mary walked everywhere she went, from one side of town to the other, day and night. She was probably close to sixty, but she had the tanned, muscular calves of a thirty-year-old. She waved at the cars driving past her a little haphazardly, straightening out her arm and then setting the thing to spasm over her head, her wrist jostling from side to side in this way that made me think of a butterfly trapped in barbed wire, trying to fly its way out.
The story of how Walker Mary came to walk everywhere went through a few mutations over the years. In one version, her son had died in a car crash. In another, it was her husband. The story, though, that most people later agreed on and told was this: Walker Mary had been driving to the store one afternoon, her Yorkshire Terrier standing on her lap, sticking its head out the open window. There was an accident of some kind, and the dog had been thrown against the windshield, and had died. And Walker Mary thus vowed never to drive again.
Though these “rural legends” aren’t exactly what I would call riveting storytelling, I’m a little drawn to them—maybe because in the town twelve miles from here I have a relative who is the local crazy, and I’m curious to know what stories people tell about him and about how he got to be the way he is. I don’t know if that's the whole of the reason, though. There is something about the humanity behind these stories people tell that I’m kind of drawn to.
I realize this “phenomenon” most likely occurs only in small towns, but I’d be curious to hear in comments (or email) about your own local legends, and the stories behind them. Drop me a line if you have something to contribute--I'd love to hear from you.
Some time earlier, her husband had gone out for that proverbial pack of cigarettes and never returned. Fly Lady, distraught, heartbroken, sat downtown and swatted the flies away, waiting for him to come back home.
The way the locals’ story of the Fly Lady seemed to explain the woman’s eccentricities, render them normal and human, reminded me of Walker Mary.
Walker Mary lived in the small town in Indiana where I spent the second half of my childhood. This place has a population closer to 20,000, but, still, everybody knew who Walker Mary was, because we would see her whenever we went out to pick up a pizza, or drove to the ballpark, or the grocery store. Walker Mary walked everywhere she went, from one side of town to the other, day and night. She was probably close to sixty, but she had the tanned, muscular calves of a thirty-year-old. She waved at the cars driving past her a little haphazardly, straightening out her arm and then setting the thing to spasm over her head, her wrist jostling from side to side in this way that made me think of a butterfly trapped in barbed wire, trying to fly its way out.
The story of how Walker Mary came to walk everywhere went through a few mutations over the years. In one version, her son had died in a car crash. In another, it was her husband. The story, though, that most people later agreed on and told was this: Walker Mary had been driving to the store one afternoon, her Yorkshire Terrier standing on her lap, sticking its head out the open window. There was an accident of some kind, and the dog had been thrown against the windshield, and had died. And Walker Mary thus vowed never to drive again.
Though these “rural legends” aren’t exactly what I would call riveting storytelling, I’m a little drawn to them—maybe because in the town twelve miles from here I have a relative who is the local crazy, and I’m curious to know what stories people tell about him and about how he got to be the way he is. I don’t know if that's the whole of the reason, though. There is something about the humanity behind these stories people tell that I’m kind of drawn to.
I realize this “phenomenon” most likely occurs only in small towns, but I’d be curious to hear in comments (or email) about your own local legends, and the stories behind them. Drop me a line if you have something to contribute--I'd love to hear from you.
7.19.2006
Down by the River
I’ve lived most of my life within a half-hour’s drive of the Mississippi River.
Generally, when family or friends say something about going down to the river, they intend to “I don’t know, maybe burn a thirty-pack and watch the boat races.”
Yesterday at about 8:30 in the morning, when my wife called downstairs, where I was on only my third cup of coffee, and asked if I wanted to go to the river, my first thoughts were, “It’s too early to start burnin a thirty-pack. And it’s Tuesday, so there aren’t any boat races.”
What she really wanted to do, though, was explore a few of the small towns of Western Illinois we often pass by without taking the time to look around. So, some photos, unadulterated. Hopefully they don’t look bad on the blog without the sepia tinting.
First up, Oquawka, Illinois. Oquawka is kind of the mecca of river towns around here, but the place does have literary roots. The town’s other claim to fame is Norma Jean, the elephant killed by lightning. She is now remembered, a few feet from the public pool, via shrine:
Once we finished with Oquawka, we drove The Great River Road to Keithsburg.
The good citizens of Keithsburg have been a little up in arms lately because the owners of this place (and, yes, that is a lighthouse painted white and striped pink, if you were wondering):
want to turn it into a, um, gentleman’s club. Apparently, the waitresses orginially served customers their fried catfish while wearing bikinis, but the bikinis have come off. Gentleman’s clubs and the river share a long history (see Gulfport), and it seems like Keithsburg is going to be a part of that history. It makes some sense, since there’s an odd store in town (Population: 740) that sells shoes and outfits for women looking to perform in such clubs:
Behind Bikinis, you can get down to the river proper:
Did I mention I've been reading Charles D'Ambrosio's The Dead Fish Museum? I know this fish is missing its head, but can someone identify it for me? I’ve never been great at species identification (whether it's trees, birds, or, um, fish) and the curiosity is killing me.
All in all, we drove through about twelve or so towns, had lunch in Viola, and my truck's tires never touched the Interstate. There were, however, no thirty packs burned, and there wasn't a single boat race.
Generally, when family or friends say something about going down to the river, they intend to “I don’t know, maybe burn a thirty-pack and watch the boat races.”
Yesterday at about 8:30 in the morning, when my wife called downstairs, where I was on only my third cup of coffee, and asked if I wanted to go to the river, my first thoughts were, “It’s too early to start burnin a thirty-pack. And it’s Tuesday, so there aren’t any boat races.”
What she really wanted to do, though, was explore a few of the small towns of Western Illinois we often pass by without taking the time to look around. So, some photos, unadulterated. Hopefully they don’t look bad on the blog without the sepia tinting.
First up, Oquawka, Illinois. Oquawka is kind of the mecca of river towns around here, but the place does have literary roots. The town’s other claim to fame is Norma Jean, the elephant killed by lightning. She is now remembered, a few feet from the public pool, via shrine:
Once we finished with Oquawka, we drove The Great River Road to Keithsburg.
The good citizens of Keithsburg have been a little up in arms lately because the owners of this place (and, yes, that is a lighthouse painted white and striped pink, if you were wondering):
want to turn it into a, um, gentleman’s club. Apparently, the waitresses orginially served customers their fried catfish while wearing bikinis, but the bikinis have come off. Gentleman’s clubs and the river share a long history (see Gulfport), and it seems like Keithsburg is going to be a part of that history. It makes some sense, since there’s an odd store in town (Population: 740) that sells shoes and outfits for women looking to perform in such clubs:
Behind Bikinis, you can get down to the river proper:
Did I mention I've been reading Charles D'Ambrosio's The Dead Fish Museum? I know this fish is missing its head, but can someone identify it for me? I’ve never been great at species identification (whether it's trees, birds, or, um, fish) and the curiosity is killing me.
All in all, we drove through about twelve or so towns, had lunch in Viola, and my truck's tires never touched the Interstate. There were, however, no thirty packs burned, and there wasn't a single boat race.
7.18.2006
Pop Culture Tuesday
I’ve had cable for around two months now, but I’d kind of forgotten about The Cartoon Network until a few days ago—it’s channel 75, and I tend to skip over everything between 54 (E!) and 550 (my beloved HBO).
But, as I said, a few days ago—Sunday night, actually—I came across Adult Swim, and since then, after 10 p.m., I’ve been regularly flipping to channel 75 to see what’s going on. Last night, I caught the beginning of Pee Wee’s Playhouse, and watched it up until the first commercial.
To the point: I’m probably the last person on earth to realize this, but Laurence Fishburne, twenty years ago, played Cowboy Curtis. (I just ran through his IMDB and noticed that around this time he also had parts in “Spenser: For Hire,” “Miami Vice,” and “Nightmare on Elm Street 3: Dream Warriors.”) Anyway, if recognizing Laurence Fishburne on Pee Wee last night wasn’t disturbing enough, I actually had to listen to the poor guy say this line to Pee Wee: “I showed you mine, now you show me yours.” He was referring to the fact he’d just showed Pee Wee how cowboys squaredance and now Pee Wee was supposed to show him how to pogo, which is probably as equally disturbing as any other interpretations of the statement.
* * *
On a television-related side note, tonight is the beginning of The Contender, and I could not be more pumped about it. I loved the first season of this show, which producer Mark Burnett has called “the best work of [his] career.” Though I haven’t seen many of Mr. Burnett’s shows, I can’t imagine any of the other reality stuff touching The Contender. My only beef with the first season was how they edited the boxing matches at the end of the show; I’m hoping that now the show has moved from NBC to ESPN, they’ll run the matches in their entirety, and without the slow-motion power punches.
I’ve only met one other person who, like me, saw every episode of the first season of The Contender. Are there any closeted Contender fans out there? Should we start a forum here? Really, I am so stoked about this new season: 9 p.m. CST, ESPN.
But, as I said, a few days ago—Sunday night, actually—I came across Adult Swim, and since then, after 10 p.m., I’ve been regularly flipping to channel 75 to see what’s going on. Last night, I caught the beginning of Pee Wee’s Playhouse, and watched it up until the first commercial.
To the point: I’m probably the last person on earth to realize this, but Laurence Fishburne, twenty years ago, played Cowboy Curtis. (I just ran through his IMDB and noticed that around this time he also had parts in “Spenser: For Hire,” “Miami Vice,” and “Nightmare on Elm Street 3: Dream Warriors.”) Anyway, if recognizing Laurence Fishburne on Pee Wee last night wasn’t disturbing enough, I actually had to listen to the poor guy say this line to Pee Wee: “I showed you mine, now you show me yours.” He was referring to the fact he’d just showed Pee Wee how cowboys squaredance and now Pee Wee was supposed to show him how to pogo, which is probably as equally disturbing as any other interpretations of the statement.
* * *
On a television-related side note, tonight is the beginning of The Contender, and I could not be more pumped about it. I loved the first season of this show, which producer Mark Burnett has called “the best work of [his] career.” Though I haven’t seen many of Mr. Burnett’s shows, I can’t imagine any of the other reality stuff touching The Contender. My only beef with the first season was how they edited the boxing matches at the end of the show; I’m hoping that now the show has moved from NBC to ESPN, they’ll run the matches in their entirety, and without the slow-motion power punches.
I’ve only met one other person who, like me, saw every episode of the first season of The Contender. Are there any closeted Contender fans out there? Should we start a forum here? Really, I am so stoked about this new season: 9 p.m. CST, ESPN.
7.17.2006
Elizabeth Ellen
Dan Wickett has gotten word from Kevin Sampsell that Future Tense Books is going to publish a chapbook of Elizabeth Ellen's work.
I am currently not allowing myself to buy books, but thankfully the thing won't come out until December, by which time my self-imposed no-book-buying ban will be lifted.
For now, go check out Elizabeth's website and read a few of her stories.
And while you're at it...
I found out via Dave Clapper's blog that SmokeLong Quarterly is now posting reviews of flash fiction. And the first review, written by Dave himself, is of Elizabeth Ellen's "Blood," first published in elimae, and a story I actually taught in my comp class this past spring.
I only added that last detail because it didn't involve my linking to anything.
I am currently not allowing myself to buy books, but thankfully the thing won't come out until December, by which time my self-imposed no-book-buying ban will be lifted.
For now, go check out Elizabeth's website and read a few of her stories.
And while you're at it...
I found out via Dave Clapper's blog that SmokeLong Quarterly is now posting reviews of flash fiction. And the first review, written by Dave himself, is of Elizabeth Ellen's "Blood," first published in elimae, and a story I actually taught in my comp class this past spring.
I only added that last detail because it didn't involve my linking to anything.
7.13.2006
Half-Naked Thursday
Since I participated in Poetry Thursday, I figured I might as well get half-naked as well. So here it is, my half-naked office:
If you're wondering in what way my office is half-naked, I'll tell you. For a long time I wanted that proverbial room of my own, and last year I got it, a wonderful little office space in the basement of the house we rent. I have spent a lot of time hanging out in the office, but when I really want to get down to the business of writing, I go to a coffee shop in town.
I ran into a colleague there recently, and when I told him I was writing, he responded that he needed "darkness and silence" to get work done. In my little office, I can have all the darkness and silence I want, but the truth is, I generally end up finding ways to distract myself. At the coffee shop the distractions of others, oddly, tend to help keep me focused. So my office has been for a while now, and shall remain, half-naked.
If you're wondering in what way my office is half-naked, I'll tell you. For a long time I wanted that proverbial room of my own, and last year I got it, a wonderful little office space in the basement of the house we rent. I have spent a lot of time hanging out in the office, but when I really want to get down to the business of writing, I go to a coffee shop in town.
I ran into a colleague there recently, and when I told him I was writing, he responded that he needed "darkness and silence" to get work done. In my little office, I can have all the darkness and silence I want, but the truth is, I generally end up finding ways to distract myself. At the coffee shop the distractions of others, oddly, tend to help keep me focused. So my office has been for a while now, and shall remain, half-naked.
Poetry Thursday--Paul Guest
I do write poetry on occasion, but I want to use the opportunity that is Poetry Thursday to recommend poets I love.
Up first is Paul Guest. Full disclosure: Paul received his M.F.A. from the same school I attended, but we were there at different times. I did meet him once when he came to read, and another time at AWP. But I’m not giving him props here because he’s a good and decent human being. I’m putting his name out there because he’s a great poet.
He has a blog which is riveting this week. Well, there’s a little mystery going on, anyway: his second book has been accepted for publication but he can’t yet say who’s going to publish it. An announcement is rumored to come by Friday. Also, he has a cool poem up today. Go check it out.
And when you’re done, you can find a few more poems by Paul here:
As the featured guest at The Adirondack Review
At Verse Daily
Donald Duck’s Lament
That’ll get you started. Once you've finished those, just Google the guy; he’s everywhere and always worth reading.
Up first is Paul Guest. Full disclosure: Paul received his M.F.A. from the same school I attended, but we were there at different times. I did meet him once when he came to read, and another time at AWP. But I’m not giving him props here because he’s a good and decent human being. I’m putting his name out there because he’s a great poet.
He has a blog which is riveting this week. Well, there’s a little mystery going on, anyway: his second book has been accepted for publication but he can’t yet say who’s going to publish it. An announcement is rumored to come by Friday. Also, he has a cool poem up today. Go check it out.
And when you’re done, you can find a few more poems by Paul here:
As the featured guest at The Adirondack Review
At Verse Daily
Donald Duck’s Lament
That’ll get you started. Once you've finished those, just Google the guy; he’s everywhere and always worth reading.
7.12.2006
Reading Slump
About a month ago, I read three novels in one week, and about six over the course of three weeks. Since then, I've started reading several books but I haven't finished a single one. (I know this is the ultimate sin for some of you--it used to be to me, when I read much more reverentially--but the books I quit reading, I just wasn't that into them).
Now, it's true, I did order cable about a month ago, and since I read my last book I watched the sixth season of The Sopranos and the second season of Entourage (thanks, HBO On Demand) but I haven't spent that much time in front of the tube. I'm certain I've spent more time online than I have watching SportsCenter or Veronica Mars.
But, the good news: I started reading Charles D'Ambrosio's The Dead Fish Museum yesterday, and I think that's going to be the book to break the slump. I'll write more about this guy later. For now, does everyone else go through reading slumps? How do they come about? How do you break them? And, I suppose, if you want to chastise me for not finishing a few books, go ahead and do so. I'm curious to hear why you feel you have the obligation to keep reading, even when you don't necessarily want to.
Now, it's true, I did order cable about a month ago, and since I read my last book I watched the sixth season of The Sopranos and the second season of Entourage (thanks, HBO On Demand) but I haven't spent that much time in front of the tube. I'm certain I've spent more time online than I have watching SportsCenter or Veronica Mars.
But, the good news: I started reading Charles D'Ambrosio's The Dead Fish Museum yesterday, and I think that's going to be the book to break the slump. I'll write more about this guy later. For now, does everyone else go through reading slumps? How do they come about? How do you break them? And, I suppose, if you want to chastise me for not finishing a few books, go ahead and do so. I'm curious to hear why you feel you have the obligation to keep reading, even when you don't necessarily want to.
7.11.2006
The Next Day
Just a note to say that the soreness I mentioned at the end of Down in a Hole is much less exhilarating--and much more painful--the day after all that work.
Which, I suppose, is a little like revisiting yesterday's drafts, which thrilled you while you were composing them, and the next day make you want to erase and erase until the rubber tears through the page, turns all those words to paper snow.
Which, I suppose, is a little like revisiting yesterday's drafts, which thrilled you while you were composing them, and the next day make you want to erase and erase until the rubber tears through the page, turns all those words to paper snow.
7.10.2006
Home Run Derby
I was blogging that last entry while watching the Home Run Derby. Here's me blogging "live," during David Ortiz's first round of swinging for the fences:
My God.
Jesus.
Wow.
Would you look at that?
My God.
Jesus.
Wow.
Would you look at that?
Down in a Hole
The lake cabin where I take D. fishing has a leaking water pipe, and to get to the valve, the plumber who is going to fix the thing needs a hole large enough for him to get down into and about three-and-a-half feet deep.
My dad, knowing I have the summer off, tasked me with digging the thing.
Soon after my dad gave me the task, about three weeks ago, I found out my father-in-law, R.B., has a gasoline-powered auger. R.B. volunteered to help me out, but even knowing I would be backed by a machine and R.B.'s know-how, I put off digging the hole until this morning.
Once R.B. surveyed the ground, he decided we could do without the auger and busted out two tiling spades, a shovel, and a posthole digger, and we got to work. It took all of seven minutes before my hat was soaked through with sweat and I was winded, but R.B. was an animal with the tiling spade, and made me feel bad for wanting to take a break, and so I did my best to keep up with him.
I had figured we'd spend a good three or four hours on the hole, but thanks to R.B., we finished in just under two.
Here's the Hole:
My shoes:
My poor Cubs hat, which I'm sure my wife is going to slip into the trash can while I sleep:
And R.B., cleaning the tools with the neighbor's hose:
And now, since this blog is primarily concerned with writing, I want to say a few things about digging a hole and putting words on the blank page. I've come across author interviews in which people compare writing to a "job," and recently, a very successful novelist colleague of mine told me that he treats writing a novel as a job like any other, one where you have to show up for X number of hours each day. I enjoy the blue-collar sentiment of this outlook. I mean, who isn't up for a little work. But my problem with the analogy is that writing for X number of hours so infrequently leads to a big, tangible, muddy hole in the ground.
Like everybody else, I've worked a lot of jobs, and a lot of blue-collar jobs: in a steel factory, as a pallet repairman at a pig plant, etc. And though the work was physically exhausting, at the end of the day, I had stacks of repaired pallets piled all around me; I'd filled boxes with hot-coiled springs.
I'm starting to get more comfortable with feeling rewarded after a few hours' writing by finding one decent sentence sentence on the page, or, gasp, a whole pararaph. But I'm still always wanting something like those pallets and springs after a day of writing: a stack of perfect pages. I mean, sometimes it's really hard to compare one decent sentence with that muddy hole in the ground, and with going home after a few hours, blisters on the palms of your hands, your clothes streaked with mud and soaked with sweat, your body thankful just to be sitting.
My dad, knowing I have the summer off, tasked me with digging the thing.
Soon after my dad gave me the task, about three weeks ago, I found out my father-in-law, R.B., has a gasoline-powered auger. R.B. volunteered to help me out, but even knowing I would be backed by a machine and R.B.'s know-how, I put off digging the hole until this morning.
Once R.B. surveyed the ground, he decided we could do without the auger and busted out two tiling spades, a shovel, and a posthole digger, and we got to work. It took all of seven minutes before my hat was soaked through with sweat and I was winded, but R.B. was an animal with the tiling spade, and made me feel bad for wanting to take a break, and so I did my best to keep up with him.
I had figured we'd spend a good three or four hours on the hole, but thanks to R.B., we finished in just under two.
Here's the Hole:
My shoes:
My poor Cubs hat, which I'm sure my wife is going to slip into the trash can while I sleep:
And R.B., cleaning the tools with the neighbor's hose:
And now, since this blog is primarily concerned with writing, I want to say a few things about digging a hole and putting words on the blank page. I've come across author interviews in which people compare writing to a "job," and recently, a very successful novelist colleague of mine told me that he treats writing a novel as a job like any other, one where you have to show up for X number of hours each day. I enjoy the blue-collar sentiment of this outlook. I mean, who isn't up for a little work. But my problem with the analogy is that writing for X number of hours so infrequently leads to a big, tangible, muddy hole in the ground.
Like everybody else, I've worked a lot of jobs, and a lot of blue-collar jobs: in a steel factory, as a pallet repairman at a pig plant, etc. And though the work was physically exhausting, at the end of the day, I had stacks of repaired pallets piled all around me; I'd filled boxes with hot-coiled springs.
I'm starting to get more comfortable with feeling rewarded after a few hours' writing by finding one decent sentence sentence on the page, or, gasp, a whole pararaph. But I'm still always wanting something like those pallets and springs after a day of writing: a stack of perfect pages. I mean, sometimes it's really hard to compare one decent sentence with that muddy hole in the ground, and with going home after a few hours, blisters on the palms of your hands, your clothes streaked with mud and soaked with sweat, your body thankful just to be sitting.
7.07.2006
The Scrubs
I haven’t always been a Cubs fan. Growing up, I liked the St. Louis Cardinals. My mom, though, liked the Cubs, and once, when I was five or six years old, she told me I wouldn’t be able to live with her any longer if I continued cheering for Ozzie Smith’s team. Again, I was only five or so, and I truly believed I was going to get kicked out of the house, so I started wearing the Cubs T-shirts and hats she bought me. A few years later, though, I got wise to her scheme and realized my sweet old mom wasn’t going to kick me out of the house because I refused to sing the Jody Davis song along with her and Harry Caray.So I spent most of the rest of my youth cheering for the Cardinals and calling the Cubs the Scrubs—I wasn’t one of those kids who filled notebooks with stories, but I did play around with words all the time, and when I was seven or so I thought the Cubs/Scrubs pun was about the funniest thing in the world.
It wasn’t until I was twenty-two and a wannabe writer working crappy jobs that I started cheering for the Cubs in earnest. You see, it wasn’t until I became an underdog in life that I started appreciating what it means to root for the Cubs.
Now, however, I’m a little past the underdog phase, and I want to see the suckers win, especially after the enormous letdown that was 2003.
And this year’s Cubs team, it’s a tough one to love. In fact, I have tickets for a night game next month, and I could not care less about going. Even the old Scrubs joke, I’m just not feeling it.
Fishing with D.
My nephew D. is a little obsessed with fishing, and I have the privilege every now and then of taking him to my parents’ lake cabin to do so.
But, besides being obsessed with fishing, D.’s also a pretty hilarious ten-year-old. Monday, he spent the night with us, so that we could take him fishing the morning and afternoon of the fourth. I thought maybe we’d spend Monday night going to Superman Returns, but then I saw it was 164 minutes long, which made me think he might have a hard time sitting though it—and besides, D. didn’t really want to see it. He wanted to see the movie with the “grown man who looks like a baby”—which I figured out was the new Wayans’ brothers movie; it wasn’t in town. Then I thought maybe Nacho Libre. I queued the preview on the computer, and called D. over, and before the thing even began, D. was quoting the line about “stretchy pants” in a very Nacho-esque accent.
Anyway, we decided to go to Family Video to rent PS2 games. On the way there, we saw an African-American man walking down the street. D. is adopted, and also African-American, and when he saw the guy, he started saying, “I’m a black man, a black guy. I’m a black man walking down the street.”
I chuckled a little, not knowing where that came from, and kind of forgot about it. We rented two fishing games, a deer hunting game, and a very cool dirtbiking game. The next morning, we were off to the cabin.
About an hour after he started fishing, D. came up to the fishing tackle cabinet on the deck below where I was sitting and started poking around. I heard, floating up to me, “I’m a black man, a black guy. I’m a black man looking for a new fishing pole.”
*Photo by J.C., but tinted sepia so that it matches the blog.
7.04.2006
Hunger
The way Alex imagined it, she and her husband would renovate the place room-by-room, exhaust themselves with wiring, grouting, hanging drywall. And at night they would try to conceive again, putting whatever energy they had left over into it.
A few months after they moved in, they had accomplished almost nothing. Alex called a friend and said, “This house makes me so hungry.”
* * *
To read the rest of "Hunger" you can purchase Versal 04 by clicking the link on the toolbar. Or you can send me an email, and I'd be happy to pass the story along.
A few months after they moved in, they had accomplished almost nothing. Alex called a friend and said, “This house makes me so hungry.”
* * *
To read the rest of "Hunger" you can purchase Versal 04 by clicking the link on the toolbar. Or you can send me an email, and I'd be happy to pass the story along.
7.02.2006
Reviewed
I’m a little delinquent in posting about Fringes’ review of my story in SmokeLong Quarterly, but here’s the link. She actually reviewed all twenty stories in the issue, for those of you who aren't in the know, and she provided some fantastic insights into them. I must say, though, that I’m most impressed with her stick-to-it-ive-ness in finishing reviews of all twenty stories. Very cool.
Also, another SmokeLong Quarterly contributor, and editor of Storyglossia, Steven J. McDermott, has given his own shout-outs about the new issue, including some kind words about “Miracle.”
Kudos to both of these very cool people. This is just the kind of thing I was talking about when I wrote the post that mentioned why I decided to start blogging. My heart, truly, goes out to both of them.
Also, another SmokeLong Quarterly contributor, and editor of Storyglossia, Steven J. McDermott, has given his own shout-outs about the new issue, including some kind words about “Miracle.”
Kudos to both of these very cool people. This is just the kind of thing I was talking about when I wrote the post that mentioned why I decided to start blogging. My heart, truly, goes out to both of them.
Blurb Business--A Mystery
A few weeks ago I wrote a post about what novels I’ve recently read. One of those novels was a young adult, chick-lit novel written by my friend Beth. (I didn’t mention, by the way, that when I bought the book I was so self-conscious about buying an aqua-blue-and-electric-orange covered, obviously-written-for-teenaged-girls book that I purchased Nicole Krauss’ The History of Love and another copy of War and Peace to make me less conspicuous, though now that I think about it, I probably looked even stranger to the woman ringing me up).
Anyway, I loved Beth’s little book, ate it up like candy, and I said so in that post.
Last night, I was channel surfing, and the TV wound up on an MTV commercial. The spot was for the six recently released MTV/Pocket Books titles, one of which is Beth’s book, Life as a Poser.
The commercial showed the covers of each of the books, while voice-overs in thick, valley-girl accents said things like, “I absolutely loved Cruel Summer.” I was thinking, here’s one of the perks of being published by a company in cahoots with MTV: an advertising campaign directed right at the people who may buy your books (and thirty-year-old men who are channel surfing or just happen to love the show Next). So, I was thinking this and waiting for Beth’s book to pop up, and when it did, the voice-over said, “I’m totally looking forward to the next book in the series.”
I thought, that sounds familiar. And then I thought, I wrote that in my blog. I just re-checked the post, though, and I didn’t write it in the blog. I sent it in an email to Beth herself, but it was through her author website, which is how we’ve been emailing each other lately.
The quote was attributed to someone on screen, but it went by too fast for me to read it. I want to know who it’s attributed to--if someone in the machine got hold of that email or whatever--and I keep flipping to MTV during commercials hoping to catch the thing, but I haven’t seen the spot again. (My wife, by the way, thinks I’m crazy, and that it’s a generic enough quote that anybody could have said it.) I’m not so sure, though. So, my three-and-a-half readers, look for the commercial, and listen for the valley-girl-accented, “I’m totally looking forward to the next book in the series,” and see what’s written on the screen. The curiosity is, like, absolutely killing me.
Anyway, I loved Beth’s little book, ate it up like candy, and I said so in that post.
Last night, I was channel surfing, and the TV wound up on an MTV commercial. The spot was for the six recently released MTV/Pocket Books titles, one of which is Beth’s book, Life as a Poser.
The commercial showed the covers of each of the books, while voice-overs in thick, valley-girl accents said things like, “I absolutely loved Cruel Summer.” I was thinking, here’s one of the perks of being published by a company in cahoots with MTV: an advertising campaign directed right at the people who may buy your books (and thirty-year-old men who are channel surfing or just happen to love the show Next). So, I was thinking this and waiting for Beth’s book to pop up, and when it did, the voice-over said, “I’m totally looking forward to the next book in the series.”
I thought, that sounds familiar. And then I thought, I wrote that in my blog. I just re-checked the post, though, and I didn’t write it in the blog. I sent it in an email to Beth herself, but it was through her author website, which is how we’ve been emailing each other lately.
The quote was attributed to someone on screen, but it went by too fast for me to read it. I want to know who it’s attributed to--if someone in the machine got hold of that email or whatever--and I keep flipping to MTV during commercials hoping to catch the thing, but I haven’t seen the spot again. (My wife, by the way, thinks I’m crazy, and that it’s a generic enough quote that anybody could have said it.) I’m not so sure, though. So, my three-and-a-half readers, look for the commercial, and listen for the valley-girl-accented, “I’m totally looking forward to the next book in the series,” and see what’s written on the screen. The curiosity is, like, absolutely killing me.
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