fear caused the famine
so step inside the kitchen
grab your knife and pliers?
yes, knock the eel unconscious
grip it tight, skin it, peel it
like a glove from an elbow
don't let the blood
give you a fright
it's messy, innit?
a hungry soul writhing
but you like to eat
that is plain to see
you must eat to live
eating is destroying a living thing
can't be helped, can it?
the belly whispers to the soul:
to live, you must destroy, you eat
the tentacles around your heart
---
July 18th, 2012
Kansas City, MO
~Inspired by the writings of Richard Olney
20 July 2012
19 July 2012
Billy Blaze Is Beating The Crap Out of Chuck Lumley. Maybe.
Monday, July 16th, 2012. 4:38 PM. Thirsty and nervous.
A problem with writing, sometimes and at least for me, is that there is an excess of voices in my head. Not in a "I've-lost-my-grip-and-become-unhinged" sort of way. It resembles a cacophony. A circus. The trading floor of a particularly eccentric, bizarre stock exchange.
Plus, there is the subtle yet pervasive odor of fear in the atmosphere. Fear makes me nervous.
The voices, they often make it hard for me to get anything done. Today is a case in point. I've been bouncing back and forth between trying to cobble together an effective job search, and attempting to suss out the thread of something my inner voice insists I write. Doing two complex tasks at once, and doing neither very well. I mean, just look at the drivel I'm putting on the page!
Gahhh. It is a first world problem that strikes at the root of my dilemma. I have been pursuing what I know how to do*, with unfortunately little usable results. I have also pursued what I don't know how to do**, with results even less impressive. All of this against a backdrop of a life in whirling flux. So many changes, so many things new and outside of the fragile snow globe I used to inhabit.
Well, that glass is broken now. A leap into the wild blue after years of habit broken by personal upheaval. It has affected my concentration. My creativity. My resolve to produce something worthwhile. The ideas come like stones skipping over the surface of the ocean. Tracking them all makes it own exhaustion, especially since I have aspirations to be more than just a hobbyist. As an architect, I should know more than many that in order to build anything, you need a solid plan.
So the joke seems to be on me. For reasons I have yet to understand, I have been unable to formulate a solid plan for any path I want to follow. I think about it, I make tentative steps in certain directions, and then I get distracted by the Stuff and the Things. I have lost focus far more times than I care to count. This is anxious-making, because I'm painfully aware I need to get it together.
The pragmatic, practical side of me, the one that is fond of structure and routine is banging heads with the creative, artistic side that is desperate to bloom and explore. There has to be a way to reconcile the two. All the more critical as I hope to find a way to make a living out of the beautiful mess of my life. I need my one big idea.
Remember the movie Night Shift which came out in 1982, with Michael Keaton and Henry Winkler? As some may know, Michael Keaton played William Blazejowski aka 'Billy Blaze'. He was the feckless numbskull, always carrying a miniature tape recorder so he could capture the big ideas that were constantly springing forth from his overheated mind.*** Henry Winkler played Chuck Lumley, the sad-sack, straight-laced guy who quit Wall Street for a low-stress job in a morgue. They both end up on the night shift, and hilarity ensues. The Creative and the Steward in comic tension.
Chuck Lumley and Billy Blaze are slugging it out in my head, cheered on by a crowd of reprobates, hangers-on and clowns. I'm not sure who is ahead in this contest, but I can tell you it is noisy, it is frenetic and it is exhausting. Chuck wants me to settle down and take the first, safest thing that comes up. Billy wants me to keep cranking out the ideas until we have that One Big Idea.
I want that One Big Idea, too, dear readers. I'm just not sure how much longer I can hold out.
---
*The wonderful if exceedingly frustrating world of architecture.
**In other words, writing and photography. By 'don't know how to do' I mean I was not formally educated in, nor do I have professional credentials in, either area of artistic/professional endeavor.
***My favorite is the one where Billy is eating a fast food burger. He stops to stare at the wrapper, then whips out the recorder to say "Idea to reduce garbage:edible paper!" The look on his face was hilarious.
A problem with writing, sometimes and at least for me, is that there is an excess of voices in my head. Not in a "I've-lost-my-grip-and-become-unhinged" sort of way. It resembles a cacophony. A circus. The trading floor of a particularly eccentric, bizarre stock exchange.
Plus, there is the subtle yet pervasive odor of fear in the atmosphere. Fear makes me nervous.
The voices, they often make it hard for me to get anything done. Today is a case in point. I've been bouncing back and forth between trying to cobble together an effective job search, and attempting to suss out the thread of something my inner voice insists I write. Doing two complex tasks at once, and doing neither very well. I mean, just look at the drivel I'm putting on the page!
Gahhh. It is a first world problem that strikes at the root of my dilemma. I have been pursuing what I know how to do*, with unfortunately little usable results. I have also pursued what I don't know how to do**, with results even less impressive. All of this against a backdrop of a life in whirling flux. So many changes, so many things new and outside of the fragile snow globe I used to inhabit.
Well, that glass is broken now. A leap into the wild blue after years of habit broken by personal upheaval. It has affected my concentration. My creativity. My resolve to produce something worthwhile. The ideas come like stones skipping over the surface of the ocean. Tracking them all makes it own exhaustion, especially since I have aspirations to be more than just a hobbyist. As an architect, I should know more than many that in order to build anything, you need a solid plan.
So the joke seems to be on me. For reasons I have yet to understand, I have been unable to formulate a solid plan for any path I want to follow. I think about it, I make tentative steps in certain directions, and then I get distracted by the Stuff and the Things. I have lost focus far more times than I care to count. This is anxious-making, because I'm painfully aware I need to get it together.
The pragmatic, practical side of me, the one that is fond of structure and routine is banging heads with the creative, artistic side that is desperate to bloom and explore. There has to be a way to reconcile the two. All the more critical as I hope to find a way to make a living out of the beautiful mess of my life. I need my one big idea.
Remember the movie Night Shift which came out in 1982, with Michael Keaton and Henry Winkler? As some may know, Michael Keaton played William Blazejowski aka 'Billy Blaze'. He was the feckless numbskull, always carrying a miniature tape recorder so he could capture the big ideas that were constantly springing forth from his overheated mind.*** Henry Winkler played Chuck Lumley, the sad-sack, straight-laced guy who quit Wall Street for a low-stress job in a morgue. They both end up on the night shift, and hilarity ensues. The Creative and the Steward in comic tension.
Chuck Lumley and Billy Blaze are slugging it out in my head, cheered on by a crowd of reprobates, hangers-on and clowns. I'm not sure who is ahead in this contest, but I can tell you it is noisy, it is frenetic and it is exhausting. Chuck wants me to settle down and take the first, safest thing that comes up. Billy wants me to keep cranking out the ideas until we have that One Big Idea.
I want that One Big Idea, too, dear readers. I'm just not sure how much longer I can hold out.
---
*The wonderful if exceedingly frustrating world of architecture.
**In other words, writing and photography. By 'don't know how to do' I mean I was not formally educated in, nor do I have professional credentials in, either area of artistic/professional endeavor.
***My favorite is the one where Billy is eating a fast food burger. He stops to stare at the wrapper, then whips out the recorder to say "Idea to reduce garbage:edible paper!" The look on his face was hilarious.
18 July 2012
Crossing the Gulf
Hot wind pushed its way into the room, blowing grit and despair into Josiah's eyes. The door to the taqueria was propped open by an adobe brick that looked half-melted. A battered fan stood to the side and seemed offended, letting out a low rasp as the blades sped up briefly. Aside from the fan, the only other occupant was a short, roundish woman leaning half-asleep on the counter across the room.
Josiah cleared his throat around a lukewarm swallow of acrid coffee. He blinked in the heat, a lizard pondering the shadow of the hawk about to grab him. The money was nearly gone and he had only made it as far as Sonoita. San Felipe and the coast beyond was starting look like another fever-heat dream.
Heat. "Goddamn it hot," Josiah muttered to himself. Sweat beads were rolling down his face from under the salt-encrusted hatband but did little to cool. On his skin, they felt like drops of molten lead. The drops glistened on the pistol shoved into his waistband. It was pressing into his side, a blood-warm metal thorn that he could not afford to pull out. The gun and the silver dollars in his pocket were their own economy, one in which he was the working class.
Be that as it was, he found himself still hungry. A tin plate lay before him, its battered surface obscured by a thin film of frijoles charros sauce. The beans had long ago made their way to his waiting belly; little shreds of tortillas littered the pock-marked wood of the table. A dented tin cup stood at his elbow. The dregs of the coffee looked like oil or evil, he didn't know which. Either way, it was wet, so he lifted the cup and drank.
There came a low buzz and a sharp crack from outside in the street. The lights flickered and went out. The fan came to a wheezing halt. Josiah sat up straight as he sat the cup down too hard. It clanked against the table top, startling the sloe-eyedseñoraslumped against the counter. She stood upright and peered through the dusty, bubble-pocked glass of the small window at the end of the piñon wood counter. She muttered something in Spanish, too low for Josiah to catch. He guessed she was cursing the blackout.
Josiah glanced out the door. The sky was darkening, purplish clouds laced with dirty silver rolling in over the mountains in the distance. He reckoned rain might be a relief even if it slowed him down. Less dust would be a blessing. Of course, and Josiah smiled at the thought, it would slow down Webb's henchmen, too.
Webb's boys. Josiah felt his stomach roil to think they might catch him. Dumb as a box of rocks, but long on muscle and bad intent.They wouldn't give a good goddamn that the fugitive had only taken back what was rightfully his, in spite of everything Len Webb had done. "Ruined my father, stole my land, he did, but he ain't going to keep it" Josiah said. The señora looked over, eyes narrowing and eyebrows cocked. He couldn't tell if she understood him, or thought him just plain crazy. He looked away, quickly.
Webb's reach was long and he might well have someone in place down here. Might even be the señora; the thought made him dizzy. He looked back at her. She was looking out the window again, nervously it seemed. "Time to move," he thought. He stood up, reaching in his pocket for a coin. The señora heard the rattle as he fished it out, turning to eye him carefully. He held up the money for her to see. "Silver, see?" he smiled a little too big and patted his belly. "Bueno, señora, bueno!" he added, flipping the coin to her across the room. She hardly moved except for a lightning-quick grab that snagged the coin out of mid-air. She raised it to her lips, and bit it. She smiled, wrinkled lips parting to reveal a snaggle-toothed smile. "Gracias, señor," she said shyly.
Josiah picked up the leather satchel that had been laying under the table and limped across to the door. He leaned out cautiously, turning to look both ways up and down the avenida. As main drags go, it wasn't much, but in these parts it might be considered a regular El Camino Real. It was wide, too wide for Josiah's liking but ran straight through the center of town.
Out on the packed dirt, he could see a few dozen horses, some donkeys, few people and one lone motorcar. From the polish and shine, Josiah guessed it belonged to whoever held the most land and power around the town. Not many as could afford a good horse, much less a machine that no one would be able to easily fix. The car sat catty-cornered across the road from the taqueria, in front of what Josiah thought to be a hotel. The car was empty.
Josiah looked south, where the sun was still shining. The avenida was empty, he could no one nor any dust trails on the slow, hot breeze. He turned to look north, into the storm. The sky in that direction was the color of old lead, and getting blacker. He saw a fork of lightning touch down on a hill in the mid-distance. He jumped a little, and he remembered to look down at the road.
There was a dust cloud on the road. It roiled and drifted off in a gauzy smear. In the fading sunlight, he could see glints of something down on the surface. It was moving relatively fast, shimmering a little in the heat. Josiah swallowed hard. He couldn't tell if the approaching objects were cars or horses, but he had no desire to find out. Fear spiked his belly as he scrambled painfully down the worn wooden steps. The hard-packed dirt of the road burned through the soles of his boots. He hobbled as fast as he could to his waiting horse, a slow warm trickle of blood oozing down his belly from underneath the makeshift bandage he had tied there two days ago.
The wound was shallow, a testament to how fast he had ducked and to the luck of another's bad aim. He grunted a little in pain, regretting he didn't have time to find another bandage as replacement. That would have to wait until he put some space and hopefully the Gulf of California between himself and Webb.
The horse nickered in recognition as Josiah placed a hand on the animal's flank. "C'mon, boy, we've miles to make," he said, patting the horse gently. Josiah's other hand strayed to the satchel. In spite of the urgency, he opened it up, reassuring himself that the precious contents were still there. His fingertips found them both, one a stout silver cross and the other a packet of heavy parchment pages bound in twine. The cross was on a heavy silver chain, and studded with emeralds. The parchment was browned, the color of suntanned leather and worth more than the cross ever could be.
Josiah sighed. He shut the satchel, resetting the clasp tightly. One foot in the stirrup, one hand on the pommel of the saddle, he steeled himself against the pain as he swung himself up on the horse. The stabbing tear in his side forced a gasp from his aching lungs. There were tears in his eyes as he blinked rapidly to clear them. Time was getting short.
He looked again to the north. The dust cloud had gotten larger, looking eerie against the nearly black sky behind it. Whoever it was they were gaining. Josiah tugged on the reins, turning the horse to the south. He pressed his heels against its flanks, urging it into a fast trot. He prayed they would get out of sight before whoever was back there could eyeball him.
Behind him, the door to the hotel opened. Three men stepped out, one dressed in linen too clean for honest day's work. The other two were dressed in clothes the color of rock and adobe. All three looked well-groomed. They eyed Josiah suspiciously, saying nothing. Josiah touched the brim of hat, then set his heels to the horse again.
The horse picked up speed, trotting into the shadows on the south side of the avenida. Josiah leaned forward and pulled his hat down low. His left hand on the reins, his right hand drifted down to rest on the satchel. The heft of it filled him with hope and dread. Cross and paper would be his salvation, he thought, if only he could make it across the gulf.
Josiah cleared his throat around a lukewarm swallow of acrid coffee. He blinked in the heat, a lizard pondering the shadow of the hawk about to grab him. The money was nearly gone and he had only made it as far as Sonoita. San Felipe and the coast beyond was starting look like another fever-heat dream.
Heat. "Goddamn it hot," Josiah muttered to himself. Sweat beads were rolling down his face from under the salt-encrusted hatband but did little to cool. On his skin, they felt like drops of molten lead. The drops glistened on the pistol shoved into his waistband. It was pressing into his side, a blood-warm metal thorn that he could not afford to pull out. The gun and the silver dollars in his pocket were their own economy, one in which he was the working class.
Be that as it was, he found himself still hungry. A tin plate lay before him, its battered surface obscured by a thin film of frijoles charros sauce. The beans had long ago made their way to his waiting belly; little shreds of tortillas littered the pock-marked wood of the table. A dented tin cup stood at his elbow. The dregs of the coffee looked like oil or evil, he didn't know which. Either way, it was wet, so he lifted the cup and drank.
There came a low buzz and a sharp crack from outside in the street. The lights flickered and went out. The fan came to a wheezing halt. Josiah sat up straight as he sat the cup down too hard. It clanked against the table top, startling the sloe-eyedseñoraslumped against the counter. She stood upright and peered through the dusty, bubble-pocked glass of the small window at the end of the piñon wood counter. She muttered something in Spanish, too low for Josiah to catch. He guessed she was cursing the blackout.
Josiah glanced out the door. The sky was darkening, purplish clouds laced with dirty silver rolling in over the mountains in the distance. He reckoned rain might be a relief even if it slowed him down. Less dust would be a blessing. Of course, and Josiah smiled at the thought, it would slow down Webb's henchmen, too.
Webb's boys. Josiah felt his stomach roil to think they might catch him. Dumb as a box of rocks, but long on muscle and bad intent.They wouldn't give a good goddamn that the fugitive had only taken back what was rightfully his, in spite of everything Len Webb had done. "Ruined my father, stole my land, he did, but he ain't going to keep it" Josiah said. The señora looked over, eyes narrowing and eyebrows cocked. He couldn't tell if she understood him, or thought him just plain crazy. He looked away, quickly.
Webb's reach was long and he might well have someone in place down here. Might even be the señora; the thought made him dizzy. He looked back at her. She was looking out the window again, nervously it seemed. "Time to move," he thought. He stood up, reaching in his pocket for a coin. The señora heard the rattle as he fished it out, turning to eye him carefully. He held up the money for her to see. "Silver, see?" he smiled a little too big and patted his belly. "Bueno, señora, bueno!" he added, flipping the coin to her across the room. She hardly moved except for a lightning-quick grab that snagged the coin out of mid-air. She raised it to her lips, and bit it. She smiled, wrinkled lips parting to reveal a snaggle-toothed smile. "Gracias, señor," she said shyly.
Josiah picked up the leather satchel that had been laying under the table and limped across to the door. He leaned out cautiously, turning to look both ways up and down the avenida. As main drags go, it wasn't much, but in these parts it might be considered a regular El Camino Real. It was wide, too wide for Josiah's liking but ran straight through the center of town.
Out on the packed dirt, he could see a few dozen horses, some donkeys, few people and one lone motorcar. From the polish and shine, Josiah guessed it belonged to whoever held the most land and power around the town. Not many as could afford a good horse, much less a machine that no one would be able to easily fix. The car sat catty-cornered across the road from the taqueria, in front of what Josiah thought to be a hotel. The car was empty.
Josiah looked south, where the sun was still shining. The avenida was empty, he could no one nor any dust trails on the slow, hot breeze. He turned to look north, into the storm. The sky in that direction was the color of old lead, and getting blacker. He saw a fork of lightning touch down on a hill in the mid-distance. He jumped a little, and he remembered to look down at the road.
There was a dust cloud on the road. It roiled and drifted off in a gauzy smear. In the fading sunlight, he could see glints of something down on the surface. It was moving relatively fast, shimmering a little in the heat. Josiah swallowed hard. He couldn't tell if the approaching objects were cars or horses, but he had no desire to find out. Fear spiked his belly as he scrambled painfully down the worn wooden steps. The hard-packed dirt of the road burned through the soles of his boots. He hobbled as fast as he could to his waiting horse, a slow warm trickle of blood oozing down his belly from underneath the makeshift bandage he had tied there two days ago.
The wound was shallow, a testament to how fast he had ducked and to the luck of another's bad aim. He grunted a little in pain, regretting he didn't have time to find another bandage as replacement. That would have to wait until he put some space and hopefully the Gulf of California between himself and Webb.
The horse nickered in recognition as Josiah placed a hand on the animal's flank. "C'mon, boy, we've miles to make," he said, patting the horse gently. Josiah's other hand strayed to the satchel. In spite of the urgency, he opened it up, reassuring himself that the precious contents were still there. His fingertips found them both, one a stout silver cross and the other a packet of heavy parchment pages bound in twine. The cross was on a heavy silver chain, and studded with emeralds. The parchment was browned, the color of suntanned leather and worth more than the cross ever could be.
Josiah sighed. He shut the satchel, resetting the clasp tightly. One foot in the stirrup, one hand on the pommel of the saddle, he steeled himself against the pain as he swung himself up on the horse. The stabbing tear in his side forced a gasp from his aching lungs. There were tears in his eyes as he blinked rapidly to clear them. Time was getting short.
He looked again to the north. The dust cloud had gotten larger, looking eerie against the nearly black sky behind it. Whoever it was they were gaining. Josiah tugged on the reins, turning the horse to the south. He pressed his heels against its flanks, urging it into a fast trot. He prayed they would get out of sight before whoever was back there could eyeball him.
Behind him, the door to the hotel opened. Three men stepped out, one dressed in linen too clean for honest day's work. The other two were dressed in clothes the color of rock and adobe. All three looked well-groomed. They eyed Josiah suspiciously, saying nothing. Josiah touched the brim of hat, then set his heels to the horse again.
The horse picked up speed, trotting into the shadows on the south side of the avenida. Josiah leaned forward and pulled his hat down low. His left hand on the reins, his right hand drifted down to rest on the satchel. The heft of it filled him with hope and dread. Cross and paper would be his salvation, he thought, if only he could make it across the gulf.
17 July 2012
Magpie Tales 126: Resetting the Stones
Artwork by Jack Vettriano, via Tess at Magpie Tales
"Rachel?"
...
"Rachel. She's waiting downstairs."
An impatient tapping of cigarette against burnished leather the color of oxblood. She continues to stare out the window, Imogen waiting skittish as a fawn in the doorway. She found her older sister's profile, back lit as it was by the pewter sky beyond, rather imperial in its own way. She found most things about Rachel to be regal ever since they were children. Imogen rarely forgot it.
Rachel stood silent. She watched the slow, fat drops of rain descend to disintegrate on the impossibly green grass and slick pavement. It reminded her of emeralds and coal, and Sarah still dead after five years. Green eyes and black hair flickered across the theater screen behind Rachel's eyes. Beautiful things brought forth from the earth, too fragile perhaps to survive without breaking or burning. The thought closed Rachel's eyes, involuntarily, but this time there were no tears. Imogen spoke, a rock in the pond of remembrance.
"Chandra is wai---" Rachel cut her off, a bit sharply, "I know, I heard you."
She turned to look at her sister, seeing the flush of embarrassment and hurt creeping up her neck. Imogen started back slightly under the pressure of Rachel's ice-blue eyes. Rachel softened her gaze, realizing the poor thing was only trying to help, and gave a reassuring smile.
"I'm sorry, love. I didn't mean to be so harsh. Too much on my mind, you know, and this is my first since Sarah di--died," Rachel said, stumbling over the word. "I'm ready, I think, but still." She looked back out the window, rainfall and memories disappearing into a slick gloss over the streets. "Tell her I'm sorry to keep her waiting, I'll be down in a moment." Imogen dipped her head in acknowledgement, and skittered off downstairs to relay the news.
Rachel tapped the cigarette on the case again, decided against lighting it. No time, really, and she didn't want to make an entrance smelling of Dunhills. She opened the battered leather case and replaced the cigarette. It snapped shut, a loud clacking in the silence of the room. The contents vanished from sight, and the case went in her purse.
Rachel stepped away from the window and over to her full-length mirror. Her lover's eyes stared back out at her. Rachel smoothed her dress, whispered "Time to go, darling." Sarah melted away with a soft "Yes, yes, it is..." leaving a melancholy smile. Emeralds and coal scattered themselves into the strata of Rachel's heart, fading from view as she made her way downstairs into a new empire.
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