Unexpected.

Who hasn’t heard the catcall while walking from point “A” to point “B” down the sidewalk.

Unexpected.

That time at fourteen, wearing a pretty sundress, sitting on the steps overlooking the street—enjoying the quiet summer night air, just thinking.

Then you notice the same car driving by—and the man inside watching you, smiling.

His dick in his hand. You ran home.

Unexpected.

At the school dance, did you receive a kiss that was more than just a kiss—

Unexpected.

There was that time at the bar when his hand groped your flesh.

Yours. Private.

Kidding! He said with a laugh.

Unexpected. Yet—Not surprised.

You were asking for it, right?

Your mother asked when you told her.

No. Not really. You replied, indignant, yet, guilty. Your body betrayed you.

Unexpected.

You were only thinking, “Maybe I’d meet someone nice. We’d have a drink. I’d laugh at the funny things he said. Maybe he’d walk me home.”

You were just feeling prettier because someone noticed you.

He seemed nice. At least until—

Unexpected.

He really wasn’t all that funny. No. Not really.

Who hasn’t heard the wolf whistle while Walking from point “A” to point “B” down the sidewalk.

Unexpected.

It’s only hilarious in Bugs Bunny cartoons because he dressed like a she, and had them all fooled.

The rascally rabbit took care of that shit the minute the ears and tail became clear.

Think fast rabbit.

Unexpected.

hillbilly-hare-c2a9-warner-brothers

Hillbilly Hare © Warner Brothers Bugs Bunny

The classic cartoon, wickedly funny – I learned a great deal about life from Bugs Bunny.

#METOO

 

 

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Mr. Weinstein Will See You Now…the song

Hero_Square_Amanda_Palmer_Mr._Weinstein_Will_See_You_Now@2x

Being a member of Amanda Palmer’s Patreon gives me a front row seat to the creation process of a song, a video, anything that she makes happen…and I’m more than happy to put my little money towards the creation of the “things” she makes because I totally dig what she does. This song…is the Holy Fuck of mother fucking songs…the two voices, Amanda and Jasmine, the piano, the strings…the whole production is haunting.

Fucking listen to it with headphones on so you don’t miss a thing. Or if you have an awesome sound system, go for it, turn it up to eleven, rattle the windows. Piss off your neighbors…

Here are a few incoming reviews:

Amanda Palmer’s “Mr Weinstein Will See you Now” is the beginning of a new era for #MeToo” https://www.the-pool.com/news-views/opinion/2018/21/caroline-o-donoghue-on-amanda-palmer-mr-weinstein-will-see-you-now

in refinery29:

Why Amanda Palmer Wrote A Song Called “Mr. Weinstein Will See You Now” https://www.refinery29.com/2018/05/199968/amanda-palmer-song-mr-weinstein-will-see-you-now

and this one, from a patron here, aimsel:

Amanda Palmer & Jasmine Power release scorching, triumphant “Mr. Weinstein Will See You Now” https://aimselontherecord.com/2018/05/23/amanda-palmer-jasmine-power-release-scorching-triumphant-mr-weinstein-will-see-you-now/

I don’t know what else to say…I’ll let the song say it.

Nineteen years…

 

Washed Glass image

April 29th is a day that I celebrate every year for the last nineteen of them, I quietly acknowledge that this is the day that I picked up an empty salt n’ pepper composition book and filled it with the words that I needed to get out of my system. Those words became my first novel, Washed Glass. When I finished writing it six months later on October 29, it had a beginning and an end, and lots of shit happening in the middle—maybe too much. I revised it many times and set it aside in 2004. That time from 1999-2004 was pretty intense, I had the floodgates wide open and all of these stories came into being. I was writing them as fast as I could, very often simultaneously—it was madness, and I was incredibly happy and miserable at the same time. As it is, Washed Glass is still very raw—it has chronic first novel-itus—which usually is a death knell for many first novel attempts. I know it has lots of potential to become what I have envisioned for it, it’s going to take time and focus. I believe that more than one book can be dredged out of what’s there, the fractals of possibilities branch out and keep making more stories to explore.

I visit Washed Glass occasionally to tweak a detail here and there because it overlaps with my three other novels, Dusty Waters A Ghost Story, The Fractured Hues of White Light, and Drinking from the Fishbowl, maintaining the consistency from one book to the next is a challenge. This community of characters that I have created are all connected in some form—as in real life, people influence one another in various ways, for good or bad. I check in with the two main characters, Katharine Tierney and Jonathan Wiley, from time to time as they wander in and out of the story threads of the other novels, leaving bread crumbs that will lead to their story, and I am so excited that their turn is coming. I’m certain that I can make it right.

(Drinking from the Fishbowl is in the final, final, final stages of “dotting i’s and crossing t’s”, I swear fuck damn it, this time it’s going to be done!)

 

Manuscripts

Drinking from the fisbbowl DSC03342 4 20 2018

This object, the stack of drafts, manuscripts, folly, work, writing, paper, paint, sweat, and tears—years in the making.

Compared to my drawings and paintings that are more immediate because they’re right there hanging on the wall, a book isn’t so easy to ask people to read—especially one resembling a doorstop. Over the years that I’ve spent writing this book, I’ve accumulated several drafts and decided to use them to create this mixed media 3-dimensional object to represent what I’ve been doing all these years. Look at this thing…

Drinking from the fisbbowl DSC03359 4 20 2018

The investment of time to write a novel is overwhelming, especially those early drafts when the work in progress is rough and awkward. The inspiration for it came into being sometime around 1999 and 2001, the novel began with a few lines of conversation between two nameless people. No aspiring writer knows what they’re getting into when they first start a novel, it’s a gray area of unknown proportions until the words form— black on white. Once I started jotting down ideas on any available piece of paper, post-it, or notebook, the cast of characters eventually acquired names, a shared history, a mythology, and the story gained a life of its own after a spell of trial and error. By 2003 it had a beginning and an end, and all the stuff in between, I set it aside to work on other novels I had in the works. Now it’s on the cusp of being published.

Drinking from the fisbbowl DSC03326 4 20 2018

Precarious and chaotic at the bottom of the pile…

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The top layer is the more recent manuscript, less of a mess, progress being made…

The stack of paper is a testament to the time I spent creating this work, and since my artwork is mostly paper based creations, it only made sense to use these drafts to create an art object; this piece is comprised of manuscripts from 2010-2018 when I set my focus on polishing the rough document I had created well before I knew what I was doing. It became a better work after waiting for me to become a better writer.

Drinking from the fisbbowl DSC03321 4 20 2018

I learned a lot through the process of writing this novel—as with my paintings and drawings, the process of creating is the part I love the most—once it’s done, it’s in the reader’s hands. It’s the creative journey that I want to celebrate.

Drinking from the fisbbowl DSC03347 4 20 2018

My little friend, Pigasus, an appropriate paperweight.

“You know just as well as I do that this book is going to catch the same kind of hell that all the others did and for the same reasons. It will not be what anyone expects and so the expecters will not like it. And until it gets to people who don’t expect anything and are just willing to go along with the story, no one is likely to like this book.” (quoted from page 26, March 8, Thursday.) Journal of a Novel: The East of Eden Letters, John Steinbeck

The Asterisk

My hands are thickly glazed in white paint;

some of it wet, some of it dry. I’ve been busy.

Through the window I see someone

is in the driveway walking around the house.

Who?

Lost?

Looking for someone. Some place.

Looking for me?

Why is it every time I take a day off from work

There’s always that asterisk to the day?

Two women. Older. Well-dressed.

Hello, can I help you?

You have so many doors. The one who knocked says.

(Great, they’re casing the joint.)

(Why am I so suspicious?)

It’s always good to have more than one way out.

I keep it to myself. Smiling. Polite.

They seem harmless. The two ladies. Sweet.

Older. Older than me, not by much. I’m not young,

but comparatively, I’m still childlike with my hands

a mess because I’m making something. They’re all

grown up like the ladies when I was little, the one’s

older than my mom. Soft, meek—but something…

Yes, can I help you?

We were just talking to your neighbor…

Then they smile, they shyly reveal the Bible, the leaflets.

(*)

The Watchtowers.

Sorry. No. You are so kind to come, but—no

thank you. You’re so kind to think of me, but

thank you. Good day.

My hands are thickly glazed in white paint.

Totally dry now. I wave good-bye.

They understand I’m in the middle of something.

Something messy.

Something creative. I’m making something.

I wanted to explain, but don’t.

They won’t understand it even if I showed them.

It’s outside their realm of influence, where I’m free.

I backed away from them, closed the door.

They left. I’m sure they had their thoughts about me.

(Do you think she’s not right?)

(Did you see the paint on her hands?)

(Her hair a mess.)

(I think she was still in her pajamas.)

(No, I think they were those yoga pants.)

(She had a hole in the knee.)

They were judging me already because

I have so many doors.

 

*I wrote this yesterday (4/13/2018), it poured out just before I went to bed. It’s still a messy thing, raw. I made changes to it as I posted it.

And just made another change.

To explain (I feel I must explain.) It is a typical day off from work that I have an asterisk moment to the day when something happens to create an interruption while I’m in the middle of some messy creativity…usually it’s someone at the door or something. It’s spring, so it brings them out.

(UPS dropping off a box from Amazon is not an asterisk.)

(Note: My Fred came up with the “asterisk” to name these happenings, we have enough of them.)

I have nothing against the door to door Jehovah’s Witness folks, they’re doing their thing, but their timing is always impeccable. (What they must think of me.)

The one did comment on our many doors. Which I thought was odd.

Yes, my yoga pants have a hole in the knee, and in the crotch (thankfully, no one can see.) I need to sew them, or get new ones.

I ran out of white paint. The mess that I’m working on will be revealed soon.

I made more changes. I’ll stop now.

 

Rats with Shoes.

Citizens. We the People.

 

Citizens, what happens to the People when AI takes over their jobs?

What will happen when the People have lost their livelihood?

 

No money.

No home.

No hope.

 

Citizens. We the People.

 

Citizens, do you think our country has problems with poverty now?

The urban blight of poor neighborhoods.

The excess of the homeless.

The embarrassment of tent cities on the outskirts of affluent suburbia.

 

The sickness.

The crime.

The violence.

 

Citizens. We the People.

 

Citizens are seen as a liability rather than an asset.

The big shots spear-heading this progress without a plan

for the citizens to remain independent

will start calling the excess population,

 

“Rats with Shoes.”

 

Citizens. We the People.

Our country ‘tis of thee…

 

 

4/8/2018, Just some thoughts I jotted down this morning, it’s a little raw still…stuff in the news triggered this one. The feeling of being a liability has become clear…I’m very uncomfortable with that…just sayin’.

If you think this won’t happen in our country, think again.

Sacred Cows

I opened the barn door to the sacred cows,

set open the gates,

and let them out to pasture.

Sweet, placid, not a care in the world—

“Behold—it is just a cow.”

Yes, a cow—content, chewing cud.

Pissing, shitting, eating, sleeping.

Swishing away flies. Large liquid brown eyes.

We milk them. And milk them. And milk them.

A cow is just a cow. Is a cow.

Cow doesn’t care about you.

Cow doesn’t care about rituals.

Cow doesn’t give a crap about religion.

Cow doesn’t give a fuck about politics.

Cow doesn’t give a shit.

A cow is just a cow. Is a cow.

Now that they’re all out,

I shut the barn door.

 

A little something I’ve been tinkering with for quite a spell, a mash up with Honey Badger and other stuff…it’s not quite finished, I just added a few lines and moved one around so it’s still a work in progress, but I wanted to put it someplace…